Prologue

Vic West was never late, but today he

was.

Eight o'clock at the beach bar, he'd
said. Before the weekend crowds arrive from the city and before
the Caribbean sun makes the sand too hot to walk on. They serve
some of the best coffee in Venezuela at the bar; we can sit in the
shade and talk undisturbed for a couple of hours. Watch the sea
and the girls walk by. West liked watching the girls.

But it was gone nine now and Colonel Oliver Maidment still
sat alone with a half-eaten cachito croissant nd his third cup of
caf negro. High-octane caffeine that would set his pulse racing for
the rest of the morning.

Something big has come up, West had said. Real important,
he'd emphasised in that secretive way of his. But no details, not
over the phone. So the chairman and chief executive had cancelled
the board meeting of Portcullis Industries and Procurement
plc and taken the next available flight from Heathrow to
Caracas, flying via Miami.

A total of twenty energy-draining hours without sleep to get to
the rendezvous and then West doesn't show.

For the umpteenth time, Maidment scanned the roadway and
the beach. At least there could be worse places to wait.

A strengthening sun was breaking up the high haze of cloud,
the sea becoming bluer by the minute and sparkling like a floating
bed of sapphires as each wave shrugged towards the shore.
His eye caught the movement of the lone jogger as he ran along
the waterline where the breakers foamed up the deserted strip of
sand.

Deserted? Not quite, Maidment realised. The music was car

l

ried on the offshore breeze from the multicoloured parasol some
fifty metres away. An upbeat bossa nova number. He looked and
saw the garish towel and the splay of pink legs half hidden by the
circle of shade.

All right for some, he thought, and beckoned the morose barman.
In his poor Spanish, Maidment said: 'I am waiting for a
friend. I wonder if you saw him here earlier, before I arrived?'

The man grimaced as he tried to understand, as though the
effort were causing him physical pain. 'What is his name?'

'Victor West. Mid-fifties, stocky and balding with a heavy
moustache.' It sounded almost like a betrayal to describe his old
friend in such unflattering terms. Especially an ex-Royal Marine.
He added: 'He's a regular here. Drinks King of Scots and Coke.
Likes to chat up the girls.'

Black lifeless eyes appraised this tall lean Englishman with his
panama hat, linen suit and kidskin loafers. The barman looked
directly at the sunburnt face and the head of crinkly brown hair
that had given way to a receding crown, then met the cool green
eyes. At length he said: 'Your friend, he is a gringo?'

Maidment shook his head. 'No, not American. He is English.'
There was a fine distinction.

The barman finally grunted in recognition. 'Ah, yes. He comes
most weekends. In fact he was here yesterday evening when I
closed up.'

'I suppose he didn't leave a message?' He knew he was grasping
at straws, but West had been adamant that they should meet
urgently. 'A message for Mr Maidment or the colonel perhaps?'

A shake of the head, irritated by this waste of time when he
could be sitting down in the shade of the bamboo awning doing
nothing. 'No message. Your friend was with two other men, talking.
Maybe he comes here tomorrow.'

Maidment ordered a batido fruit juice and watched the man go.
Sure, mafana. That was a South American's answer to everything.
Appointments were flexible things. Arrange a meeting and
you could expect to wait half a day for someone to turn up without
a word of apology. As though it were the most natural thing
in the world. If you invite guests for supper, Vic West had once


2

told him, don't be surprised if they turn up a week later expecting
to be wined and dined.

But West himself was never late.

Something must have happened, something unavoidable. For
all he knew, his friend's car had broken down - very likely, given
the state of repair of most vehicles in this country. Or some unexpected
and urgent meeting had been called by an important
client. There would be a good reason. No doubt the man would
show by lunch.

In the meantime Oliver Maidment had no intention of wasting
his time. Collecting his briefcase from the hired car, he settled
down to catch up with his paperwork. The company of which he
was now chairman and chief executive had invited him to join the
board soon after he'd stepped down from his parliamentary seat
before the General Election of 1987. His spell as a junior defence
minister had been followed by the poisoned chalice of a parliamentary
undersecretary post at the Northern Ireland Office.
Clearly he had been banished to the political Wilderness. That he
would not return became evident when his daughter Sophie accidentally
killed herself with a cocaine overdose at a society party
in London. He was devastated by the loss and by the lurid stories
splashed across the front pages of the tabloid press.

Life at Portcullis Industries and Procurement suited him. He
was back amongst old military friends, many of whom he'd
known from his days as colonel of one of the infantry line regiments.
Out of the media gaze in all but the financial pages, he
enjoyed working for the highly respected public company in a
field that he knew well, Arms procurement - preferably of British
manufacture, but not necessarily - was the name of the game,
selling to governments and police forces worldwide. Training was
also given to foreign armies, together with security advice. The
company was also involved in the highly specialised manufacture
of related products, from surveillance equipment to one-off
weaponry. And all with the matronly blessing of Her Maiesty's
Government.

On joining the company, he had been surprised and delighted
to find that Vic West was their sales representative in South


3

America. The paths of the two men had crossed during the
Falklands War. Then West, a former Royal Marines oflficer, was
attached to the Secret Intelligence Service, while Maidment was
a junior MOD minister. West's father, an English Jew, had been
an engineer and had spent most of his life working in the
Venezuelan oilfields. He married the daughter of a wealthy
Peruvian businessman. Therefore the young Vic West spent his
formative years in either Lima or Caracas and his late teens and
early twenties travelling the South American continent in search
of adventure. By this time he had become a fluent Spanish
speaker.

In 1964 at the age of twenty-five, West had decided that the
military life was for him and joined the Royal Marines. Later he
passed selection for the Special Boat Squadron which brought
him into contact with the Intelligence Corps to which he later
transferred.

By the time Argentina invaded the South Adantic islands, West
had already served in several South American SIS stations as an
acknowledged expert on the area. Maidment appreciated West's
explanations of the Spanish American psyche and the two men
became close acquaintances, if not yet good friends.

That was to develop five years later when the minister resigned
his parliamentary seat after the tragic loss of his daughter. And it
was to happen in the most bizarre of circumstances which were
to change Maidment's life and give him a renewed reason for living.
In a word, revenge.

Vic West was one of Portcullis's top salesmen. His quasidiplomatic
r61e with SIS had introduced him to the top echelons
of politics and the military throughout South America. He was
ideally placed to offer equipment and training schemes to governments
anxious to fight left-wing guerrillas and the big drug
barons. But it did not stop there. West was well connected with
people from so many walks of life that he was able to cash in further
on the cocaine boom by also selling to the so-called drugs
cartels and Communist guerrillas as well as their rival right-wing
paramilitary death squads. These deals were secretly subcontracted
to either Israeli or South African suppliers for a lucrative


4

cut. West had good contacts with the intelligence services of both
countries.

Had this become public knowledge there would have been
amazement that Oliver Maidment, former infantry colonel and
junior government minister, could have been party to such
arrangements - especially after his daughter's tragic death while
using cocaine.

But both Maidment and West knew that if Portcullis did not
supply these people, then either the French or Belgians certainly
would. Moreover, only they could guarantee that. much of the
intelligence they gleaned in the process would be fed back to
West's old colleagues at the newly developing Global Issues
Department of the Secret Intelligence Service. Some of that
information would be horse-traded with their American
'cousins', the CIA, or the Drug Enforcement Administration and
others. Just to keep the favours square and the British profile
high. When the situation was right, an arms or drugs shipment
might be seized as a result.

It gave both men satisfaction for a very special reason that only
a handful of people knew.

'Some lunch?' The barman's shadow fell across the papers on
the table. 'Before the rush starts?'

Maidment looked at his watch, surprised to see it was nearly
one. And still West hadn't shown.

With concern beginning to grow, the colonel ordered an arepa
maize pancake stuffed with squid, and a can of Polar beer. But
when the meal came he found he had no appetite for it. Glancing
along the beach, he again noticed the multicoloured parasol. The
sun had arced across the sky since the early morning and shade
no longer covered the body of the man who basked so contentedly,
face down on the towel. Even from that distance Maidment
could see how pink his skin was. The music still blared, but no
one seemed to mind.

Day trippers from Caracas now filled the beach and splashed
in the shimmering sea. Queues were forming at the bar; Vic
would have appreciated the long-legged office girls making the
most of the weekend. All honey-skinned with sleek black hair.


5

Not topless though, like you'd see in Europe; Catholic modesty
demanded the wearing of bikinis, no matter that the thin thongs

cutting up between their buttocks left little to the imagination.
Yes, Vic West would like that. But still he hadn't showed.
Must be a reason, must be. He just hoped it was nothing serious
like a road crash, an all-too-frequent occurrence in this country.
Or something more sinister.., but West of all people could
look after himself.

Then Maidment saw the telephone on the bar. Why hadn't he
noticed it before? As local calls were free he just had to dial the
number of La Floresta hotel where West usually stayed in town.
A strident tone reverberated in his ear. Unobtainable. Bloody
Venezuelan communications! Always changing the numbers and
not telling anyone, including the subscribers themselves. It was a
nightmare.

What should he do? Drive back to La Floresta and risk passing
his friend coming the other way? Then another thought occurred.
Unusually, West hadn't used the twenty-four hour clock. Was it
just possible he'd meant them to meet at eight o'clock in the
evening - after things got quiet, not before, and he'd just misunderstood?
Not impossible and it would certainly explain his nonappearance.

Feeling more reassured, Maidment decided he needed some
exercise to take his mind off things. After locking his attache case
in the trunk of his hired car, he left a message with the barman
for West to await his return.

Then he began to stroll along the beach drag. The wind was
gusting in offthe sea now taking the edge offthe sun's fierce heat.
It was pleasant for walking and Maidment found himself relaxing,
thinking back over the years during which he and Vic West
had shared the secret.

In fact he walked farther than he had intended and when he
returned along the water-line the beach had started to empty.
The sky was clouding over and his elongated shadow had lost its
sharpness. There was now a chill edge to the breeze.

His legs were beginning to ache and he was thankful to glimpse
the yellow, blue and red flag, wind-ragged and snapping on the


6

pole by the bamboo bar. Almost certainly West would be there b
now. Unconsciously his pace quickened.

It was then that the sudden darting movement up ahead caugh
his eye. Momentarily he thought it was a scavenging dog befor
he glimpsed the torn short trousers and brown legs of the urchfi
boy as he scampered away from the multicoloured parasol.

He realised instantly what had happened. The young thief ha
stolen something from the sunbathing man while he slept.

'STOP!' Maidment yelled and began to run. It was an instinc
rive reaction; he had never believed in passing by when someon
was in trouble.

But after a few paces he slowed, his feet sinking deep into th
soft sand. There was no way he could catch the youngster; it wa
stupid even to try at his age. He turned towards the parasol. A
least he could tell the man, give him a description of the boy. F
all the good that would do; there were thousands of deprived kid
like him surviving off their wits in the barrio slums of Caracas.

As he approached, Maidment became aware that the soun
from the radio, which had been blasting out salsa rhythms earlie
in the day, had faded to a murmur as the batteries ran down. lh
attempt had been made to move the parasol since the morninl
and the man had been lying unprotected in the harsh sun fo
most of the day.

The colonel shuffled to a halt and his mouth went suddenly dr,
as he looked down at the body. The skin on the back, with it
thick mat of dark hair around the shoulders, was the colour o
rare steak and bubbling with clusters of small white blisters, sore,
not so small.

A knot of apprehension tightened in Maidment's gu!
Somehow the man looked familiar. The chunky short build, th
thick legs and the curling grey hair around the nape of the neck

Even as he dropped to one knee and reached out to turn hir
over, he knew the man was dead.

Christ, he'd been right after all. Vic West was never late.

'My first case of death by sunbathing.'

The cop's eyes were hidden behind
stylish Polaroid sunglasses and Maidment
was irritated to find his own reflection staring back at him.
As the officer chewed unconcernedly on a wad of gum, the
colonel felt an overwhelming urge to punch the man in the face.

Even the barman was annoyed by the cop's insensitivity. 'The
dead man was his friend,' he said pointedly.

The attendant from the Policia Technica Judicial, who was
struggling to get the stretcher into the back iaf the morgue van,
was equally unimpressed with the sick humour.

'It must have been a heart attack,' he assured Maidment. 'A
massive one, too, because he wasn't even able to move. If it is a
consolation, I doubt he knew much about it.'

Infarto? The colonel's Spanish was far from good and it took
him a few moments to assimilate the words. Vic West died of a
heart attack? It didn't seem credible. Not Vic, the tough old bugger.
He'd given up smoking years before and had even cut down
on his King of Scots and Coke. Last year he'd passed the company's
stringent medical and could still run a mile and a half in
twenty minutes.

'He was fitter than I've ever been,' Maidment murmured, half
to himself.

The attendant shrugged. 'It happens.' He went to close the rear
door.

'I'll follow you.'

'No,' the cop intervened ominously. 'You will come with me.
As the person who discovered the body, you are held responsible.'


9

The attendant said sympathetically: 'It's why no one stops at
fatal accidents in this country. Your friend's body will be held in
the morgue at Carla La Mar.'

A second cop drove Maidment's hire car while he was obliged
to ride in the police vehicle. He might have been angered at being
treated like the prime suspect had it not been for the awful sense
of sadness that deepened with every minute that passed.

By the time they reached headquarters in Caracas the full
shock of the loss had finally struck him and the tears were running
freely down his cheeks like those of a hurt child. He owed
Vic West so much and no one would ever know. Could never
know.

In fact the anticipated interrogation did not prove to be such
an ordeal. The investigating fiscal had a heavy workload with
three murders that evening and he saw an obvious heart-attack
case as the quickest and simplest to clear. After a few dozen terse
questions, the attorney seemed satisfied and the statement was
drawn up for Maidment to sign.

It was dark when he left to drive to the city morgue. The lights
were still on and he ventured inside past the unmanned door: the
gleaming aluminium body lockers and inspection tables were
under the harsh fluorescent lighting, incongruously clinical
against the grimy chipped tiles of the walls and floor where blood
ran freely into the drainage channels.

A pathologist was crudely slicing and probing at the cadaver of
one of the day's murder victims, muttering his findings while an

assistant scribbled them down in a notebook.

The man looked up. 'What do you want?'

'You've got the body of my friend here - Sefior West.'
'The heart attack?'
'Yes.'
'So?'

'Can you confirm it was a heart attack?'

'That's what his label said.'

'You won't - er - examine the body?'

'Not much point.' A sigh. 'I'm very busy.'

His assistant whispered something in his ear. The pathologist


10

nodded as though suddenly resigned to the interruption. Pulling
off his surgical gloves, he said: 'Okay, stitch that one up.'

He walked across to the lockers and slid one open. Unlike the
charred back, the front of Vic West's naked body was bluish and
waxy, quite obscene. Like some macabre theatre prop. Not a

human being at all, not his friend.

'What is it?' Maidment asked.

The pathologist sniffed. 'Probably nothing. My assistant
noticed it.' He lifted West's foot.

Maidment peered closer until he could distinguish the slight
bruising and the patch of dry blood around the puncture mark.
He cleared his throat. 'What's that?'

'A hypodermic, I should say. We don't get to see many heroin
addicts in Venezuela. When we do, they are usually Americans.'

'Vic was no addict,' Maidment said angrily, despite what was
staring him in the face.

The pathologist smiled uneasily. 'Well, it is true I can see no
other marks.'

Maidment sensed there was something else. 'Yes?'
A shrug. 'An unusually big needle was used.'
'What does that mean?'

'A large syringe of whatever--' His voice trailed. 'If it was
heroin, it could have been enough to induce an attack of the
heart. That is all.'

That was all. Vic West had been murdered, that was all. Some
bastards had held him down and filled him so full of heroin that
his heart had burst. Then they'd callously dumped him under a
parasol on the beach before the sun came up.

They knew it would be treated as a heart at-tack. Knew the
Venezuelan police and the medics wouldn't ask questions, even if
they had suspicions. There were enough murders every night on
the streets of Caracas to keep them more than busy.

In fact, it had then cost Maidment four hundred dollars to persuade
the forensic pathologist to conduct a private postmortem,
and even then he'd had to do. a lot of talking.

'4atana,' the man had promised wearily. He would have the
results some time the next day.


11

But Maidment had no real doubts, for him the only question
was who had done it? Who had seen through the faqade of the
congenial Englishman who had friends in every city on the South
American continent? His apprenticeship for the business had
been the best; his work in British Intelligence had long ago taught
him how to cover his tracks and his real interests. His qualifications
were impeccable, his track record unblemished, until now.
Somewhere along the line Vic West had made the one mistake he
wasn't allowed to make in his business.

Had his killers been following him for months, even years,
patiently awaiting their moment of revenge? Or was this new, something more recent? Something to do with West's urgent
demand for the meeting?

'Something big.' His friend's words echoed round Maidment's
head as he drove through the Caracas streets to the hotel that
overlooked the Plaza Altamira.

La Floresta was a ten-storey building with a narrow frontage
squeezed in between other buildings and dwarfed by neighbouring
tower blocks. Although it was only ten o'clock when
Maidment arrived, he found its doors already locked against the
thieves who prowled the city's streets after dark.

He found himself glancing nervously over his shoulder as he
waited for the reluctant night manager to answer the bell and
open up.

The man showed no emotion as he was told that his guest,
Sefior West, had met with a fatal accident and that he had come
to collect his belongings. Just: 'Who will pay the bill, sefior?'

Bastard, the colonel thought, but just said simply, 'I'll settle it.'
'You'll have to sign for anything you take away,' the manager
warned as he shuffled to the elevator and pressed the button. As

the doors wheezed open, he asked: 'It was a car crash, I suppose?'
'Why do you say that?'

They stepped inside. 'Because that's how most people die in
Caracas. That or a knifing.'

'When did you last see Sefior West?'

'Must have been yesterday evening. He left with two friends.'
'Friends?'


12

A shrug. 'Well, they'd been drinking in the bar, laughing
together like amigos.'

'What did these men look like?'

The night manager suddenly sensed trouble; his amnesia was
instant. 'I did not see their faces,' he replied. This was a dangerous
city in which to notice things.

They alighted on the eighth floor and went to West's room. It
was poky and a little shabby, but clean. The air-conditioning unit
rattled so noisily at the window that Maidment didn't hear the
manager close the door, leaving him alone.

What he really wanted to find was his friend's briefcase, but it
wasn't in the room. Had his killers taken it or was that what the
boy stole from the beach?

He switched off the air conditioning, able to think more rationally
in the blessed silence that followed. If Vic West had been in
possession of some sensitive information that he'd committed to
paper, then he may have hidden it in his room. Better that than
risk taking it with him on the streets in a city notorious for its
pickpockets and muggers.

Methodically Maidment stripped the covers and mattress from
the bed and checked the carpet edge for any sign that it had been
loosened from the gripper rail in order to hide something underneath
it. Then he checked the lavatory cistern and bathroom cabmet
before pulling out each drawer in the fitted furniture in case
something had been taped to the back of one of them.

He drew a blank. Now the exertion of movement and his
mounting frustration were making him hot as the refrigerated
atmosphere was slowly replaced by the humidity of the tropical
night. Removing his jacket and tie, Maidment began taking
West's clothes from the wardrobe to pack them into the empty
suitcase he'd found under the bed. Before folding away each suit,
he emptied the pockets. An assortment of business cards, some
bus tickets, sweet wrappers and a laundry receipt - and a blue
boarding card.

He tilted it towards the light to read the small print. Avensa airline.
From Caracas to Puerto Ayacucho. Where was that? Somewhere
in the southwest of the country, he thought, but wasn't


13

sure. And the date? The sixteenth. Three days earlier. Assuming
West had stopped over for the night before returning, that must

have been the last place he'd visited. But for what purpose?
There were no other clues.

By the time he'd cleared the bathroom of toiletries, he was
sweating freely and regretting his earlier decision to kill the air
conditioning. As he heaved the suitcase towards the door, he
noticed the minibar. Now that was an idea.

It opened to reveal an ice-cool six-pack of beer and a row of
mixer bottles. An orange juice would hit the spot, he decided. It
was when he extracted the bottle that the thin pocket diary
flapped down onto the worn carpet. The papers must have
adhered to the moisture on the glass.

His thirst forgotten, he opened the booklet and flicked through

the pages. Well, there it was. Today's entry: 0800 hours. Meet
Ollie. He's going to like this!

There was nothing entered for the previous evening when West
had seemingly left La Floresta with two 'friends'. In fact, there
was nothing at all entered for yesterday or the day before. On the
sixteenth, the day West had apparently flown to Puerto
Ayacucho, there was more scrawled handwriting. Hotel Tomo.
1500 hrs. Meet Palechor at Las Noches Arabes. Arabian Nights.
Then, at the bottom of the page, written in capital letters and
circled, were two words: WHITE VIPER.

None of it meant anything to Maidment, but then he was tired
now and aware that his mind was only functioning at half-power.
It could wait until morning. He closed the door of West's room
and drove back to his own hotel.

It seemed that his head had only just hit the pillow when he
was awakened by the electric purr of the bedside phone. Daylight
streamed in through the open window and he strained to hear the
speaker's voice above the clamour of the city's rush-hour traffic,

The morgue pathologist was calling to confirm that Sefior
West appeared to have died from a heart attack induced by a
massive overdose of drugs. But not an opiate, pure cocaine. As
the amount taken was so great, the man could only conclude that
it was a very deliberate act of suicide.


14

advice and fast.

Moments later he had reached his decision and put a call
through to the British Embassy in Chuao and asked for Simon
Cadbury in the Commercial Section.

When the SIS head of station answered, the colonel said
briskly: 'Oliver Maidment of Portcullis here.'

'Ah, Colonel, nice to hear from you. It must be a year since we
last met--'

Maidment dumped the niceties. 'Listen, Simon, Vic West is
dead. I must speak with you urgently.'

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line,
but no trace of feeling as he recovered from the surprise news. 'Of
course, Colonel, but not over the phone. Let's be a bit discreet.
Come to the Valle Arriba at noon.'

Maidment arrived ten minutes early at the sumptuous country
club and was irked when Simon Cadbury sauntered in at a quarter
past. The man had Harrow, Oxbridge and Foreign Office
stamped through him as clearly as lettering in a stick of rock
candy: striped shirt and Cavalry tie under a mushroom-coloured
tropical suit which he wore with an air of studied arrogance. At
thirty-three his features were still self-consciously handsome and
finely chiselled. His greeting was cool, his voice slightly distant as
they took their drinks on the sun terrace which overlooked the
swimming pool and the lush golf links beyond.

'Was sorry to hear about Vic. Heart attack was it?'

The SIS officer had been doing his homework, Maidment
realised. 'No, he was murdered. Given a massive overdose of
near pure cocaine and then dumped on the beach to make it look
good.'

Cadbury must have been taken aback, but his face wore the
expression of a professional poker player. 'The hospital didn't
mention the cocaine.'

A'They didn't know. I paid for a private postmortem.'

'That was a smart move.'


15

'Not smart, Simon. He was my friend as well as employee; I
had to know.'

'Any idea who was responsible?' Cadbury asked quietly and
sipped at a tall glass of vodka and lime.

Maidment shook his head. 'To be honest it could be anyone
from Vic's past. But my best guess has to be that it was someone
he was dealing with currently. He'd called a meeting with me for
something that he said was very important, very big.' He paused.
'Only he didn't make it.'

'What was it about? Some deal?'

'Almost certainly, but I've no idea what. All I know is that he
travelled down to Puerto Ayacucho on business a couple of days
ago.' He told Cadbury about the boarding card and the diary
entries. As the man listened in silence, his lips tightened perceptibly.
'Thing is, Simon, do you think I should fly to the place and
find out what he was up to?'

Cadbury didn't answer directly. Instead he said: 'This reference
to White Viper--' He allowed the words to hang between
them.

Maidment shook his head. 'No idea. Sounds like some sort of
posh cocktail. Why? Does it mean anything to you?'

The SIS officer glanced around to make sure no one was
within earshot. 'We've picked it up on a couple of DEA briefings
during the past nine months or so. Of course, our Drugs Liaison

Officer at the embassy is more au fait than me.'

'So what is it?'

'Someone's branding a new coke supply by that name.'

'Branding?' Maidment frowned. 'Ah, you mean very pure
cocaine?'

Cadbury smiled gently. 'I see you have read The Fruit Palace considered
essential reading for anyone interested in Colombia,
just like Mrquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. Alas, Colonel,
Charles Nicholl's search for the origins of the mythical Snow
White pure coke is a bit of a fantasy and can be misleading.

Although in this case there are similarities.'

'I don't understand.'

'Look, all cocaine bought at source in bulk is pretty much the


16

same purity - around ninety per cent, so branding isn't usually
anything to do with quality. White Viper, Snow White, call it
Heinz or Kellogg's if you like, it's no different. Branding is used
to indicate a reliable supply source and to help keep track of shipments.
The coke business is very fragmented. Although the
media refer to the Cali cartel, the Medellin cartel, the Santa
Marta - in fact they're all smaller groups that form and reform
all the time as it suits them.

'If there's a big order to meet, then the product might have to
come from, say, three different laboratories. Branding assures the
next buyer in the chain that it's basically the same product from
the same source. Likewise when transport is shared. When you've
a stash of coke being moved with someone else's, you want to be

able to identify it at the other end.'

'I see.'

'Branding doesn't usually reach the end user. To them a snort is a snort.'

'You said usually.'

'Well, in this case there is a similarity with Nicholl's book.
Branding is actually reaching street level. Maybe some narco kingpin got the idea from the book to use as a marketing ploy.
According to our DLO here, some stuffs turned up in Colombia
and in the States. Also in the UK. And it's around fifty per cent pure.'

'Is that significant?'

Cadbury gave one of his patronising little half-smiles. 'Coke
traffickers normally finish with their product when it arrives at its
country of destination. Then it works down the local pyramid
from importer to street dealer. Overall you can reckon on three
cuts to middlemen by adding impurities. At street level your
ninety per cent pure snow is down to thirty per cent and everyone's
done very nicely thank you.'

'So if White Viper is hitting the streets at fifty per cent?'
Maidment pressed.

'It means this organisation is involved much further down the
chain in the user country. That's very usual. Our DLO reckons
they're cutting out one or two middlemen. That keeps the end17


user price competitive for a product that really does pack an extra
punch. It's a neat trick, introducing market forces.'

'So the White Viper brand really does mean something to the
man on the street?'

Cadbury gave an abrupt little laugh. 'Yeah, it means he can
blow his brains out if he's not careful or give himself an early
heart attack - especially if he's a first timer or doesn't dilute it
himself.'

'Dangerous stuff.'

'But good value and very desirable. Encourages the end user to
do a little cutting and dealing himself. Spreading the habit. So
you can imagine the trouble that's going to cause. Wide boys are
going to counterfeit the White Viper logo - it's just a squ!ggly
snake on a polythene bag - and all sorts of rival gangland mayhem
is likely to result.'

'I see. Who's producing this stuff?.'

'No idea, Colonel. And nor does anyone else, according to the
DEA briefings. But it's resulted in a lot of feuding and blood-letting
in Colombia and here in Venezuela.'

'Did Vic know something about it?' Maidment asked himself
aloud. 'What the hell does it mean?'

Cadbury's eyes took on a flinty look. 'What it does mean,
Colonel, is that if you go sniffing around Puerto Ayacucho, then
don't waste your money buying a two-way ticket. Because you

won't be coming back.'

'Pardon me?'

'If Vic had got mixed up with these White Viper people, it
could very well be the reason he's dead. If they're operating out
of Puerto Ayacucho and you go snooping around down there,
you'll end up like him. The place has been going the same way as
Arauca over the past year - a lawless area full of guerrillas and
drug gangsters. Before long it'll be a no-go area to both the police
and the army.'

Maidment frowned. 'What about our people?'

'Our people?'

'Okay, your people. Couldn't you send some of them down to
investigate? After all, the service owes Vic a big debt for his work


18

over the years. He was one of your own and both of us have fed
you with plenty of high-grade information since he left you.
Don't you want to know why he was killed - sort out those who
did it?'

Cadbury's patience was wearing thin. 'Look, Colonel, I'm kept
desperately short-staffed and dead agents are no good to me. The
drugs war isn't top of our list of priorities; we leave that to the
Yanks. Your and Vic's legal arms supplies - great, no problem,
and any collateral intelligence to hand to the DEA boys is a
bonus. But if Vic was getting in deep shit with the narcos, I don't
want to know. He had a good run over here for eight years and
we both know he pushed his luck.' He looked the other man
straight in the eyes. 'But it just ran out. Vic may have had a lot of
friends in South America, Colonel, but whenever you make a
friend here, you make an enemy of someone else.'

But Maidment was hardly listening, his mind racing on to
other possibilities. 'What about the DEA, Simon? You know
their people here; couldn't you persuade them to investigate on
our behalf?.'

Cadbury's laugh was genuine. 'I'll tell you what happened the
last time the DEA went down there. Three months ago they
planned for a bunch of their special agents to go down to Puerto
Ayacucho and take a look around. They chartered a private plane
using a genuine company cover name and likewise hired a car to
meet them at the airstrip. When they arrived they were faced with
a welcome party of armed heavies. Nothing fraught, all very
friendly with lots of jokes. Why not, there was plenty to laugh
about. They handed the special agents a tape recording. It was of
one of their own damn secretaries making all the secret booking
arrangements on what they thought was a secure telephone. The
DEA guys did the only thing they could do flew straight back
to Caracas.'

Maidment paled slightly. 'You mean the DEA is infiltrated?'
'Infiltrated, bugged and buggered. The narcos' first rule is
"know thine enemy". The whole of Venezuela is awash with
narco money and riddled from top to bottom with informers and
those with vested interests to protect.'


19

The colonel was exasperated. 'There must be something someone
can do.'

'There's something yo can do,' Cadbury replied, draining his
glass. 'Go home to London. Go home before someone links you
with Vic and be thankful for the millions he earned your company
in eight good years.' He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist.

'I'm sorry, I've got to get back to the office.'

And that was it.

Maidment drove away from the clubhouse in a blind, seething
rage. For once he was oblivious to the helter-skelter of Caracas
traffic, the suicidal lane-switching at high speed and the cacophony
of car horns. He had no thought of where he was heading,
just knew that he couldn't face the depressing confinement of his
hotel room. He needed space to breathe and time to think.

Before long he found himself on one of the autopistas, a concrete
swathe slicing through the city and towards the coast. That
would do. The beach bar that had been Vic West's favourite
haunt. One last drink for old times' sake.


Old times. Some good, but some bloody awful. Like the year his
daughter died. 1987. Eight years ago, yet it seemed like only yesterday
that Sophie had arrived home unexpectedly and wandered
into the garden of the detached house in Hillsborough, a middleclass
suburban district south of Belfast that was considered 'safe'
enough for a middle-ranking Northen Ireland Office minister.

Even now he could remember how young and fresh she looked
in the simple summer frock, sunlight catching in her auburn hair.
And that mischievous and beguiling smile of hers, those knowing
looks that belied her innocence. A virgin, he'd thought then.
Barely twenty-one, university behind her and her whole future
ahead.

He'd been sitting on the patio with Vic West and a man who
had just been introduced to him at that time simply as 'Kurt'.
West was giving a final unofficial briefing before his retirement
from the Secret Intelligence Service to seek his fortune in the
commercial market place. Apparently several major companies
had expressed interest in his South American expertise.


20

The man whom Maidment was later to know as Kurt Mallory
was a complete stranger to him. All he had been told was that the
man had for a time served in the 61ite Special Air Service
Regiment and was now what SIS liked to call a freelancer. Not
on any official payroll, he was an undercover operator who was
about to investigate links between the Provisional IRA and the
Basque separatist terror organisation known as ETA. The minister
was assured of the freelancer's reputation and that he was well
regarded in certain secretive circles in both Washington and Tel
Aviv where he'd been hired by various agencies from time to
time. He was a first-class fingerman, an expert at covert infiltration.
West didn't then mention the man's other speciality.

Yet despite the assurances, privately Oliver Maidment hadn't
been sure about the man. He certainly looked the part. With a
dark complexion and wild black hair, he could easily pass for a
Spaniard but the minister felt there was something unsavoury
about him, even allowing for the shabby jeans and dirty T-shirt.
Despite the rather striking face and peneti'ting blue eyes coloured
contact lenses would be used, West explained - you
could just sense that Kurt Mallory could melt into the background of any seedy bar in Dublin or on the Basque coast. With
those gipsy looks he could be accepted as a Latin or a Gaelic son,
and apparently his Spanish was as fluent as his English which he

spoke with a strangely Germanic accent.

That was when he spoke at all.

Looking back now, Maidment thought, he should have
guessed what was going to happen. The moment Sophie saw
Kurt Mallory on the patio and his eyes met hers, you could sense
the frisson in the air between them. Almost smell the pheromones
clashing amongst the scents of the garden.

Not that Mallory had given her any obvious encouragement,
but then he didn't have to. The polite acknowledging smile would have been quite enough for Sophie. She had her mother's
determination to get what she wanted. His daughter had always
possessed a bewitching sense of devilment and during three years
of freedom at university she had discovered her libido and the
pleasures of blossoming womanhood. A search for her 'grand


21

passion' had begun.

Only later Maidment discovered that Sophie had managed to
contact Mallory through West when the man's assignment was
over. She could be very persuasive when she used her newfound
womanly wiles. And Vic always had been a sucker for a pretty
face. She and Mallory had been lovers for six months when he
first found out about it.

He had not been pleased. At thirty-five, not only was Mallory
fourteen years older than his daughter, they were obviously and
completely unsuitable for each other. An attraction of opposites,
if ever there was one. Of course the colonel couldn't bring himself
to blame his daughter, just this unkempt stranger with his
selfish desire to get his leg over some nubile innocent. That was
how he saw it then. Much later he learned the truth, worked it
out for himself. Mallory had seemed unattainable, so Sophie
wanted him. 'My bit of rough,' she'd joked with her old university
friends. 'I found him a challenge. There was something - I
don't know - dangerous about him. And because he wasn't really
interested - to begin with. Actually he's rather cute when you get
to know him. And fascinating - God, he knows so much, he's
been everywhere!'

And Maidment himself had got to know him when Sophie
died. When her search for a grand passion and another challenge
and another experiment led her to try cocaine at a West End
party. It was beginner's bad luck. The purity was unusually high,
and Sophie apparently suffered from a weak heart. Her death
made the front page of every newspaper in the country.

Father and lover met at the funeral. It was a tense moment as
Mallory, who had kept his distance from her family during the
burial, came forward to offer his condolences.

Maidment's wife had dabbed at her tears and eyed him coldly.

'And did you love her, Mr Mallory?' she demanded sardonically.
The reply was hoarse. 'More than I should have done.'

A strange answer, Maidment had thought then, but later he
began to understand.

But that was much later, after his life and career went into a
plunging spiral. He had barely resigned from politics to join


22

Portcullis when his wife had died of grief and cancer, one feeding
off the other.

His old acquaintance, Vic West, who was the company's South
American salesman, had returned to London and come to see
him as the office closed.

He would never forget that night. Just the two of them, sitting
in the darkness at the boardroom table with a panoramic view of
the empty City and the moon shining like quicksilver on the
Thames. Voices hushed and mellowed by the bottle of malt they
shared.

It was then that he discovered he was not alone. That many
others had suffered tragedies as a result of drug abuse and that a
sort of unofficial self-help group existed. It had grown up over the
years, dedicated to helping parents, loved ones and friends to
purge their inevitable sense of guilt, frustration and anger by
doing something, anything, to bring the purveyors of narcotics to
justice. Jew and Arab, black or white, rich or poor; the membership
was international, across all religions and cultures. Shared
grief, it seemed, could transcend all barriers, all differences.

There was a secret fund to which the wealthy made willing and
generous donations. The parents of an addict on a Manchester
council estate would receive a visit from a stranger - and a cheque
for their son's rehab treatment. Later a job offer, organised
through the secret network, would arrive out of the blue to give
the struggling lad a chance. That was the way it worked.

'I've never heard of this,' Maidment confessed. 'How did you
get to know about it?'

Vic West was not a soft man, but even in the dim half-light
Maidment could see the moisture in his friend's eyes. 'I lost my
nephew to amphetamines. Lovely boy, great nature, just a bit
wild as a teenager. As you know, my marriage busted before we
could have kids, so young Malc was like a son to me too.'

The colonel learned that the organisation had no name. For
that matter it had no offices, no employees, no letterheads and no
telephone. In effect, it did not exist. It was just an informal network
that brought together the highest in the land, whose sons
and daughters had been destroyed by the ravages of cocaine, with


23

the lowliest workers whose children had overdosed on heroin or
were hooked on crack or ecstasy. The organisation crossed all
political divides and all social classes in a common cause. Natural
justice.

'It was born in the early seventies.' Even now Maidment could
recall West's quiet explanation. 'A wealthy German industrialist
lost his daughter to heroin. Some greedy middleman had diluted
the stuff so much that she'd been virtually injecting neat brick
dust. She died of a brain haemorrhage. Poor bloke was distraught
and swore vengeance on those responsible.'

'What did he do?' Maidment had asked, seeing himself in
exactly the same position.

'He hired a very expensive private detective,' replied West, 'a
Dutchman who, as it happened, was a former intelligence officer
- very well connected - whose own son, highly=gifted apparently,
had hit skid row. Had to survive as a bum boy to pay for his
heroin habit. The two men became firm friends with a common
interest.'

'What happened?'

'Over the years the two men became three, then four, then a
dozen - some of them very powerful people. Now there's an
English judge, a French police chief, a Swiss banker, an Italian
motor magnate, at least two American senators - all have had
families scarred or members lost to narcotics. As you might imagine,
many are Freemasons.'

Maidment had been puzzled. 'What exactly does this organisa=
don do?'

West smiled gently. 'It has the wealth to pay for extensive private
investigations. The dossiers that result are then handed to
the appropriate authorities to provide the evidence with which to
prosecute.'

'And it works?'

'Not as often as we would like. Narcotics is big business. These
people can afford to buy themselves out of trouble - bribes to
police and lawyers, judges and juries. But we've had some success.
Several big dealers are in prison because of the Angels'
work.'


24

'Angels?' Maidment hadn't understood.

'Just a name. Sometimes we need to refer to ourselves as something.
The Avengers, the Whisperers, the Angels - the references
change with fashion.'

'Could these people help me in any way?'

West smiled. 'We already have. The search has begun to find
those ultimately responsible for your daughter's death. We are

using our connections with several intelligence and police forces.'
Maidment's mouth had fallen open with surprise.

Yet it was to take another seven months to identify the Italian
Mafia capo. The collected evidence was duly presented to the
state prosecutors.

One year on and nothing had happened. As on so many previous
occasions, the man responsible proved to be safely beyond
the reach of the law.

One day Vic West had telephoned unexpectedly and arranged
a secret meeting at a quiet country pub. When Maidment arrived
he was to find his friend in the company of the man who had once
been his daughter's lover. Kurt Mallory.

It was then that Mallory had made an extraordinary offer. He
became the organiser's first executioner. And when the capo died
in a car bombing, the murder was attributed to a rival mafia clan.


Then Maidment was at the beach. He'd driven the entire journey
from Caracas without being able to recall a single moment of it.
Driving blind, seeing only past events marching in a procession
before his eyes. The last face he saw was that of his own dead
daughter, Sophie. She was staring at him through the windscreen.
There was a look of accusation in her eyes. It was as
though she were there, in the car with him. He could smell her,
sense her presence. Her voice was soft but insistent in his ears.

'Well, Dad, what are you going to do about it? Vic West helped
you and me. What are you going to do for him?'

He jerked on the handbrake. The heat and humidity were getting
to him. He was feeling faint, needed air. Stumbling out of the
car, he drew in a lungful of fresh salty air and looked towards the
bamboo bar and the beach. A couple with a toddler were camped


25

happily at the spot where Vic West had been found.

Recovering slightly, he ordered a King of Scots and a Coke
from the barman, just as his old friend would have done.

No, he could not take Simon Cadbury's advice just to go home
and forget about it. He owed more than that. To Sophie as well
as Vic himself.

There had to be another way to find out what had happened.
And then it occurred to him. Kurt Mallory.

Since he had killed the man ultimately responsible for Sophie's
death, Mallory had worked for the organisation on several other
occasions. But Maidment hadn't heard of him for some two years
and the only person who had known where to contact him had
been Vic West. There had been something close between the two
men. Perhaps Mallory was retired from the killing business or
might even be dead himself. Who would know?

Colonel Oliver Maidment swallowed hard on his drink.
Mallory was a former freelancer for British Intelligence. Someone
at SIS must know where he was. It was time to call in the favours.

2

The urgent drilling of the telephone
interrupted her nightmare.

But it was an age before she could
tear herself free of it, that same bad dream ensuring she would
never forget.

The noise was boring into her brain, louder and louder. Yet for
long minutes she just lay there, motionless, in the twilight world
between sleeping and waking. Seemingly fully conscious, yet her
body gripped in paralysis, her limbs refusing to move and her
silent cry for help unheeded.

'For Christ's sake answer it! It's hardly likely to be for me at
this hour.'

Her husband's irritable words muttered into the pillow finally
broke through to her.

Georgina Savage emerged from the bedclothes and reached for
the receiver on the bedside cabinet. Blearily her eyes registered

on the red digits of the radio-alarm. Three o'clock.

'Hello.'

'Georgie-girl, so sorry to trouble you at this hour.' She
instantly recognised Sidney Monckton's voice, as irksomely
cheery and smooth as ever. And only the deputy chief of the
Secret Intelligence Service insisted on calling her by the pet name
she loathed.

'Sir?' Savage untangled her legs from the sheets and placed her
feet on the floor, the enormous T-shirt which she wore as a nightdress
rucking around her thighs. Desperately she fought to pull
her mind into focus as she reached for her cigarettes.

Monckton was saying: 'Look, something's cropped up that I'd
like you to handle. I've someone with me I want you to meet. As


27

you know, I'm due off later today and this can't really wait.' He
was going to tour and inspect the new SIS arrangements in the
countries of the former Soviet Union.

She drew deeply on her cigarette; it helped counter the instinctive
thrill of anticipation she felt mounting in her chest. 'You
want me to come in, sir? Now?'

'Would you mind awfully, Georgie?' So polite, but she knew
she dare not refuse. You didn't turn down a request from Sidney
Monckton and expect your career to last long enough to collect a
decent pension. 'But not riverside - I'm at home.' 'Riverside' was
in-slang for the new headquarters at Vauxhall Cross; she knew his
address in Cheyne Walk.

'I'll be about half an hour, sir. Is that all right?'

'Most grateful, Georgie,' he replied graciously and hung up.

She replaced the receiver and fumbled in the gloom for the
bedside lamp.

'For God's sake, Georgina,' her husband grumbled, pulling the
sheet over his head to shut out the light. 'I've got to be up at a
sparrow's fart for that meeting--'

'Sorry, Giles sweetheart, but duty calls,' she replied and
reached across to kiss the tousled top of his head. He still hadn't
learned to accept the odd hours that she frequently worked. He
grunted, half in appreciation of her apology, half in complaint at
the disruption.

Her skin still felt clammy after the cold sweat of her nightmare;
she'd have to shower.

Kurt Mallory. As she crossed the carpet to the bathroom, his
image seemed to materialise like a hologram before her eyes. The
gaunt face, the strong nose with its slight kink at the bridge where
it had been broken and healed badly, the unruly black hair. Why
him? Why now? Christ, she hadn't even thought of him in nine
months, and that was some kind of record. Her marriage to Giles
Spalding a year ago had finally seemed to lay the ghost to rest.

She switched on the bathroom light and pulled the T-shirt off
over her head. Moving towards the glass cubicle, she caught sight
of the white blur of movement in the mirror. She hesitated, not
sure why. Not one for vanity, she suddenly felt an inexplicable


28

urge to look at her reflection. Maybe it was the intrusion of Kurt
Mallory into her thoughts; in those days she had found herself
taking more time over her make-up and hair. Like a teenager
going out on a Saturday night. Stupid probably. No, definitely
stupid. Kurt Mallory was the last man in the world you should
tart yourself up for.

Her body looked deathly pale in the unflattering light. Skin
bleached white beneath the fluorescent tube, melting her contours,
making her nipples seem dark and angry in comparison,
emphasising the dusky thatch of hair between her legs.

Not bad, she thought. Not bad for thirty-two. The love handles
on the top of her thighs had begun to swell, she'd noticed a
month ago, but she'd concentrated on that in the gym and she
could see the improvement. When was it that Hugh Heffner had
reckoned his Playmates of the Month were past their prime?
Nineteen? Well, Giles had never complained and certainly Kurt
Mallory hadn't.

Even her face was relatively unlined. Just a hint of crow's-feet
at the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her mouth when she
drew back her lips in a smile. What was she supposed to do about
that - stop laughing so much? The thought amused her and she
poked out her tongue at the mirror.

Her face looked really boyish then, with the button nose and
mischievous glint to her eyes. And the ears. God, those ears. A
little too big, she'd always thought, and they had the habit of
peeking out through the simple straight cut of her black hair.
Somehow they let her down when she wanted to project a sophisticated
and authoritative image. And yo.u needed that if you
wanted to hold your own against the men in the riverside power
game. You didn't want to give the cliquey buggers ammunition,
however trivial, when you were struggling to hold your own as
Head of South American Desk. There were always half a dozen
of them ready to step into your shoes.

Still, Kurt Mallory had liked her ears well enough, had seemed
fascinated with them. Had done wicked things with them that
had set her entire body alight. He had been good at things like
that; things that Giles had not even thought about, let alone mas

29

tered. And that sometimes left her feeling a little sad. Empty.
Get out of my head, Kurt, she mouthed at the mirror.

And then she realised. The nightmare. She had forgotten about
it; even as she'd taken Sidney Monckton's call, the horrific
images had evaporated. All she knew was that it had been the
same bad dream. And if it had been, then Mallory would have

been in it. He had to be in it.

There was something else.

What was it Kurt had told her once? ' The phone calls at three in
the morning- they're the ones you never forget.'

No wonder the memory of him had flared so suddenly from the
almost forgotten recesses of her mind. The nightmare interrupted
by a three o'clock phone call.

She could imagine him standing behind her now, looking over
her shoulder from the shadows, his features edged in light. And
those eyes, fierce and the colour of gentian burning into hers.

Christ, the time? She pulled on the ridiculous plastic shower
cap, ran the water and stepped inside for scarcely a minute. Then
she was running back into the bedroom, trying to dry herself on
the towel at the same time.

'Very comical,' Giles muttered. He was sitting on the edge of
the bed in his pyjamas, observing her gloomily. 'Georgina Savage
- ace of spies - if your secret service mates could see you now!'

Her wet shower cap caught him squarely on the chest and
dropped into his lap. 'Go back to sleep, Giles.'

'Can't. You know what I'm like once I'm disturbed. Bloody
mind starts whirring and I can't turn it off. 'Specially not with
that deal in the balance.'

Big City finance. She tried to sympathise but the whole thing
bored her silly. Money had never really interested her, but then
she'd never needed it. Her parents - her father in the Diplomatic
Corps had married his aristocratic Argentinian wife when he'd
been Head of Chancery in Buenos Aires - had been comfortably
off. She'd enjoyed a good public-school education followed by
three years at Cambridge when she was recruited for the Secret
Intelligence Service.

Of course, she told family and friends it was the Foreign Office.


30

Only Giles had ever quipped that she really worked for intelligence
and shared his long-running joke with everyone they met.
It would have been tiresome beyond belief, if she hadn't known
it was true. Sometimes she wasn't sure if that was what he really
thought she did.

'I'm sorry,' she said as she attempted to pull on her knickers.
But her skin was still touch-damp and the material dragged
uncomfortably. She cursed.

'What is it this time?' Giles asked with amused sarcasm. 'Aid
for Bosnia or is it Rwanda?' She'd told him her work involved
liaison with the United Nations, so perhaps that was what he
truly believed.

She was only half listening. Until her legs were properly dry
she'd never get her tights on. Deciding to abandon them, she
extracted a cream blouse and tartan two-piece from her
wardrobe. 'I won't know till I get in, Giles. They just said it's
urgent.'

'You look like one of those old-time British Caledonian air
hostesses,' he mused. 'Always fancy you in that outfit.'

'But not now, darling,' she replied lightly, slipping on the
jacket and dabbing quickly with her lipstick in the dressing-table
mirror.

He said: 'I'll have gone by the time you get back.'

Her shoes were on and she was moving towards the door.
'Then you'll have to fancy me tonight. Love you.'

'Aren't you going to wish me luck?' he called after her.
The door slammed, cutting off his words.
Giles Spalding glared at the empty bed. 'Shift'

Patiently he stubbed out the cigarette end she'd left smouldering
in the ashtray.


Savage left the terraced Banbury Street house in her Renault Clio
and sped north towards Battersea Bridge. The roads were clear
and still carried the sheen of an earlier shower. There was something
about London in the dead of night that always fascinated
her. A city never fully asleep, but dozing fitfully, the daily grind
and busde and chaos forgotten for a few precious hours. Too late


31

for the nightclubbers, too early for the first day shifts. Only
insomniacs awake behind their little lighted windows. And some
villains, of course. It was that time of night for criminals and
terrorists, the plotters and the schemers. The only others around
in the wee small hours were the city's guardians, the police and
the rescue services. And people like her. Like the Windmill
theatre, she mused, their bizarre cabaret never closed, their
routine forever changing but never ending.

She arrived at Cheyne Walk just five minutes later than she had
planned, parked round the corner from Monckton's house and
walked back to the short flight of entrance steps. Even before she
pressed the bell on the door, which she knew would be armour
plated, Savage realised that her approach would have .been
detected by the TV cameras bracketed to the wall above.

After a brief exchange over the intercom, she was admitted by
the armed plain-clothes detective who provided round-the-clock
protection for her chief.

'Georgie-girl, so good of you to come.' Sidney Monckton
stood in the drawing room, the back of his tall and somewhat
gangling body warmed by the glowing coal embers in the grate.
The antique furniture and Persian rug provided a perfect setting
for the man in his dinner jacket and black tie. 'Again, so sorry for
the late call. I'd just got back from a dinner at Grosvenor House
when I found my old friend waiting for me - you know Colonel
Oliver Maidment, of course?'

The man standing beside Monckton was probably in his early
sixties and carried himself with a distinctly military bearing.
Despite the receded crown, the aquiline features remained youthful
and quite handsome, if a little thin. Tired, Savage guessed
immediately. Like the expensive suit that bore the ingrained
creases and slightly grubby look of a long day's travel.
She smiled. 'We've never met, but of course I know of Colonel
Maidment from when he was a minister.' She extended her hand.
He shook it warmly. 'A we junior minister, I'm afraid.'

Instinctively she liked his self-effacing manner. 'And now
chairman of Portcullis, I believe?'
That pleased him; perhaps he didn't realise that his company's


32

name regularly featured in papers that crossed her desk. He said:
'Look, this is all my fault. I've just flown in from Caracas and I
came straight here from the airport. Not very fair on Sidney or
your good self.'

'Think nothing of it, old chap,' Monckton said cheerily. His
almost permanent schoolboy grin and laughing eyes, set behind
thick-lensed spectacles, were unusual in a man who wielded such
influence in the corridors of power. It was a genial demeanour
that could also be very misleading to those who dared to cross
him. 'I'd have done the same in your position = move quick
before the trail goes cold.'

Savage was perplexed. 'What trail, sir?'

The benign expression melted from Monckton's face. 'One of
our former officers is dead. Victor West - I believe you've had
dealings with him.'

She was taken aback. 'Er, yes, sir. He is - or he was - an
"alongsider". But my dealings with him have always been secondhand.
Mostly through Simon Cadbury in Ciracas or via one of
our other South American station heads. Usually it was inside
stuff on corrupt government officials or information on drug
gangs or shipments to he passed on to the Investigations Division
at Customs.'

Monckton nodded, impatient at hearing what he already knew.
'Quite, Georgie. Well, I've known Vic West for a long time.
Good man. Did an excellent job during the Falklands rumpus
and later, linking our PIRA friends with the ETA movement in
Spain. When he left us in 1987 to work for Portcullis he continued
to supply us with any useful information that came his way.'
He glanced at Maidment with a nod of acknowledgement. 'All,
f course, with the colonel's full approval. Portcullis people have
always been trustworthy "alongsiders".' He didn't add 'needed to
be' if they wanted continued approval for their arms dealings
frm r-he Foreign Office and the DTI. 'Thing is, the colonel is
convinced that Vic West was murdered.'

Her eyes widened. 'Do you know who did it?'

'No, but it was a professional job,' Maidment replied.
'Why?'


33

He related the entire story and Savage listened intently, accept
hag Monckton's offer of a small whisky but leaving the glass
untouched as she became engrossed ha the story. When
Maidment finished, she said, selecting her words carefully: 'I
really can understand your disappointment at Simon Cadbury's
reaction - I'm sure I'd feel the same under the circumstances.
But in fact he was quite correct. We really are underresourced
and our interest is only in narcotics destined for the UK. And collateral
information, such as Vic West often provided, is appreciated,
but it's usually passed straight on to the Americans for
action. If Simon thought it too dangerous, pointless, or even too
expensive to send one of our agents, I really would have to support
his judgement. And our Drug Liaison officers from Customs
are more pen-pushers than gung-ho types.'

Maidment nodded politely, slightly impatient. 'No, no, Miss
Savage, I accept all that - as a former minister, I'm all too aware
of political realities. What I'm asking for is to make private contact
with one of your freelancers. At least that's what I think you
call them. A man by the name of Kurt Mallory.'

She stared at him and her mouth dropped open for a second
before she caught herself. That name again. It was uncanny. An
hour ago he'd been safely locked away in her nightmares; now he
was being openly talked about. Something current. In some
strange way she could sense his presence, almost imagine he had
just walked into the room.

'Cat got your tongue, Georgie?' Monckton asked jovially, disguising
the fact he was anxious now to get to his bed and grab
some sleep before his morning flight to Moscow. 'On your Z
File, is he?'

She was aware of her cheeks colouring. 'Oh - er - yes, sir.
You'd know him as Zigzagger.'

There was a flicker of interest in the smiling eyes. 'A-h, he is
Zigzagger.'

The Z-File. Representing the final letter ha the alphabet, the
last resort. A coded file kept by and only encrypted by each Desk Chief personally. Jealously guarded, it had been passed down by
her predecessor. For her eyes only. Reserved for the most sensi34


tive or deniable of operations. Or the most dangerous.

Savage didn't like hearing his real name spoken openly like this
and made a mental note to change his code name to Zookeeper
as soon as she arrived at the office next day. But she hid her irritation.
'I am afraid Zigzagger has retired.'

'Not because of ill health?' Maidment asked, apparently with
genuine concern.

No, Savage reflected, not because he'd had half a lung
removed when they extracted the IRA bullet. 'No, he'd had
enough, that's all.'

'But you know where to find him?' Maidment pressed.

'My last contact with Zigzagger was two years ago and he was
never one to stay in the same place for long.'

Maidment looked anxious. 'But could you try? Vic West was a
good friend of Mr Mallory's.'

Savage frowned, remembering something. 'And are you a
friend of his too?'

The colonel hesitated, glancing down at the fingers he was
interlacing with unease. 'To be honest, I didn't think it would
ever be possible for us to be friends, Miss Savage. But I've met
him. In fact got to know him quite well. He had a relationship
with my late daughter, you see, and I didn't approve. But I
believe he'd want to be told about Victor.'

Now she thought she understood, but she couldn't say anything
in front of Monckton. 'I'll see what I can do,' she promised.
'But no guarantees.'

Maidment's shoulders dropped as he relaxed, his duty done. 'I
can't tell you how much that means to me.'

Her chief then coughed politely and tapped at his wristwatch.
The colonel accepted the heavy hint graciously, thanked them
both, and made his departure.

Savage picked up her handbag. 'What exactly does Colonel

Maidment want Zigzagger to do?'

'I'm sure you can guess.'

'Find out what happened to Vic West?'

Monckton nodded and studied the last of his whisky, swirling
it slowly around the cut-glass tumbler. 'See if you can't persuade


35

him. Don't leave it up to the colonel. I seem to remember you got
on well with Zigxagger.'

Got on well, she thought. That was an understatement. Even
now she felt a flush of heat in her loins. They'd got on well all
right, until she nearly bloody got him killed.

Monckton was still talking quietly, almost as though to himself,
and she'd almost missed his words. 'Unofficially, I'd like you to
take an interest in this one. Persuade Zigzagger and go and hold
his hand.'

She smiled inwardly despite her surprise at the suggestion.
Kurt Mallory didn't need anyone to hold his hand. The idea was
preposterous anyway. 'I don't understand, sir; this just isn't in
our remit as I've just explained to Colonel Maidment.'

The ice-blue irises were hard and glittering amid the crinkled
laughlines round his eyes. 'Consider yourself on attachment to
Global Issues.'

The Global Issues Department, she thought. Riverside desperately
trying to reinvent itself. To justify its existence and its lavish
and hardly inconspicuous new art-deco headquarters on the
south bank. Looking for jobs. The new and fastest-growing
department at Vauxhall Cross that was considered to be the sero
vice's salvation after the Cold War thaw.

Its 'Motherhood Agenda' was concerned with the successful
rebirth of the emerging democratic states of the old X ZWarsaw Pact.
Training their secret selvices where possible and leaving friends
of Britain in high places to run them. Countering the spread of
nuclear, biological and chemical weapons that the new nations,
starved of foreign currency, were willing to sell to the highest
bidder - bidders like Iran, Iraq, North Korea and other pariah
governments.

And organised crime. In many respects that was the most
immediate big threat of all and at the core of its activities, of
course, the ever expanding market in narcotics. Savage understood
that. Understood what so many people around the world
appeared to overlook. Narcotics in themselves weren't a global
threat. The high-flyer in Westminster or on Wall Street snorting
his White Lady, or some HIV-riddled prostitute paying for her


36

heroin habit, or some black kid in Moss Side stabbing a rival
crack dealer - these were small personal tragedies' affecting family
and friends.

But the ripple went way beyond that, affected entire communities.
Entire nations. There had been a meteoric rise in street
crime to fund the habit of thousands, millions worldwide, leaving
behind swathes of disillusioned youth to fuel violence and discontent.

The
cost to every nation in terms of policing, healthcare and
welfare was incalculable; the damage to the fabric of society probably
irreparable.

And it went even beyond that. The dangers really were on a
global scale. With one dollar in every four estimated to have been
earned from illegal drugs, narcotics money was distorting the
world's financial markets and destabilising whole national
economies. To that catalogue of disaster you could add the corruption
of the governments, police forces and the judiciary of
many nations. Or even continents, as Savage knew too well from
her own time on the South American Desk. Narco money could
power and run entire national economies. A magnet to greedy
and corrupt politicians who were all too eager to keep the world's
poor firmly in their place while they themselves sucked their own
countries dry.

Nevertheless, Savage had to concern herself with everyday
practicalities. She asked: 'But is this business with Vic West particularly
relevant to us?'

Monckton shrugged. 'If you'd asked me yesterday, I'd have
said not especially. But it so happened that at Grosvenor House
tonight I was seated opposite an old friend from Customs and
Excise. He was telling me about a worrying new trend that's been
developing over the past six months. In fact, only last week he
had a meeting with all the chief constables to discuss a joint pro.gramme
to combat the growing distribution of a branded cocaine
which has a consistently higher purity than usual. But at normal
prices. So, of course, everyone wants it. They call the stuffWhite
Viper.'

'I see.'


37

'It seems someone has set up a sort of exclusive dealer network
- just like car manufacturers - in London, Glasgow, Liverpool
and Newcastle, using well-established gangs of villains. It's causing
all sorts of mayhem with rival gangs in each region who are
peddling their own stuff which now suddenly no one wants. Of
course, the distribution system has to be enforced, not least to
stop cot:nterfeiting of the little packets or others in the system
diluting genuine White Viper before selling it on. There've been
several knee-cappings and firebombs. No point in having a
branded coke unless you can assure the punters they're getting
something special.'

'And you think it's connected with something Vic West discovered?
The mention of White Viper might relate to the reason
he was killed?'

Monckton was hesitant. 'I admit it's tenuous. Maybe it's just a
catchy name that's caught on and been passed down the smuggling
lines from South America. But White Viper coke has also
turned up in the States as well as various European countries
apparently. Not in big quantities yet, but it is starting to cause
some concern. I think we can justify a look at the situation.'

Savage said: 'It's really Simon Cadbury's patch, sir. I could

order him to have someone local take a look.'

'Has he got anyone of Zigzagger's calibre?'

Her smile gave it away before she admitted: 'No, sir, not to my
knowledge.' It was game, set and match. 'I'll do my best to set it
up myself.'


Kelly O'More was waiting for Georgina Savage at the barrier
when she arrived at Shannon.

They had met some years before on the Dublin social and
diplomatic circuit and become almost instant friends. There had
been an immediate chemistry between them, like the reunion of
two old school chums - a shared sense of irreverent humour and
girlish mischief which both missed in their respective careers as
'diplomat' and lawyer, Savage as Second Secretary to the British
Embassy and Kelly, the daughter of Joe O'More, a landowner
and a former minister in the Irish Government. Although they


38

hadn't met in two years, Savage had no difficulty in recognising
her friend. Kelly wore the same loose hairstyle of tumbledown
copper ringlets and the same easy smile. It was no surprise that
the rangy body propped casually against the barrier was dressed
in jodhpurs and a floppy Donegal sweater that failed to disguise
her impressive figure. Horses were the great love of her life. It had
been how she and Kurt Mallory had got together.

'Hi, Georgie,' she greeted, her eyes lighting up as they exchanged
kisses on the cheek. 'You're looking good. Married life
must suit you.'

'It does,' she laughed. 'But being single hasn't done you any
harm at all, I see.'

Kelly's words were spoken in a soft Kerry brogue. 'Perhaps
not, but it isn't by choice. Sure, soon only my horses will want
me.' At thirty-six she was four years Savage's senior. She said:
'C'mon, the car's outside.'

As they drove the Land-Rover Discovery out of the airport and
picked up the road towards Limerick city,-Savage said: 'You
never mentioned anything on your card at Christmas.'

One finely arched eyebrow rose as Kelly glanced at her passenger.
'About splitting with Kurt? A bit difficult that when
you've nicked your best friend's fella. How d'you tell her you've
been careless enough to go and lose him so soon?'

Savage chuckled at that and had to admit a certain smug sense
of satisfaction. 'No one nicks Kurt - or holds on to him for long

for that matter. He pretty much does what he wants.'
'Well, you did warn me.'
'So what happened?'

'Guess we just sort of drifted apart. I'd stopped living with him
after the first year - when was that? - just about twelve months
ago. We wanted different things. I wanted a husband and home
- and kids. Hell, I'm getting a bit old for that now. The big four-o
looms.'

'And Kurt?'

'Kurt just wanted to continue living in the croft with his horses
and his bees. Quite happy to scratch a living with his subsistence
farming and some fishing. I mean, I ask you! No electricity and


39

no telephone.'

Savage could just imagine it and felt a pang of envy at what
they'd shared. Stupid really - Kelly was far better suited to that
sort of life than she. 'But great sex?'

A smile came to Kelly's lips. 'Oh sure, great sex. But you know
Kurt. To him sex is like any other bodily function. Like eating,
sleeping or going for a shit. However good he is, he's just as
happy to go and pay a whore when he feels the need. A girl will
die waiting for him to bring chocolates and flowers.' They both
laughed at that. 'In the end I think it was only our love of horses
that kept us together. Said he liked it when my body smelled of
them. He's a bloody animal, so he is. I really had to decide
between staying with Kurt or abandoning my career as a lawyer
altogether. He kept saying how he'd really like to go back to
Paraguay. Recapture his childhood, I suppose. Christ, why is it
men can never grow up?'

'D'you think he means it?'

She nodded. 'But he hasn't got any money. I offered to pay for
an air ticket, but he just gave me one of those gorgeous dark looks
of his. We both knew he'd never accept money like that, especially
from a woman. Sometimes I think he's a bloody misogynist.'

Kurt
Mallory a woman hater! That was a laugh, Savage
thought. 'He told me once that - sex apart - he treats women just
like men. As equals. He likes them or not and won't pander to all
the courting rigmarole in order to get to bed with someone. Can't
stand all the girlie small talk.'

Kelly frowned at the road ahead. 'Then clearly I didn't pass
muster.'

Her friend laughed lightly. 'You wouldn't have lasted a year

with him if you hadn't.'
'I blame his mother.'
q0Chat?'

'For trying to drown him at birth. Where was it?'

'The Landwehr Kanal in West Berlin.'

Cruel though it was, the idea touched a chord of humour in
both women. As her laughter subsided, Savage said: 'Be fair, she


40

was trying to drown herself as well - in fact she succeeded. Poor
woman must have been driven mad with grief and anxiety when
Kurt's father died. I mean, just think of it. She escapes East
Berlin and becomes a prostitute in order to survive. Then meets
this dashing British Army major and falls in love. The baby
arrives and they're all set for a bright and happy life. Marriage is
planned, documents being processed, and then the silly bugger
goes and kills himself in an autobahn accident!'

'Yeah.' Kelly relented slightly. 'But our Kurt still wouldn't be
here today if that policeman hadn't come along and persuaded
her to hand the baby over. No wonder Kurt finds relationships
with women difficult. I mean if you can't trust your own mother
not to try and kill you--'

They were through the city now and on the road west towards
Listowel and the Bay of Tralee beyond. 'Well, if that hadn't all
happened and his dead father's family hadn't wanted to know
him, Kurt wouldn't have been sent to that orphanage of German
brothers in Paraguay. He wouldn't have been- the same man and
our paths would never have crossed.'

'I suppose you're right. Truth is I'm just looking for someone,
anyone, to blame for it not working out. Anyone except me.
Truth is, I miss the bastard.'

'Have you seen him much since?'

Kelly shook her head. 'Just a couple of times. I spend most of
my time at the Dublin office and only get back to the family home
near Tralee for the odd weekend. Then, of course, Dad wants to
monopolise his only daughter, bless him. Lives for our games of
chess, so he does. Kurt's place at Miggles Strand is another fifteen
miles on and I can't phone to check that he's in.'

'But you're still talking?'

'Oh, yes. And the sex is still good.' Still good? So it wasn't
completely over, Savage thought. Dammit, she really hadn't
wanted to hear that. But Kelly hadn't noticed the stiffening of her
expression and was continuing with her light-hearted banter. 'But
I really am trying to give him up. Besides, I've got a new man in
my life.'

'Ah!' Savage said. 'You little liar, I thought you said it was only


41

your horses who loved you now?'

'That's probably true, all the same. I don't exactly hear church
bells with my new boyfriend.'

'Spill the beans,' Savage encouraged.

Kelly grinned at her. 'Want to know about my Latin lover, do

you, so you can get your own back and steal him off me?'
'Latin?' Savage asked, intrigued.

'Well, Argentinian actually. Lives and works in Madrid. He's a
big shot international lawyer - I met him while I was handling
some work for Dad. Dead sexy name. Miguel Castafio.' She pronounced
it with a dramatic Spanish flourish. 'I've always wanted
a toy boy. Well, he is nine months younger than me - and years
richer!'

'And is he as sexy as his name?'

'You'd better believe it, kid. Dusky skin, long black hair - more
like a rock star than a lawyer - and the most gorgeous bum you've

ever seen. In those polo breeches he's something else.'

'And?'

'And I wouldn't trust him farther than I could throw his lovely
hunky body. A real eye for the girls, you see. Likes flashing his
pearly white teeth at anything in a skirt.' She relaxed into her
seat, changing gear smoothly and confidently as a sharp bend
approached. 'Swears I'm the only woman in his life, but then he
would, wouldn't he? And how would I know how many concubinas
he keeps at his luxury villa while I'm stuck in Dublin?'

'So no future in it?'

Kelly looked wistful. 'You never know. I may be a born optimist,
but I'm not holding my breath.' Then she said quite suddenly:
"Why is it you need to see Kurt, Georgie? Not withdrawal
symptoms?'

Her friend shook her head. 'No, I'm well over him now, thank
you.' Even as she spoke the words she wasn't sure it was strictly
true. 'No, it's purely a business thing. Someone at my department's
got some work for him.'

'Oh.' Kelly mouthed the word rather than said it.

'I guess it might take some persuading for him to come out of
retirement.'


42

Kelly said carefully: 'Retirement from what exactly? Whenever
I ask him about his past work, he's always evasive. Mutters something
about a bit of this and that, then promptly changes the subject.'

Hardly
surprising, Savage thought. Telling someone you used
to kill people for a living is something of a conversation stopper.
She said lightly: 'Occasionally he's done some investigation work
for us. Mostly tracking down missing persons. Quite good at it
actually.'

The Irish girl's sudden outburst of laughter was spontaneous.
'What's so funny?'

Kelly managed to contain her hysteria, fighting to get her
words out through a continuing giggle. 'I - It's j-just the thought
of Kurt working for the Foreign Office. I - I mean, all those
toffee-nosed public-school boys with their pinstripes. And then
Kurt in his dirty jeans and T-shirt, looking like a tramp.'

Savage forced a smile, sympathised with her friend's reaction.
But then she knew that Kurt's work for thesupposed Foreign
Office was no joke. She had always considered Kelly O'More to
be well versed in the ways of the world, witty and urbane. Yet,
like most ordinary people, she could be disturbingly naive and
trusting at times. A believer in Fairyland, as Savage and others at
riverside liked to call the everyday life of the average civilian.
Totally unaware that the world she thought she knew was only
skin deep. Beneath it was another layer, then another. But then
Kelly's ignorance equalled innocence, and really that was just as
well. She had lived with Kurt Mallory for a year and still did not
know that her lover did not belong to her world at all.

She said: 'It's Kurt's style - or lack of it - that makes him so
good at it. He can make inquiries where no government official
could. Especially in wilder parts of the world where he really fits
in. South America, of course, with his Paraguayan upbringing.

He can pass as Spanish, English or German.'

'You mean working undercover?'

'Not exactly.' But Savage's hesitancy rather betrayed her
words. 'He has the knack of blending in. The invisible man.
Insurance companies have used him to look at dodgy claims. And


43

some international human fights charities have hired him as a
troubleshooter.'

'This job you've got for him - what is it exactly?'

A tight smile. 'I'm sorry, Kelly, I'm really not allowed to say.'
'It's not dangerous, is it?'

Perhaps, Savage wondered, her friend wasn't quite as unaware
as she'd thought. 'Good God, no, of course not,' she said and her
laugh at least sounded genuine.

Now Kelly made a right-hand turn onto an unmarked dirt
track. Only a rotting To the beach sign gave any indication that
this was the way to the place locals knew as Miggles Strand. The
car bumped its way over the ruts and grooves for half a mile until
the lane ended abruptly in a small turning circle on low cliffs
overlooking the Bay of Tralee.

Kelly switched off the engine and the stillness of the place
instantly cocooned them. Suddenly Savage was anxious to be
away from her friend, to avoid any further questions and telling
any more lies. She opened the passenger door, the April air cool
after the heat inside the car. It smelled of seaweed and blue saltwater
mud, reverberated with the plaintive cry of circling seagulls.
Below her was the rough pasture strip running beside the
narrow shingle beach. Rain-washed sun glinted off the surface of
the bay like hammered pewter. A curlicue of woodsmoke escaped
the chimney of the small fisherman's croft with its thick tar
brushed walls and slate roof. Almost without thinking she found
herself seeking out the beehives. Yes, there they were, ten white
slatted boxes around a gnarled apple tree. If this were Kurt's
home there would have to be bees. Bees and horses, the two legacies
from his wild boyhood in Paraguay. Then she saw the
black stallion and the chestnut mare that Kelly had bought
him. Creollios, the mustangs of South America. The one gift he
couldn't bring himself to refuse.

'I suppose he's home,' she thought aloud.

'He might be working on the boat,' Kelly replied, leading the
way to the footpath that wound down the cliff. 'It's at the front
of the cottage -you can't see it from here.'

As they neared, the hiss of the blowtorch and rasp of sandpao


44

per reached their ears above the slapping of the waves along the
shoreline.

Kelly's footsteps faltered. 'Georgie.'

'What is it?' Savage named.

'I don't want him to get hurt.' For once the Irish girl's eyes
were not smiling.

'Nor do I,' her fi-iend replied glibly and quickly. Too quickly,
she realised almost instantly.

'I mean it. That bullet in his lung, it nearly killed him.'

'He told you about that?' Mildly surprised.

A nod. 'In an unguarded moment. It was still troubling him
then, so he had to say something. No details, of course. Only later
I realised he must have been working with you at the time. I'm
not stupid, Georgie. I've some idea of the sort of work you do.'
She raised her hand quickly. 'No, don't deny or confirm it. I'd
rather not have lies between friends. And I realise you're probably
not allowed to tell outsiders about your work or what Kurt
has done for you. Just promise me you won't-ask him to do anything
dangerous.'

Savage's smile was slow and reassuring. 'I promise.' But even
as she spoke the words it felt like betrayal.

Then Kelly's expression softened and she grinned widely, her
teeth glistening. 'Good.' She strode on, leaving Savage to follow
and feeling slightly envious of how good her friend looked, longlegged
in the jodhpurs and the breeze nagging at her tangled
locks.

Oh, Kelly, but you are a fool. You really do still love him
despite everything you've said.

His naked back was hunched over the upnamed wooden hull,
sweat glistening on the bunched sinews of his shoulder as he
laboured with the sandpaper block. Dead varnish had formed a
small pile by his feet.

The old man with the white beard and fisherman's sweater saw
the two women first as they rounded the corner of the croft. He
stopped what he was doing and turned down the blowtorch.

'You've got visitors, Kurt me boy.' The voice was coarse with
age but softened by the pure Kerry accent.


45

'What?'

'Your lucky day, so it is.' He nodded over Mallory's shoulder
towards Kelly. 'Nice to see you, Miss O'More.'

Mallory straightened his back and turned, tossing the tangle of
black hair from his eyes. The smile broke quickly and easily on
his lips. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. 'My little colleen,
what a nice surprise...' Then the words faded as he focused on
the second woman.

'Hello, Kurt,' Savage said with an uneasy smile.

He nodded. 'George.'

Kelly took a backward step. 'An old friend to see you.'

It felt a ridiculously formal thing to do, but Savage offered her
hand. She really didn't want him to kiss her. 'You're looking fit,
Kurt.'

Fitter than when I last saw you, she thought, and her eyes
unconsciously glanced at the angry knot of white scar tissue on
the weather-tanned skin over his ribs.

There was a hint of a smile on Mallory's face as he wiped his
palms on the thighs of his faded denims before accepting her
hand. His eyes fixed on hers in the direct and penetrating gaze
that she had always found a little unsettling. Was he laughing at
her? Did it amuse him that she was throwing up invisible barriers,
keeping her distance? His hand felt strong as it took hers,
the skin warm and dry, pressing her cool flesh rather than shaking
the small hand. To Savage it felt like a signal of reassurance.
Perhaps even forgiveness.

'You're looking good yourself, George,' he said. That strange

but familiar voice with its slightly Germanic tone. 'Marriage must
agree with you.'

'Exactly what I said,' Kelly added with a grin and raised a hand

in the direction of the old fisherman. 'You won't have met Matt
Rooney, Kurt's right-hand man.'

As the old man politely pulled off his battered Breton cap to
reveal a balding crown atop the mass of wild white hair, Mallory
said: "Couldn't manage without Mattie. What he doesn't know
about fishing in these parts isn't worth knowing.'

Rooney chuckled with mirth; clearly advancing years hadn't


46

diminished his appreciation of a pretty girl. Unexpectedly meeting
two of them at once had clearly made his day. 'Honoured I
am, Miss - ?'

'Call me Georgie.'

He turned to Mallory. 'Shall I put a brew on, Kurt? And I'm
thinkin' there's a dram or two left in the Bushmills. Does this call
for a celebration?'

Mallory laughed. Although they all knew he hardly drank, he
said: 'Why not? Is there something to celebrate?'

Savage said: 'I'm afraid there isn't really, Kurt.' But Rooney
had already disappeared inside the croft to put the kettle on. 'In
fact it's bad news.'

At that point Kelly sensed her friend's hesitation to say more
in her presence. 'Look, you two will have lots to talk about and I
promised Dad a game of chess this afternoon. What time would
you like me to pick you up, Georgie?'

Mallory looked at Savage. 'You'll be going back so soon?
You're welcome to stay over. There's a spare bed.'

Were her cheeks really as scarlet as they felt? Spare bed. Was
he being funny? Oh, she'd be safe enough. Mallory wasn't the
type to force his attentions on her. If he still fancied her, he'd just
say: 'Come to bed.' Almost a command, but not quite. And they
both knew she'd probably go. She said: 'That's sweet, Kurt, but
I really have to get back to London. Back to work - and back to
my husband.'

He smiled. 'Of course.' Knowing.

Savage looked at Kelly. 'Could you give us a couple of hours?'
'No problem.' Her friend toyed with her car key. 'By the way,
Kurt, I've got a free couple of days if you're around. We could

take the horses for a gallop. I'm starting to forget how to ride.'
He grinned. 'Sure. Tomorrow.'

She leaned forward and kissed him briefly. Under her breath
she said: 'And I'm free to stop over.'

Mallory winked at her and his eyes watched the material
stretched tight across her backside as she sauntered away round
the corner of the croft and took the cliff path back to the
Discovery.


47

'She's a great girl,' he murmured, then turned his attention
back to Savage. 'What's this bad news?'

There was no way to soften the blow. 'I'm afraid Vic West is
dead.'

Mallory stared at her, the warmth draining instantly from the

mesmeric blue eyes, the pupils reducing to mere pinpricks.
'He was murdered, Kurt. I'm sorry.'
'Where did it happen?'

'In Venezuela. Four days ago.'

'Was he working for you?'

She shook her head. 'At least not officially. His boss came to
us, asking if we could find you. Colonel Oliver Maidment from a
company called Portcullis. I think you know him?'

His lips tightened perceptibly. Savage noticed because she'd
been watching his reaction closely. Remembered that Mallory
had once referred obliquely to someone called the colonel. Of
course, there were many ex-colonels around and there was no
reason why Mallory should not know more than one. It could just
be coincidence, but if it wasn't, then the charming and self-effacing
ex-junior minister who visited Sidney Monckton was connected.
Connected to the organisation. The organisation that had
no name.

Mallory's eyes narrowed. 'Yes, I know him.'

'The colonel was anxious to contact you. Said Vic West was a
friend of yours and thought you'd want to do something about it.
Find out who killed him.'

'Why didn't he come himself?.'

'Because my people are interested to know what happened too.
We're willing to support the investigation if you agree. Give you

unofficial backup.'

'You?'

She looked uncomfortable. 'It could be someone else if you'd
prefer. I'd understand.'

Mallory shook his head. 'You might have nearly got me killed,
but you're still the best. I've met some of the other monkeys from
your department.'

'So you'll do it?'


48

He scanned the bay, a distant look in his eyes. 'I've retired,
George. This is my life now.'

Don't push it, she told herself, and waited first until she'd sat
with Rooney to have the tea laced with Bushmills. Until Mallory
had shown her the horses, the livestock and, of course, the bees.
Until Matt Rooney had waved goodbye and wandered off to his
home in the nearby village and she and Mallory had returned
alone to the croft.

'You seem to have more books than ever,' she said, looking at
the overstuffed shelves and cardboard boxes that filled one wall
of the dim interior.

He lit a hurricane lamp and hung it on the low ceiling hook to
illuminate the spartan living room with its open fireplace, table
and bedstead. 'I've a lot of catching up to do and I don't read
fast.'

Savage smiled at that. She remembered him telling her how his
education at the Glaubehaus orphanage in Paraguay had been
less than perfect for their wayward charge. And how he had run
away at the age of eleven when he learned that the holy brothers
of the House of Faith planned to return to Europe. That had
been back in 1961 when the South American continent was even
wilder than it was today. Then young Kurt, already an accomplished
horseman and looking older than his years, had found no
shortage of unscrupulous cattle ranchers willing to employ him as
a gaucho for a handful of pesos a month.

Reading and literature had no place in the violence and cruelty
of frontier life where Kurt Mallory learned the art of street fighting
and to take his pleas'are with town prostitutes once a month.
She could imagine how the putas might have fought over the
chance to mother their under-age client.

It was only when, at the age of sixteen, he worked his passage
on a boat to England that he realised the job he wanted was not
on offer to a semi-literate teenager. He didn't even get past his
first interview with the sergeant at the army recruiting office.
There seemed no chance that he could ever follow his dead
father's chosen profession in the British Army.

As he boarded another ship bound for Africa with the idea of


49

joining the mercenaries in the Congo, he had vowed to teach
himself to read and write. Nine years later, having also fought in
Biafra and Angola, he had accomplished his aim. Mallory may
still have read with immense difficulty, but he had read more
than almost anyone Savage had ever known. Dog-eared secondhand
copies of the classics and every major work of literature
lined his shelves, and she knew he had struggled through every
word of every one.

Then she noticed the ancient Imperial manual on the table and
the pile of paper with its uneven lines of type. 'Your memoirs?'

He sat on the edge of the torn settee. 'Memories not memoirs.
Wanted to get something of my childhood on paper. Life in
Paraguay, you know, the people I met, the stories I'd heard.'

'Can I read some?' She squinted. 'It needs adjusting - and a
new ribbon.'

A shake of the head. 'You wouldn't like it. My spelling's crap.'
'I'd still like to. A few pages.'

'If you want.' He looked at her steadily for a moment, maybe
guessing her motive. 'Have you got a cigarette?'
She had hoped he might be flattered at her interest, but he gave
no sign as he took a cigarette from the offered pack. Still trying
to cut it out, she thought. 'I'll return your notes.'

That clearly didn't bother him; he knew she would anyway.
'What's the time?'

He didn't have a watch, she noticed. 'Four.'
'Kelly will be here soon.'
'Kurt?'

He looked back in her direction.

It had to be now or never. 'You were close to Vic West, weren't
you?'

'He was my friend.'

And you've never had many friends, have you? she thought.

Mallory added slowly: 'I've only ever met a handful of people
I could trust. Vic was one of them.'

'Did he work for the organisation, Kurt?'

The still air of the croft seemed to freeze instantly. When he
spoke, Mallory's voice was almost a whisper. "What do you mean?'


50

'You told me about it once, do you remember? About the
organisation, the network, whatever you call it..Did Vic West
work for them too?'

She could see in his eyes that he wished he'd never confided in
her. 'Yes. Sometimes.'

'I thought so.' So Oliver Maidment was with them too. That

meant this was organisation business.

'Why?'

'I think Vic was working for them when he was killed.'

Mallory studied her expression closely. 'Then you'd better tell
me exactly what happened.'

Savage sighed inwardly. Now she had him.

3

Kurt Mallory was not pleased.

He was uncomfortable in the new
business suit and the restricting collar
and tie and doubtful about his cover as a travel agency representative.
And thoroughly disapproving that Georgina Savage was sitting
next to him on the internal Avensa flight down to Puerto
Ayacucho.

He had wanted to set about the investigation into Vic West's
death in his usual way. Like el vago pequeqo, he always said. A
little tramp. Drifting into town with the tumbleweed, scruffy and
unnoticed. It was pretty much how he dressed and lived anyway;
he was comfortable like that. Being just another worthless piece
of flotsam adrift on the South American continent. Just another
loser. No one ever paid attention to losers and that was the way
he liked it. Safer when it came to ferreting around, asking the odd
casual question and knowing the right answer when he heard it.

But Savage had been adamant. 'The last time we worked
together you nearly got killed. I'm not prepared to risk that happening
again.'

'It's more likely to if we travel together.'

'I don't think so. We both know what they call the border area
between Venezuela and Colombia - the last fontier. There are
only two legitimate businesses there, the Pepsi factory and a small
tourist interest. If we're not obviously connected with those we'll
immediately raise suspicions.'

'Okay, but even if you are right, I'd prefer to go alone. If you're
not there you can't get hurt.'

'Very chivalrous, Kurt. But what the hell do you know about
tourism? I'm always using that cover, know it inside out. If you


52

go alone and someone tumbles you, I'd still be none the wiser
about what happened to Vic West.'

Charming, he'd thought, and grinned at her.

Savage had balls and he liked that in a woman. Intelligence and
humour too. You didn't have to endure small talk about fashion
and recipes when she was around. No problem discussing philosophy
or history or the ways of the world.

In fact he couldn't have imagined more agreeable company on
the previous day's long haul from England to Paris and on to
Caracas. No matter that she had manipulated him, or at least
thought she had.

Let her think it. To him it was of supreme unimportance. What
mattered was that some scrote of a narco had killed his friend and
thought he was going to get away with it. Because the narcos usually
did. They ruled their empires by fear and intimidation,
threatening family and friends. It was a brave man who stood witness,
who dared open his mouth.

But Vic was organisation and Vic had beenhis friend. And he
had precious few of them. He owed Vic. Many a time Vic had
watched his back. Their mutual trust was absolute, had to be.
Then Vic had got him started as a freelancer, introduced him to
the organisation. He owed Vic West and it was a debt of honour.

When the aircraft had begun its descent to Venezuela, he had
glanced down at Savage, dozing with her head against his
shoulder.

Why hadn't it lasted between them, he had wondered? Two
years ago, around the time that he'd got shot. She'd been keen
enough then, on fire for him. Breaking every rule in the goddamn
book. Controller screwing around with agent and loving every
mnute of it. Her sexuality unleashed for the first time, if he was
to believe what she told him. And he had no reason to doubt her.

Yet she had drifted out of his life, just like all the others. And
he had never been one to beg a woman to stay.

They had rekindled some of the old warmth between them on
the transatlantic flight. Laughed a lot and brought each other up
to date. His life working his plot of land on the Irish coast and she
awkward with a new life of domesticity with her husband, resist53


ing his insistence that she should give up work and have a baby.
'You don't want that?' Mallory had asked.

She had looked at him curiously, the light in her eyes suddenly
a little dimmer. 'Not just now, Kurt.'

But he wasn't sure she'd been telling the complete truth, even
to herself.

His mood of wellbeing had changed dramatically almost as
soon as they reached Caracas. He had never liked the place and
he'd grown to like it even less as years went by. He could smell
corruption in the air like the stench of raw sewage. Probably
there'd never been a time when the government, either military
dictatorship or democratically elected, hadn't had its hand in the
country's till, its nose in the trough.

The early oil wealth had been creamed off by the ruling clases
and squandered while the nation's other natural resources were
neglected. Now the legitimate coffers were bare, the poor even
poorer than ever, while those in power had found a new source
of riches. Narco money. The country was awash with the stuff as
the drug barons invested in new condominiums and legitimate
businesses, washing their dirty money, content in the knowledge
that their ill-gotten fortunes would be safe, provided they greased
the right palms.

Mallory thought how the city resembled Bogota fifteen years
earlier at the start of its flirtation with the cocaine business.
Before it had embraced the filthy trade with an all-consuming
and self-destructing passion.

He'd seen it all before and here it was again. The kids dealing
on every street corner and robbing anyone at knife-point who was
foolish enough to venture out after dark. All to finance their
habits and squalid little deals. Spivs cruising in flash imported
cars. Street orphans snatched by death squads and their corpses
sold to hospitals and private clinics for the organ transplant market.
Judges throwing out solid cases against the narco kingpins
through fear or favour, or probably both, while any unfortunate
who stood in the way of the mighty money-and-politics machine
would end up languishing for ever in the disgusting prisons, the
doors of which were closed against the outside world and


54

Amnesty International in particular.

If ever Mallory needed reminding of why he loathed the narco business, then it was being in this sick city.

He and Savage had taken a taxi from the airport to their
overnight hotel. There was something macabre about the journey,
windows wound down in a vain attempt to cool the humid
air; a feeling of unreality, of driving through the set of a science
fantasy movie. Car horns shrieking and wailing beneath the awesome
tower blocks; vehicles racing all out and foot down, endlessly
switching lanes without warning. Overtaking, overtaking,
switching and overtaking, pushing, pushing, pushing. Bald tyres
screeching on the oily, sweating surface of the autopistas that ran
to and fro across the city like festering sores. Tarmac melted in
the sun and reset in solid ruts, the fabric crumbling. Ample evidence
of the corrupt officials who had been bribed by get-rich
quick construction companies. The roadside wrecks and endless
shrines to those who had died were a lasting tribute to the shame
that the city fathers did not feel. 4,

'Christ, this place depresses me,' Savage had said, looking at
the hillside barrio slums. The tumbledown and makeshift
dwellings were stuck like glue to the impossibly steep sides, for all
the world like bizarre Christmas trees with their trillion lights
twinkling in the distant darkness.

Mallory followed her gaze. 'It's why we do it.'
She had turned to face him. 'What do you mean?' The . Vic West and others. It's why we do what we do.'
'The organisation?'

'It's not just for the spoiled brats of the filthy rich. It's for the
slum kids who get sucked into it. Here and all over the world.
Users, dealers, they're all victims. Narco power corrupts
absolutely and once it takes hold you can't ever shake it free. It
consumes entire nations. And if it isn't stopped, it'll take over the
world.'

Even as he had told her, he knew he was preaching to the converted.
No one was better placed than Georgina Savage to know
that narco money had already eaten up Bolivia, Peru and
Colombia. It had eaten the guts out of his beloved Paraguay, had


55

half-digested Venezuela and Brazil. Already the inner cities of the
United States, Britain and most of Europe were well gnawed and
Italy swallowed whole. And now it was racing through the newly
independent nations of the former Soviet Union like a cancer.

With narco money making up a quarter of the investment funds
slushing around the world, he wondered how long it would be
before the financial markets just couldn't get along without those
massive, ever-growing profits.

Suddenly the pitch of the engines changed and Mallory's mind
was jolted back to the present. The deck of the Avensa Line aircraft
canted, the descent beginning and marking the end of their
short internal flight from Caracas.

Through the window, Mallory could see the wide curve of the
Orinoco river glinting between the banks of tropical jungle. Then
the dusty clearings and the outskirts of Puerto Ayacucho. He'd
visited the place a couple of times in the past, although not
recently. He also had a friend who possibly still lived there. But
he had mentioned neither fact to Savage; he liked to hold something
in reserve.

As Brother Hermann of his old Glaubehaus orphanage had
once advised, sometimes it was better not to let the right hand
know what the left was doing. But Brother Hermann had his own
reasons for saying that. Nevertheless, the philosophy had kept
Mallory alive so far.

Even from the air he could see the place had expanded since
he'd last been there, its arid streets and low concrete houses
steadily pushing back the surrounding jungle.

The river port on the border with Colombia had been founded
in the 1920s - along with Samariapo, some sixty kilometres
upriver - when the two settlements were linked by road in order
to avoid the unnavigable rapids between them. But with the passing
of the oil boom and the increasing use of road transport, both
places declined.

Now Ayacucho had become a Pepsi town, the soft drinks factory
really its only reason for continuing existence. Some entrepreneur
had bought land because it was cheap, then he built the
plant, originally for Coca-Cola. The factory needed people, the


56

people needed housing, shops and roads, which in turn needed
municipal services, hotels and petrol stations. And so modem
Ayacucho reinvented itself, a floating satellite of self-sufficiency
that could only be reached by air or by three-hundred kilometres
of jungle dirt road from the nearest town of any size.

Its very remoteness, Mallory realised, made it territory in
which narcotraficantes and left-wing guerrillas would feel perfectly
at home.

The undercarriage wheels hit the concrete strip with a thud
and even before the aircraft had come to a halt, the passengers
were scrambling from their seats. Most were casually dressed
Venezuelans, some more scruffy than others. There were some
men in business suits and a few shabby and nervous-looking
Indians, probably returning from their once-a-year trip to visit
distant relatives.

The cloying jungle air wrapped itself around them the moment
they began to descend the steps. There was one other Avensa
short-haul jet on the apron and rows of private Cessnas, Pipers,
Beechcraft and others. Although some were no doubt used for
legitimate purposes, it didn't take a genius to work out that most
would be used for the business of the local narcos.

By the time Mallory and Savage reached the entrance of the
single-storey terminal something of a scrum had developed
within its confines. There was much handshaking and enthusiastic
Latin embracing. People milled around and suitcases cluttered
every available space. Travelling light with just handgrips,
Mallory and Savage pushed their way swiftly towards the exit.

Outside, Mallory had just seen the bright orange Landcruiser
of their cover contact, with the legend ORINOCO ODYSSEYTurismo
de aventura,t stencilled on the door, when the armed
policeman stepped into his path.

'Seor,' the man said abruptly, and motioned towards a camping
table erected by the door. 'Alli, porfavor.'

Mallory shrugged and turned towards the snappily dressed
police lieutenant who sat with a passenger list spread out in front
of him. Clean-shaven and probably in his early thirties, he looked
up with the impassive arrogance of so many South American law


57

enforcers. His dark eyes were emotionless black marbles in a sallow,
pock-marked face. His cap was on the table, bright badge to
the fore, his short-sleeved blue shirt ironed with razor pleats.
There was a fat black automatic strapped to his hip.

Two grim-faced men in plain denim stood watchfully behind
him as he spoke. 'C6mo se llama usted, seor?'

'Harold Pike,' Mallory answered, giving the name on the passport
supplied by Savage's department.

The lieutenant consulted his list, found the name. 'Su pasaporte,
porfavor.'

'Why do you want to see that?' Mallory asked in fluent
Spanish, as he extracted the document from his inside jacket
pocket. 'This is an internal flight.'

Cold dead eyes regarded him closely. For Christ's sake just do
it, Savage thought; she'd forgotten just how obtuse Mallory could
be in the face of zealous bureaucracy.

'It's not your business to question,' the lieutenant said at last,
'but it is just a routine check. We don't want any trouble in this
town.' He glanced at the EC passport. 'British, eh? Your accent
is gaucho chk.'

'I grew up in Paraguay.'

Thick eyebrows raised a fraction. 'You travel alone?'

'With my boss.'

Savage took a step forward. 'Is there a problem, Harry?'

The policeman appraised the good-looking woman in the sensible
beige-linen travel suit, his eyes betraying his appreciation.
'Your passport, miss.'

'Mrs,' she corrected, handing it over. 'Mrs Hayes.'

'And your business here?'

'We're travel agents. We've come to assess the tourist potential
here in Amazonas.'

The policeman's impassive mask was back in place. 'You have
a letter of accreditation? Some evidence of your purpose?'

She smiled briefly and fished in her handbag. Mallory had been
impressed with the letters with which they'd both been furnished.
From Armitage Prince, the big name corporate and exotic destination
specialists whose reputation ranked alongside Hogg


58

Robinson and Cox and King.

Mallory doubted the company meant anything to this backwater
cop, yet still the man jotted down the telephone number from
the letterhead. As he did so, Savage shot her friend an anxious
sideways look.

The passports were returned. 'Where are you staying in Puerto
Ayacucho?'

'The Orinoco Odyssey, at their camp.'

'For how long?'

'Two or three days, I'm not sure.'

Now the lieutenant was filling in two small forms that had been
printed locally on an ancient Roneo. He stamped them and
signed each with a flourish. 'Keep these and your passports with
you at all times. I have allowed you three days. If you need an
extension, come and see me at the police station. It will be no
problem - we welcome tourists here.'

She smiled a sugary smile. 'I'm impressed with your security.

I was told in Caracas you had problems down here.'
The officer stared at her blankly. 'Who told you?'
'People in Caracas. People in the travel business.'

He digested this for a moment. 'There is no problem here.
Maybe a year ago, some bandits and guerrillas cross from
Colombia, but not now.'

'That's why you have these measures?' Another approving
smile.

'Yes.'

'Security is important to us if we are to bring clients here, you
understand? I have to report to my directors on these matters. If
we could talk about it some time, it would help.'

Although he shrugged with indifference, Mallory could see in
the lacklustre eyes that the man was flattered. 'Sure, if you wish.
Phone the number on the registration note. Ask for Lieutenant
Ferreira. Now, Mrs Hayes, if you will excuse me.'

A queue was beginning to form behind them as Mallory and
Savage left for the open exit doors.

'You'll get nothing out of him,' he said in a hoarse whisper.
Savage grinned. 'Maybe not, but why make an enemy when


59

you can make a friend.'

'He'll never make a friend. He's with the narcos.'

'You think so?'

'Since when do the police have authority to issue local visas?

Because that's what they've just done.'

'I suppose you're right.'

'And those two thugs standing behind him. Big muscles

bulging in their armpits. They weren't police.'

'You can't be sure.'

He half-smiled. 'I just hope those telephone numbers at

Armitage Prince will check out.'

'They will, Kurt, they will.'

A man in T-shirt and jeans was leaning against the side of the
orange Landcruiser. He looked up as they approached arid
grinned.

'Sefiora Hayes?' He had a pleasant thirty-something face with
a heavy moustache and tinted gold spectacles.

She shook the offered hand. 'You must be Alonso.'

'Alonso Legarda at your service.' His English was educated
East Coast American.

'This is Harry. Harry Pike.'

'Hi, Harry. Great to meet you both and an honour to be doing
business with A and P.' He swung their two grips effortlessly
onto the rear seat. 'Thought I'd drop you at your cabaqa - there's
just time for you to unpack and get settled in before lunch. Then
we can go visit the market - local Indian crafts and stuff, then
maybe take a jungle walk.'

'Sounds good to me,' Savage said.

It was a bare ten-minute drive to the resort camp on the edge
of town. Set in a couple of acres of wired-off private land, it comprised
a low adobi construction with a tin roof forming three
sides of a courtyard square where Alonso Legarda parked in the
shade of a mango tree. Their adjacent cabin rooms were large,
cool and spartan, polished tile flooring and limewash on the
walls. The food served in the diner was similarly basic: overcooked
ham omelette and chips. At least they washed it down
with a glass of decent Chilean white.


60

'We have to cater for all nationalities and all tastes,' Legarda
explained as he wolfed down his own meal with. relish. 'So we
keep the food simple.'

Savage left most of hers untouched. 'That's good. Better than
upset stomachs for our clients.'

Legarda said: 'The jungle walk's just an hour and it's only secondary
- been cut down and now regrowing. But it'll give them
a flavour. Snakes, wild bees, you know. Then tomorrow we'll do
a little fishing, visit the National Park on the Colombian side of
the Orinoco. Most guests come for about three days. We've more
than enough to occupy them.' His meal demolished, he pushed

his plate away. 'Anything special you'd like to see?'

'What about night life?' Savage asked.

Legarda pushed his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose
with his forefinger. A typically evasive gesture, Mallory noted.
'None to speak of, we prefer our clients to stay here. I bring in
some beer and ice. Most people like to play cards and chat.'

'Our clients may like to sample some loeal colour,' Savage
insisted.

'Only a few seedy bars, I'm afraid. Some of the hotel bars are
better.'

'It's not dangerous in town?'

'Not really.' Again the finger on the bridge of his glasses.
'Then let's visit a few tonight. I'd like you to come with us.'
'Sure, I'll tell the wife I'll be late.' Grudging.

'You can introduce us to the owners and the bar staff.' Savage
smiled her appreciation. 'By the way, is there a bar called Las
Noches 2rabes or something similar?'

'Not that I've heard of, but then I don't drink much. Not with
a five o'clock start here every day.' He was angling for a sympathetic
smile and received one. 'Anything else?'

'Is there a telephone I can use? I'd like to call the police
station. '


Lieutenant Ferreira was feeling generous and co-operative after
his long lunch and agreed to a meeting with the representatives
from Armitage Prince at six o'clock that evening.


61

After making her call, Savage and Mallory were driven around
the town by Legarda. They visited the sullen local Indians selling
their wares at the open-air craft market opposite the Museo
Etnol6gico and dutifully admired the town's ornate church
before heading out of town. They took the east-bound road to the
patch of sanitised secondary rain forest Legarda considered safe
and suitable for the sensibilities of European and American
tourists.

On the way, Mallory had his suspicions confirmed. They were
being followed. He'd glimpsed the battered dark blue Toyota
pick-up twice around the town; now it was trailing some hundred
metres behind them.

He leaned forward from the rear seat to speak in Legarda's ear.

'Do tourists always attract so much attention here, amigo?'
'Pardon me?'

'We've picked up a tail - we're being followed. Who is it?
Police? Bandidos?'

Savage turned in her seat beside their driver, a look of apprehension
on her face.

Legarda glanced in his mirror. 'I think you're mistaken, sefior.
Just locals going to work in the forest or maybe to work on the
road to Autan Uran.'

Almost as though the driver of the pick-up had heard their
conversation, he put his foot down. The vehicle gained on them
rapidly, a storm of road dust spiralling in its wake. Now glancing
rapidly and nervously in his mirror, Legarda eased off the accelerator.
Clearly he didn't want to give the mistaken impression he
was trying to outrun them.

The thumping racket of the pick-up's engine began to fill the
interior of the Landcruiser as it crept up behind them, then
pulled out. Slowly it edged alongside so that both vehicles filled
the entire width of the road. The driver was in no hurry to overtake.
His eyes behind the sunglasses remained looking dead
ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window
and flicking ash from the cigarette butt between his fingers.

He suddenly appeared to notice them and turned his head, his
face only feet from Legarda's. White teeth gleamed in a sneer


62

beneath the dark glasses, then he was gone as the pick-up surged
past.

Two men in denims and baseball caps were standing in the
back, leaning against the cab roof and staring hard at the occupants
of the Landcruiser. They made no attempt to conceal the
Colt Commando assault rifles they carried.

Then the dust cloud smothered them and Legarda was obliged
to brake, slowing until the air cleared again.

Mallory's voice was low. 'I think you'd better tell us, Alonso.'

Their driver shrugged, playing it down. 'Local boYs, that's all,

think they're big shots.'

'Las drogas?'

'Si.' Reluctant. 'But they don't give any trouble. They're just
interested because you're new in town. Just want you to know
they're keeping an eye on you. Want to be sure you're doing what
you say you're doing here. Not from the DEA.'

'Are they the reason we're the only guests at your camp?'
Legarda gave a reluctant smile. 'Maybe. Word gets around and
it puts the tourists off, but we have no problem. Honest. Don't
let it worry you - just wait till you spend tomorrow on the
Orinoco.' Then suddenly he sounded angry and frustrated.
'You'll see those bajerrs are an insignificant nuisance compared
with the wild beauty of my Amazonas!'


Lieutenant Jos6 Ferreira lay back expansively in the chair, his
hands behind his head. Across the desk Georgina Savage was
irritated to find her eyes drawn to the dark patches at his armpits.

'This is a wild place,' the policeman was saying. In the privacy
of his office, he seemed more forthcoming than earlier at the airport
in the presence of the two civilians in denims. 'It is an
unguarded border with Colombia and very remote. Attracts
undesirable types.'

Mallory watched carefully but said little, leaving most of the
talking to Savage. After all it had been her idea; he would have
kept well clear of the police station. 'You mean drug traffickers?'

'Yes, but of course. They want to traflac their goods up to the
seaports of the Caribbean - that is common knowledge. But the


63

guerrillas give us more trouble. Even last week they seize a
wealthy local woman and demand a ransom payment. However,
give us a little time and we will bring the rogues to justice.'

Savage gave a tight sympathetic smile. 'Of course. But that
doesn't sound too safe for tourists. They won't want to be kidnapped.'

Ferreira
chuckled as if appreciating a good joke and lit himself

a cigarette.

'We take very great care of tourists, as I'm sure you understand.
Indeed, if the kidnapped lady had only the foresight of taking
out a little insurance...'

'Insurance?' Savage queried.

Mallory said: 'I think the lieutenant means insurance with the
police department. If she'd paid, she'd have had protection
against such accidents.'

The policeman smiled, uncertain as to whether he detected a

note of sarcasm. 'Mr Pike clearly understands the way these
things work. We are very understaffed here with much to attend
to. And we are underresourced by headquarters in Caracas - they
tend to ignore their country cousins so far away. We have only
one police car and that is offthe road for repairs. To go about our
business we have to use the stolen cars from our compound while
they await return to their proper owners.' His face took on an
expression of sad regret. 'So if we receive a little financial encouragement
- say, from your tourist company - we have more
resources to ensure their security.'

'How much?' Savage asked directly.

Ferreira feigned embarrassment. 'Oh, at your discretion, but

we could discuss it over drinks. We are humble, honest policemen
fighting a lonely battle against traffickers and guerrillas. We
are not greedy people.'

'Of course not,' Savage replied in an understanding voice. 'I

shall recommend such insurance in the report to my bosses.
Discreetly, of course.' She glanced at her wristwatch; Legarda
should be waiting outside for them now in the Landcruiser, ready
for a tour of Puerto Ayacucho's seedy fleshpots. 'Thank you so
much for your time, Lieutenant. Just one thing before I go. I


64

understand an old family friend is staying here in town. I was told
he arrived about ten days ago and I'd love to look him up. I suppose
you wouldn't know where I could find him?'

Mallory stared at her, just catching his jaw before it fell open
in disbelief.

'What is the name?' Ferreira asked.

'Victor West - an Englishman.'

The policeman showed only mild interest. 'And what is his
business?'

'I really don't know. Some sort of salesman, I think. That's
what he used to do, travelling in engine parts or something. But
I haven't seen him in years. If you've any way of knowing where
he might be staying--?'

Ferreira's pride would not allow him to admit that he did not
know about everything on his patch. 'That should not be a problem.
There will, I regret, be a small information fee.'

Of course there would, Savage thought. 'Twenty US dollars?'

'Shall we say thirty - as a rush job? WhenI have the information,
I'll send someone round to your camp.'

The money was exchanged and they shook hands. After he had
shown them out of his office, Ferreira returned to his desk and
opened the locked top drawer. He dumped the pile of Roneoed
airport entry-forms in front of him and flicked quickly through
them. Back ten days, fifteen days, twenty, thirty. No mention of
an Englishman called Victor West.

Three numbers were missing from the sequence. Three names
which had aroused the interests of the narco boys. Perhaps Victor
West was one of them? He really should keep a note of the names
he handed over, but then he'd always hated paperwork. It was the
reason he'd been posted to this godforsaken hole in the first
place.

That evening he would ask the narcotraficantes at their scheduled
meeting. If they had been interested in Victor West, then
they would certainly be interested in anyone asking after him.
And that could be worth another hundred dollars.

He had to admit that his bank balance had been totting up
nicely during the past year or so since their arrival.


65

'I can't believe you did that,' Mallory said as they crossed the
police station car park.

Savage was unrepentant. 'Our cover's good, Kurt, so let's use
it. When we got back from that jungle walk, there was a message
waiting at the camp. Someone had phoned the Armitage Prince
number in London. So I knew we'd been checked out.'

'You didn't tell me.'

She drew to a halt. 'Would it have made any difference?'

'You know it wouldn't. Going to corrupt policemen isn't my
style.'

'We haven't got time for your style, Kurt. This place stinks and
I want to be out of here as soon as possible. I know you think I'm
being naive, but who better than the local cops to come up with

the answers in a one-horse town like this?'

'Then why did you ask me to come?'
'Because I was told to.' She immediately regretted her words.
'No, that's not the only reason, you know that. Colonel
Maidment realised you were the best man for the job. So did my
boss, and so did I. It was me who was told to come with you.'

Mallory's eyes narrowed. 'Then let me do things my way
before you drop us both in it. Narcos don't piss about. You're not
playing a game with polite Russian spies here.'

She had the good grace to blush. 'You're angry, I'm sorry. I
guess it was foolhardy.' Then she added defensively: 'But you

haven't suggested anything yet.'
'I'm waiting for tonight.'
'What?'

'When the camp's closed up and those yobbos in the pick-up
have gone home to bed.'

Savage glanced across to the Landcruiser where Legarda
waited patiently at the wheel. Parked beyond him was the now

familiar blue Toyota pick-up.

'I see.'

She felt the first wet spots on her face and looked up. It was
starting to rain.

66


The evening was a disaster.

Alonso Legarda had proved a very inadequate guide to the
town's bars. Although many people knew him, he was clearly
more at home fishing on the Orinoco or wandering the riverside
forests in search of wildlife than knocking back Polar beers with
the local low life.

At least Savage had promised to ask no more embarrassing
questions, leaving that to Mallory when he sensed that their
immediate company and the moment were right.

Their first call was at the Tomo hotel. While they were having
drinks Mallory went to the reception desk to inquire about
West's stay. The reluctant manager consulted his registration
book and confirmed the one-night stopover, but could offer no
more information.

It quickly became obvious that beneath their friendly and carefree
manner the inhabitants of Puerto Ayacucho lived in an
uneasy atmosphere of fear. While some openly admitted there
was a problem with narcos in the area when the subject cropped
up in casual conversation, no one was going to discuss it with two
strangers from England. If Mallory lingered on the topic for more
than a few moments, the man to whom he was talking would
inevitably make his excuses and move away.

The question of the whereabouts of Vic West was no longer
raised.

'That was a complete waste of time,' Savage commented back
at her cabaha.

Mallory shook his head. 'It just proves the hold the narcos have
ver this place. I've seen it before, you can smell it. After a few

drinks people usually let something slip, but not here.'

'And you still intend to go out tonight?'

He nodded. 'It's probably the only chance we've got.'

'And you won't tell me who you're going to see?'

'Need to know.' He tapped the side of his nose. 'Your rules,
George. If your police lieutenant friend decides to arrest you
tonight, you'll have nothing to tell him.'

'Nice one, Kurt.' But she had to smile.

67


Back in his own cabaa, Kurt left the light on while he washed
the gel out of his hair and let it hang free. Then he stripped off
his smart casual clothes and pulled on a pair of torn jeans, scruffy
T-shirt and his favourite worn canvas jacket. Feeling much more
comfortable now, he slipped on some old trainers and picked up
his Mobil Oil baseball cap before switching off the light, lie then
waited ten minutes before he slipped out of the bathroom window
and into the grounds. He swiftly located the camp's guard.
Armed only with a fairly useless .22 sporting rifle, the man was
laughing and drinking beer with the camp's gardener near the
locked gates.

After a ten-minute search Mallory found a tree beside the
seven-foot steel security fence. One stout branch offered a convenient
bridge over the barbed-wire top. He swung over and
dropped down on the outside. Then he made his way through the
wild scrub towards the main dirt road. On the way he passed a
rusting and abandoned oil drum; he made a mental note of its
location before continuing. If the Toyota pick-up was parked
anywhere near the gates he wasn't able to see it. That didn't concern
him; there were plenty of shadows to cover his half-mile
walk into town.

Only a couple of battered cars had passed him by the time he
reached the first of the low brick houses. A few bars were still
open but the steady drizzle was keeping pedestrians off the
streets.

It was some years since he'd last visited Mario Dubois and he
could not recollect his friend's address. The dark streets of the
town were disorientating and he saw no building that he especially
recognised. He was on the verge of giving up, when he saw
the turning. It was much like many others, yet somehow more
familiar. He splashed through the puddles on the sandy track,
trying to recall which of the tiny two-bedroomed villa bungalows
he wanted. They were all very similar, set closely side by side and
finished in white stucco with fancy wrought-iron security grills
over the open windows. Most were fronted by small yards filled
with teracotta plant pots.

Then, in one of the courtyards, he recognised Mario's beloved


68

and battered old Norton motorcycle. He took a step inside.
There was a gate set in the high garden wall on his left; the villa
wall on his right led beneath a vine-covered pergola to the front
door. An automatic porch light snapped on but there appeared to
be no other signs of life from within. Well, it was gone midnight.

He pressed the bell and waited. Nothing. Total silence but for
the patter of rain on foliage and the relentless chirruping of
cicadas. His spirits sank as he rang again.

The noise of the bell must have disguised the creak of the iron
garden gate behind him and the padding bare feet made no
sound.

He was only aware of the man when he felt the cold muzzle of
the revolver against the back of his neck and heard the click of the
hammer. 'One more step, and you are meat for the Orinoco alligators.'

Instinctively
Mallory raised his hands.

'Now turn, real slow.'

Mario Dubois's big frame of muscle turning to fat was hairy
and naked, except for red silk boxer shorts and a shark's-tooth
necklace at his throat.

'Crrno estas ud, hermano?' Mallory said with a grin.

Heavy eyebrows lowered over the brown spaniel eyes. 'You? Is
it you?'

'Who else would look you up this time of night, you old
scoundrel?'

Big white teeth broke through the heavy drooping moustache;
the porch light, catching the gold filling, gave him a piratical look.
He scratched at the wild black hair on his head with his free hand.
'What the hell are you doing here, Kurt?'

Mallory indicated the revolver. 'Do you mind putting that
thing away. You never could shoot straight.'

His friend gave a mountainous laugh. 'That's when I'm sober
- you should see me after a beer or two.' He lowered the gun.
'Come in around the back.'

'Are you expecting trouble?' Mallory asked, following through
the gate before Mario secured it. Across the small unkempt garden
was a raised terrace; it was just large enough to accommo

69

date the wooden table and four chairs.

'No, just my brother-in-law,' Mario replied, switching on the
exterior light. Immediately moths began battering against it.
'When I see you, I think it is one of the narco boys. Take a seat,
mi cornpa,ro.'

'Not still dabbling, are you?'

Mario sniffed heavily. 'Not any more. It's got too dangerous
around here. I just store some stuff for Julio, my brother-in-law.
He's still young and crazy enough to think it's all great fun. And
he needs the bolivars. Besides, I've got responsibilities now.'

As though on cue, the sound of a baby's burbling came from the
dark interior beyond the open French windows. A pretty, plump
woman emerged in a nightdress with the child cradled in her arms.

'What is happening, Mario? I heard the doorbell and heard a
strange voice - it is not Julio.'

'No, it is an old friend of mine. His name is-- '

'Harry,' Mallory cut in quickly. 'Harry Pike.'

Mario blinked for a second, but was fast on the uptake. 'Si, my
friend Harry Pike from England.' He turned to Mallory. 'My wife
Luz. Luz Elastic, I joke behind her back. What a girl! Pretty, eh,
and very, very sexy?'

The woman smiled shyly and offered her hand.

'Encantado,' Mallory said, then turned back to his friend. 'I
never thought you'd get married.'

Mario lowered his voice conspiratorially. "�gell, we're not quite
married. More my novia, you understand. But it is all the same.
You have to stand by a woman who bears you such a fine son. I
think I am making love for fun, but Luz takes it vet), seriously!
Isn't he handsome, just like his father?'

Mallory grinned to see the pride on his friend's face. 'Sure he
is. Give him a sombrero and a moustache and I couldn't tell you
apart.'

'He means he's an ugly little bastard!' Mario laughed and
explained to the woman. 'Be a good girl and fetch the whisky
bottle - er, Harry and I have a reunion to celebrate.'

Obediently Luz returned inside with the baby. 'You like a
basuko?'


70

Mallory relaxed in the chair beneath the canvas awning. 'It's
been a while. Just about a hanging offence back home.'

His friend quickly fetched a tobacco tin from indoors and
extracted a couple of hand-rolled cocaine joints. 'And while it is,
amigo, there will always be narcotraficantes, no?'

Mallory accepted the light and inhaled long and slow. The
smoke had a sickly sweet woody smell to it. Rarely found outside
South America, it was a halfway by-product between coca leaf
and refined cocaine. He felt the warmth spread through his body
and a flush of perspiration to his cheeks. This wasn't the ice
sharp, hyper edginess of the Wall Street snorters, but a mellow
comforter that made him feel at one with the soft scented night.

When Luz had delivered the whisky and two tumblers and
returned to bed, Mario asked: 'You are still with the organisation?'
'On and off. In fact it's why I'm here.'

Mario gave a smug smile of satisfaction. 'How did I guess, you

	old hypocrite.'


	'Hypocrite?'

'You sit there smoking my best basuko - it is not golden
Virginian-- So what brings you here?'

His friend's work for the organisation had only ever been with
Mallory; he did it for a favour and for the money. And because
he liked the danger of it.

'One of our people has been killed up on the coast. We think
he came to this town just before the narcotraficantes killed him.'

Mario lay back in his chair and exhaled a long stream of smoke
which was sucked out beyond the veil of thin rain. 'That I can

believe. Visit Puerto Ayacucho and die.'

'That's Naples.'

'It's this place too, amigo. Don't you notice the difference from
when you are last here? Not so many happy faces. Not so many
honest businessmen. They take their wives and their pretty
daughters away to somewhere safe. The narcos run this place

now.'

'Tell me about it.'

The big man shrugged. 'There are several gangs operating in


71

the region. Some Venezuelan, some Colombian.'

'Big outfits?'

'Sure, some are. Others are just locals like Julio who scratch a
living from the odd half-kilo. But the Vipers are the worst.'

Mallory's reactions weren't yet blunted by the basuko. 'Vipers?'
'That's the name we give them. I don't know why - you'd have
to ask Julio that. But it seems to fit. Vicious bajer6s - a mix of
Venezuelan, but mostly Colombian - they are happy to kill anyone
who stands in their way or who asks too many questions. Five
people die this year - two, I know, for not handing over a percentage
of their own private deals. Town tax, the Vipers call it.
The corpses were dragged out of the Orinoco by fishermen. Half
eaten by piranhas.' He picked up his whisky and downed it in
one. 'So you see why I gave it up. These guys aren't live-and-let
live types like the other gangs. For a while I guide some tourists,
but we don't see many now. So I shift a few emeralds across the
river. Safer than la coca.'

Mallory stubbed out the joint; any more and he wouldn't be
able to think clearly. 'How long have the Vipers been here?'

'I don't know. First noticed them about a year ago. First thing
they did was stitch up the local police. You know how it works.
Take the silver or the lead. They approach one guy who refuses
to co-operate, so they blow away his wife and the old granny.
They had no problem after that; the cops simply take the money
and do what they're told. Used the police to establish their own
security network. Monitor comings and goings at the airport and
mount retenes- you know, roadblocks - so they control everything.
Their thugs drive around town doing what they want. If
they want booze they help themselves, or some woman walking
on the sidewalk-- As soon as I get the bolivars together, I'm out

of here.' He paused. 'So what about this friend of yours?'
'A guy called Vic West.'
'A grmgo?'

'English, not that you'd necessarily know. Quite swarthy and

spoke fluent South American Spanish.'

'West - is that the name he used?'

'I can't be sure of that, but normally he played it straight. He


72

was well known and respected as an arms salesman. Had a reputation
for delivering and no double-crosses. So anyone could deal
with him without fear or favour, so to speak.'

Mario stared at him. 'An arms dealer here in Ayacucho? That's
a lethal combination. Was he talking to the Vipers?'

'No idea, but I've a suspicion he knew about them.'

'And when was he here?'

'Ten days ago, for an overnight stay. Apparently he met someone
at a place called Las Noches Arabes. Is that a bar or a restaurant?'

The
Martinique-born Venezuelan sucked on his teeth. 'Not
that I know, but then I don't hit the town like I used to...' His
words were interrupted by the rumble of a vehicle engine; it

sounded in need of tuning and a new exhaust system.

'Your brother-in-law?' Mallory asked.

Mario nodded. 'Maybe he can answer some of your questions,
amigo.' And he rose to his feet to open the garden gate. Mallory
noticed he took the revolver with him, just in case.

Julio was young and flushed with excitement. Early twenties,
Mallory assessed, with Latin good looks and neatly cut hair with
a quiff that flopped over his forehead. He wore a dazzling shortsleeved
Hawaiian shirt, faded denim trousers, sneakers and a lot
of gold.

As Mario took the brown package wrapped in polythene from
him, the young man was gabbling: 'Those bastards, they've
upped their cut from twenty to twenty-five per cent! And I know
why, the Gringo was in town. He and his friends were there.
They think they run the place. I ask you! It's nothing to do with
them. It's my deal and my money, I set it up and they take a
whole quarter. Fuck their town tax. Just sit there and examine my
property and calmly tell me that the rate has to go up to cover
overheads. They don't have any fuckin' overheads - they don't
pay for anything!'

'Calm down,' Mario warned. 'You'll give yourself a heart
attack.'

The man laughed nervously. 'You'd have a heart attack if
you'd seen what they did to some copper who upset them


73

tonight. The Gringo did it himself. Chopped off the little finger
of his left hand with a machete. Just like that. On the table in
front of everyone--' His voice trailed as he suddenly saw Mallory
seated in the shadows. 'Dios mlo!'

Mario guessed what his brother-in-law was thinking. 'It's okay,
Julio, he's not one of them. This is a good friend of mine. Meet
Harry Pike.'

Julio looked uncertain and slightly embarrassed. He wiped the
sweat from his right hand on his jeans before stepping tentatively
forward to shake Mallory's hand. 'Mucho gusto, seor.'

'Pleased to meet you, Julio. And don't worry about me, I'm not
interested in your secrets. Mario and I go back a long way.'

The young man frowned. 'Sefior Pike? That is a gringo name.
From America? But you speak like an Argentinian.'

Mario chuckled. 'He's an Englander, but was brought up in
Paraguay. Now I'll put this stuff away somewhere safe while you
help yourself to a drink. You look like you need one.'

While Julio helped himself to a treble whisky and to the basuko tin, Mario took the cocaine package a few metres into the garden
before lifting one of the flagstbnes in the path. He dropped the
package into a plastic cake box hidden underneath.

He returned from his task and explained to his brother-in-law
the purpose of Mallory's visit, but without mentioning any
names.

'Well I can tell you one thing,' Julio said in hesitant English,
'you will not find Las Noches Arabes here, because it is in
Colombia. In Casuarito, just across the river.'

Mario grinned at learning the answer to the puzzle. 'Ah!'

'It's a whorehouse. Used to be a seedy place with no fancy
name. Then six months ago someone new takes over and they
bring these tarts from Bogota. Real nice chicitas, but expensive.
Wow! Now only the Vipers really use the place.'

'What do you know about this Viper gang?' Mallory asked.
Julio glanced nervously at his brother-in-law who indicated it
was safe for him to talk. 'What does anyone know? Just that they
shift White Viper - very pure shit. You know several outfits use
some sort of brand. Like on cattle ranches. Well these guys use a


74

snake symbol - like a double S with head and forked tongue. One
local gang here thought they'd get smart. Copiedthe logo onto
their own packaging, thought they'd get a better price. A big mistake.
They got chopped with machetes - like real slow - then the
Vipers blew away the entire family and burnt down five houses.
Wiped out uncles, aunts, nephews. And the police did fuck all.'

Mallory grimaced, but then he'd heard it all before. 'This
sounds like a Colombian gang.'

Julio sucked greedily on his basuko, still trying to slow his
adrenalin. 'Si, most of the guys are Colombian, but...' he hesitated,
unsure how much to say. But the basuko was taking effect,
lowering his guard, 'there is this Englishman. Well, two or three,
but one in particular. I don't know his name. In front of us, the narcos just call him El Gringo - what else?' The nervous laugh
became more like a giggle. 'Comes in every now and again. You
know, to inspect things and whip some ass. They are there
tonight. Say, maybe your friend comes here to sell guns to the
Vipers? And then the DEA cowboys blew him away? What was
his name?'

Mallory considered Julio's flight of fantasy. Absently he said:
'Vic West. Victor West.'

The brother-in-law's eyes widened. 'Diablos!'

'What is it?' Mario demanded.

Julio shook his head in disbelief. 'That's why they took off the
cop's finger tonight. The Vipers say this man West was a spy, that
he was snooping around here some days back. Now apparently
there are two smart gringos in town, from England, asking about the same man! Sefior West. They say they are in the travel business,
but the Vipers think maybe they are DLOs.'

'What's that?' Mario asked.

'British Customs. Drugs l-liais-on officers,' Julio replied, stumbling
over the unfamiliar word. 'These gringos go to the police
station and ask questions. But the cop was lax and didn't tell the
Vipers straight away. That's why they taught him a lesson.'

Mallory felt his blood turn to liquid ice in his veins. 'Do you
know what happened to Sefior West?'

A shrug. 'There is a rumour they follow him some place and


75

kill him. Someone says it was El Gn'ngo himself.' Another shrug.
'But I don't know.'

'Did they say what they were going to do about these new
arrivals, these travel people?'

Julio laughed his girlish giggle again and drew his finger across
his throat. 'They will raid the cabaa at first light. The gringos
will sing like canaries.'

'Then we'd better get out quick,' Mallory decided aloud, pushing
back his chair to stand up.

The brother-in-law's mouth fell open. 'You? D/os rnfi! I had no
idea.'

'I think the basuko addles your brain,' Mario chided. Then he
turned to Mallory. 'Sit down a moment. You have to think about
this. Like a good guard dog, the Vipers let you into their house,
but it is not so easy to escape. You will not get through the airport
and there are checks on all the roads.' He thought for a

moment. 'Are you armed?'
Mallory shook his head.
'Then forget it, mi amigo.'

A thought occurred. 'Perhaps we could cross the river to
Casuarito. Get out through Colombia.'

'I don't think so,' Julio replied. 'The first ferry doesn't cross
until six and security is tight. You'll need papers and the Vipers
will be watching.'

'And Casuarito don't go no place,' Mario added. 'A dead end.

Not even an unpaved road to connect with the rest of Colombia.'
'What about the Orinoco?' Mallory asked. 'North or south.'
Mario nodded thoughtfully. 'Julio has a voladora - a speedboat
down by the ferry. But we'll have to tow it on the road first. You
probably don't realise, amigo, but the Orinoco is blocked by
rapids immediately upriver and downstream to the north there
are even more.' He scratched at his moustache. 'So we could risk
towing the boat a few kilometres down the road, beyond the first
rapids to the south, then go by river as far as Samariapo - that's
maybe forty-five kilometres from here. It's as far as we can go.
Then you'll have to hire a boat the other side of the rapids there
- if you can. There is an airstrip down at San Femando de


76

Atabapo. If you've cash dollars, perhaps you can bribe a pilot to
fly you out of the area.'

'I think the Vipers sometimes use that airstrip,' Julio warned.
'Do I have any choice?' Mallory asked.

'You are out on a limb here,' Mario confirmed, 'and it is quite
easy for the Vipers to cut off the branch.'

Mallory said: 'First I have to go back to the cabaaa and get
George out before that dawn raid.'

'Ah,' Mario exclaimed. 'He is the other gringo?'

'She. Georgina.'

Mario raised his eyes to heaven and crossed himself. A female
being interrogated by the Vipers didn't bear thinking about. He
turned to Julio. 'Drive down to the ferry, hitch up your boat and
bring it back here. Meantime, I'll go with - er, Harry - and pick
up this woman on the Norton. It'll be a squeeze, but - let me get
some clothes on.'

A few minutes later he returned in a short-sleeved check shirt
and the inevitable worn jeans. Mallory and Julio waited impatiently.

'Let's
go,' Mario said and led the way out to the Norton. He
swung astride the old machine and kicked it into life as Mallory
climbed onto the pillion. 'See you back here in about forty minutes,
Julio.'

Exhaust crackled, shattering the stillness of the night.

Julio stared after them. What was he thinking of, allowing
Mario to talk him into this? It was madness, running up against
the Vipers. Risking his life and his small, hard-earned fortune.
And all for the sake of this gringo stranger. His brother-in-law
must be out of his mind. Hadn't he just told them what happened
to the cop? And that was just because he'd been sloppy.

He stared down at his hands; they were sweaty and trembling.
His decision was made then and there. He returned quickly
through the garden gate and into the bungalow villa. The telephone
was on a Brazilian mahogany sideboard. Picking up the
receiver, he dialled the number he knew by heart.

There was a pounding of trepidation in his chest as it was
answered by the man he knew only as Carlos. 'It is Julio Melo


77

here. There is something you should know. I am at my sister's
house and one of the gringos you are looking for has just left with
my brother-in-law. They are going to collect the woman gringo
from the camp now - Yes, yes - and they are coming back here.
Then they are planning to leave by boat.'

At the other end of the line, Carlos rubbed his eyes and tried
to shake his head clear of the booze. 'You've done well, Julio,' he
said, his voice coarse from too much tobacco. 'This will be
remembered. You stay where you are and I'll send someone
round. Give me your address.'

A few seconds later he hung up and scratched at the string vest
where it chafed beneath his scrawny armpit. He wondered
whether to rouse El Gringo, the man he knew only as Sefior Guy.
But the Englishman would throw a fit if he saw this lot. Around
the room, where an hour ago the party had been in full swing, his
fellow narcos resembled corpses. The aguardiente hooch and
basuko had taken its toll, so that it looked like a machine-gun
massacre, the bodies lying where they had fallen, some on the
chairs and settee, curled on the laps of sleeping, drunken whores,
or crashed out on the floor.

Carlos kicked the snoring, open-mouthed man by his foot.
'Jos6! Get the fuck on your feet!' Suddenly anger overtook him.
Look at them, these drunken bastards. The dreaded Vipers of
Puerto Ayacucho! What a shambles! 'GET UP - ALL OF YOUF
he bellowed.

Slowly they stirred like the living dead. 'Jos6, go and wake
Sefior Guy. Be polite if you know what's good for you. You
others, form into four groups. One go to the airport, another
reinforce the roadblocks and the third get down to the camp and
get those gringos before they do a runner! If you have trouble
from the camp security guard, just shoot him. The rest of you
come with me.'

'Where to?' someone asked.

'The home of Mario Dubois.'

4

The Norton screamed through the
deserted township and out along the
road to the Orinoco Odyssey cabaaa. Before they reached it Mallory prodded Mario's shoulder, indicating
for him to pull over.

Thankfully the burbling of the shot-through exhaust died away
and the tropical night noises swelled up to fill the vacuum.

'Leave it tucked away here,' Mallory said. 'Some of those yob
bos could still be watching the gates. There's another way in.'

Mario wheeled his machine behind a thicket, kicked down the
stand, and followed his friend.

'I was thinking,' Mallory said. 'How long will that river journey
take? I can't believe these Viper people don't have their own
speedboats.'

'Forget it, Kurt. We're not going by river.'

'What?'

'For the very reason you said. They've got boats and helicopters
- and they'll have that airstrip at San Fernando covered,
no problem.'

'But you told Julio...'

'Never let your right hand know what the left is doing,' Mario
said with a chuckle. 'That's what you always used to tell me.
Well, Julio was very jumpy tonight and I thought - hell, just to be
safe.'

'Then where are we going?'

'Across the river to Casuarito. I have my own canoe.'

'But it's a dead end. You said so yourself.'

He tapped the side of his nose. 'A dead end for vehicles. But
the emerald smuggler's mule doesn't need roads. About seventy79


five kilometres overland. Two or three days of jungle tracks. You

can manage that? You used to boast what a horseman you were.'
Mallory grinned. 'Horses, Mario, not bloody donkeys!'

When they reached the rusted oil drum he had noted earlier,
he dragged it across to the overhanging tree. Climbing onto the
top of the drum, he jumped up to grab the branch. He worked
his way along, hand over hand, then swung his feet up and over
the fence, finally turning round to crouch in the fork of the tree.

Mario's pale face stared up at him from the shadows. 'Mi
amigo, I am not a fucking monkey. I'll wait here.'

Mallory dropped down into the compound and made his way
swiftly through the grounds to the cabin block. The camp was
silent; no sign of life. He reached Savage's door and knocked
briskly.

A sound of movement came from within, a cough and the
rustle of a mosquito net. Then a voice, hoarse with sleep. 'Harry,
is that you?'

'Yes, open up.'

She released the lock and stepped aside to admit him. 'How
did it go?'

'The good part is that I've got confirmation of who killed Vic.
It was the White Viper connection they're the gang who run this
town. And that's what the locals call them, the Vipers. The bad
news is that Lieutenant Ferreira and the rest of the cops here are
on the payroll. They've now heard that we've been asking after
Vic and are planning to ask us a few questions of their own.'

She stood there in her baggy T-shirt that was within an inch of
decency and lit a cigarette. Her hand, he noticed, had developed
a slight tremor. It was the only sign that she might be more nervous
than she was letting on. 'I'm impressed. How the hell did
you find all this out?'

'An old friend who's going to help us get out of here. No luggage,
I'm afraid. So just throw some clothes on and grab your
toothbrush, and let's go.'

Savage stared at him. 'Are you kidding?'

'Those narcos are killers, George, and they're planning to come
here at first light. It won't be your nice police lieutenant asking


8O

the questions - they've already taken off one of his fingers
because he didn't tell them about us quickly enough.'

The blood drained from her face. 'Christ.' She stubbed out the
cigarette. 'What happens next?'

'We cross the river to Colombia.' He didn't go into details. 'As
soon as you're ready, get out through the bathroom window. I'll
be waiting.'

With that he left and returned to his own cabin next door. He
tipped out his travel grip on the bed, found his passport and
documents and an old sweater, then snapped it shut.

It was then that he heard the noise, so loud and abrupt that he
turned instinctively towards the window. The speed at which the
pick-up had driven at the compound gates had taken them clean
off their hinges. Now the beams of the headlights were filling the
camp yard. Someone was shouting excitedly. He thought he
recognised it as the voice of the security guard. The cry of protest
was followed by the angry stammer of an automatic weapon.
Then a stunning silence. It lasted only seconds before the engine
of the pick-up rewed and the vehicle began advancing again.

Mallory didn't bother looking. It was all too obvious that the
narcos had brought forward their plan of action. He made straight
for the bathroom, clambered onto the windowsill and dropped
down. Scarcely had he hit the ground than Savage landed by his
side, now dressed in jeans and shirt, carrying a jacket.

Beyond the cabin block the sound of running feet could be
heard. Commands were being yelled in Spanish, curses and
expletives. Even in the darkness Mallory could see the wide glistening
whites of the girl's eyes, could smell the fear on her.

'This way,' he whispered and, taking her hand, led her into the
darkness.

I-te moved with the agility and stealth of a leopard as she stumbled
blindly behind him. It occurred to her that this was a perfect
example of why he was a front-line operator and she was a backroom
controller. He was in his element, avoiding danger by a
whisker, riding on the adrenalin wave, creeping away like a
shadow. Playing small boys' games in a cruel man's world.
Confident that their pursuers would lose vital minutes in confu

81

sion, wasting their aggression on each other, as they failed to find
their quarry. No different now than when he had played nighttime
hide-and-seek with the other kids in the Paraguayan orphanage.

By
the time they reached the tree she was breathing heavily, the
humid air suffocating and the tension and exertion causing her to
sweat until the material of her shirt was like a second skin.
Mallory gave her a leg-up so she could sit astride the branch and
edge herself along and over the fence before dropping down into
Mario's waiting arms.

He laughed, enjoying himself. 'I have never known such treasure
to drop out of the night sky!'

She scowled at him and mumbled her thanks, not sure she
should have done after his lingering embrace.

'Put her down,' Mallory chided as he joined them. 'You don't
know where she's been.'

Then he was on the move again, working his way back through
the maze of shrubbery to where the motorcycle was hidden. Still
the road was deserted, the noise of the rewing pick-up just a distant
burble. Savage climbed astride the pillion behind Mario,
with Mallory pressed up hard against her back. It was strange,
she thought as the Norton bumped its way onto the road, being
so close to him again. Undignified, squashed and unable to see
over Mario's broad shoulders, she was aware of Mallory's body
heat burning between her buttocks. Aware, too, that the closeness
of him and the excitement of their escape was as exhilarating
as it was frightening.

It was no more than a fifteen-minute ride to the deserted port
area where a low-walled promenade gave onto a beach of sandy
shale and patches of reed grass. When the noise of the Norton's
engine died, they were enveloped by the stillness. Apart from the
distant honking of baby alligators, the indolent slap of the water
along the bank was the only sound.

Mario covered his motorcycle with an old tarpaulin, then led
the way down across the beach. Even in the darkness they could
distinguish the inky outline of the regular ferryboat, its blunt
bows nudging the shore. Beyond, across the river, a few lights still


82

burned in the houses of Casuarito.

'That's strange,' Mario muttered. 'Julio's speedboat is still
here. He should have collected it by now.'

He continued down to the water's edge where his old Indian
dugout had been pulled clear.

Savage was disconcerted. It was long and very narrow, scarcely
more than twelve inches across, with thin lengths of straight,
stripped timber nailed to the hull to form the gunwales and seats.
By the time they were all aboard she guessed they'd be barely a
couple of inches clear of the surface.

She had no inclination to show her fear, but Mario must have
read it in her eyes. 'Piranhas have a special liking for ladies' backsides,
sefiora,' he chuckled. 'But not gringo ladies - they don't
taste so good.'

Mallory helped launch the tiny craft and held it steady while
she balanced precariously on her minuscule seat, the hull rocking
as it was swung into the flow. Shutting her eyes, she prayed it
wouldn't tip as the two men slid aboard and drew up their legs
into the shallow hull. When she opened them again, they were
paddling in long, slow strokes, propelling the canoe with the
ease and speed of a racing eight.

She could have sworn she held her breath for the entire tenminute
crossing and had never been more pleased to set foot
again on dry ground. 'What happens now?' she asked.

Mallory had begun following Mario up the steep rocky
embankment to the first houses of the settlement. 'Two or three
days by mule to the nearest road2

'I hope that's just your idea of a joke.'

He smiled. 'Life really can be a bitch, can't it?'

Strains of a lazy salsa rhythrn eddied on a velvet breeze through
the dirt main street from one of the few bars still open. Casuarito
was noticeably different from Puerto Ayacucho; this village had
an unmistakable frontier feel to it, the buildings more makeshift
with wooden sidewalks and roofs of corrugated tin. In the dimly
lit interior of one they saw a group of Colombians playing canasta
and drinking, two of them wearing straw stetsons. A mongrel dog
skulked across their path and disappeared into an alleyway.


83

Mario stopped and pointed up ahead. An enormous woman
with bright peroxide-blonde hair and wearing a voluminous shift
of chiffon material was talking to a man on the sidewalk as she
began bolting the doors of her establishment. 'That, amigo, is
Las Noches Arabes.'

Mallory turned to Savage. 'Give me ten minutes to see what I
can find out.'

She looked uncertain. 'Do you think that's wise?'

He shrugged. 'Probably not. But nothing ventured and all that.
You go with Mario. iF i don't join you in half an hour, go on without
me.'

His friend said: 'I will wake up the man who owns the mules.
He is an old friend and knows how to keep his mouth shut. We'll
wait for you on the edge of town, just beyond the last house.'

'I really don't think you should, Kurt,' Savage said. But she
could already see that Mallory's mind was made up.

He said: 'Vic was my friend, remember. You're not the only
one who wants to know what happened. Now, go on ahead
before the woman closes up and we lose our chance.'

While Savage reluctantly walked on with Mario, Mallory hung
back in the shadows for a couple of minutes before sauntering
across the road and onto the sidewalk.

He approached as the man said his farewell and walked off into
the night.

'Are you closing up?' Mallory asked.

Her bulging thyroid eyes were set like gobstoppers in the
plump round face; they were accentuated by bright blue eye
shadow and thickly drawn liner. She squinted to get a better view
of him as he stepped into the light from the window. After regarding
him for a moment, she removed the cheroot from her small
cupid's bow of a mouth. 'We only close when the last customer
goes home, sefior. You want a girl?'

Her tone was neutral, not quite wary and not quite welcoming,
Mallory thought, noting how her scarlet lipstick had bled into the
tiny pucker lines around her mouth. 'I want a drink.' He grinned.
'And maybe a girl.'

She understood; he didn't want to commit himself until he'd

84

seen the goods. 'Come in,' she invited, tossing away the butt of
her pucho.

'Business quiet?' he asked conversationally as he followed her
inside.

It was dimly lit with pools of light cast from red-shaded wall
lamps. All he could see in the gloom were a few plum-velour
chairs and a lot of gilt-painted woodwork. Someone's idea of a
romantic environment in fact just looked cheap and tacky. The
place smelled of basuko, hash and cheap scent. 'We've seen better
nights,' the woman admitted as she moved behind the small

bar. More plum velour and gilt. 'What d'you want?'

'A cold beer.'

The false lashes flickered. 'Last of the big spenders, eh?' He
sensed she was amused; maybe she liked the look of him. Taking
a can of Polar from the refrigerator, she placed it on the bar.
'Some of my girls are still here. We like money up front and no
violence. If you've any hardwear, leave it behind the bar and collect
it on your way out.' With
his eyes adjusting to the gloom he could now see the three putas seated in an alcove. Not bad, he thought, youngish and
pretty and bored, one filing her nails, another flicking through a
dog-eared fashion magazine, the third day-dreaming while she
smoked and sipped at a strangely coloured cocktail. Each wore
the usual hooker's uniform in these parts: uplift brassiere beneath
a blouse knotted below the bust and neon Spandex pants in garish
colours which squeezed up a thin roll of fat around the bare
midriff.

He replied absently in answer to the woman's question: 'I
don't carry.'

She chuckled mirthlessly. 'Then you haven't been here long.
Everyone carries. Are you looking for work?'

'No, and I'm not looking for trouble. I'm just looking for a
friend who's gone missing.'

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. 'That could be trouble around
here. Does your friend have a name?'

'Vic West. A gringo. He had a meeting in this joint ten days
ago.'


85

She hid it well, but Mallory detected the interest in her eyes as
she said: 'I'm 'afraid the name means nothing to me.' She hesitated,
curiosity getting the better of her. 'But are you really a friend of this gringo?' She was clearly sceptical.

'We work for the same company. It's my job to find out what's
become of him. If there's been an accident, the insurance company
will need the details - and the widow and his kids will need
the payout.'

'Forgive me, but you do not look like a businessman.' The
words died on her lips. 'But then maybe you know your job.'

He nodded slowly as though to confirm her thoughts. 'Is there
somewhere we could talk in private, Dofia--?'

'Dofia Lacera,' she replied, now watching him very closely as
though trying to decide how much she could trust this stranger.
'Fanny Lacera to our customers.'

Mallory grinned at that. 'A name with a fine tradition in your
business.'

She laughed aloud, a light and not unpleasant sound for a
woman of her size. 'Follow me,' she said, shifting her buttocks
from the stool behind the bar and brushing aside a curtain of
wooden beads. It was dark and cool in the office, the air churned
by an electric desk fan. As he entered after her, she asked casually:
'And what company do you work for?'

'Portcullis. My name's Harry Pike.'

For a long moment she studied his face in silence before she
reached for a pack of cheroots on the desktop and plucked out
one of its contents with chipped lilac nails. 'You obviously know
your way around, Sefior Pike, but I would advise you not to ask
questions here about this friend of yours. If he is missing, it is

because someone didn't like him or what he was doing.'

'So you do remember him?'

She shook her head. 'All you men look the same to me and my
girls.' With a puckered little smile she added: 'But they might
remember a prick more than a guy's face.'

Mallory took a roll of dollar bills from the pocket of his canvas
jacket and tossed it on the desk. A hundred, perhaps a hundred
and fifty. 'Will that help your memory?'


86

Fanny Lacera looked at it. 'Is that all my life is worth?' She lit
her cheroot.

Mallory had seen the ornamental bolas hanging on the wall.
Without saying anything, he reached for the weighted thongs that
were thrown at the legs of cattle by gaucho cowboys to bring the
animals down. He flexed and stretched the fibre strip between his
fists just inches in front of her face.

He saw the fear in her eyes then, as she realised what he was
about to do. She swallowed hard, her fleshy white chins quivering,
her gaze fixing his as her hand slowly reached towards the
small tit of the panic-button just below the desktop.

The speed of his movement was like that of a mountain cat,
swinging between her huge body and the desk, brushing away her
fingers and sweeping around behind her, drawing the bolas thong
tight around her throat.

A gurgle escaped her mouth as the fibre disappeared into the
folds of soft flesh and her hands instinctively came up to release
the pressure. A thin string of dribble escapedher lips. The cheroot
dropped from her fingers.

Mallory hissed in her ear. 'Silver or lead, lady, which is it to be?
You know the rules.'

She forced her hands away from her throat, opening her palms
in a gesture of surrender, and Mallory relaxed his grip. Taking
her by the shoulders, he turned her round and sat her firmly in
the chair.

'Pdght, now talk,' he demanded.

Fanny I.acera glared at him and rubbed the red weal around
h.-r neck. 'Your friend was in here I suppose about ten day, ago.
He had a meeting with a girl and hired one of my roons for a
couple of hours.'

'Which puta was it?'

'Not one of my girls, Sefior Pike. She was not a whore, but she
dressed like one. It was all a cover. You know, in case anyone was
watching.'

'Who was she?'

Her fingers were still massaging her neck. 'You really are from
Portcullis?'


87

'I promise you.'

She now appeared resigned to her fate. 'The woman calls herself
Palechor. Maria Palechor.'
'Colombian?'
'From CalL'

'Do you know how I can get in touch with her?'

Fanny Lacera considered for a moment, then reached for the
drawer of her desk, careful to keep her hands well clear of the
panic-button. She produced a small wad of business cards held
with an elastic band and flicked through them. 'It might be genuine.'

Mallory took the card. 'A lawyer?'

'That's what it says.' She looked up at him and he saw that
there were tears in her eyes. 'I just hope you really are from

Portcullis. If not I will be killed for giving you this.'

'By the Viper gang?'

She looked at him strangely. 'No, they'd kill me anyway if they
knew I was talking to a friend of Sefior West. I mean by Maria
Palechor's friends in Cali if you are not what you say you are.'

He gave a half-smile of reassurance. 'Well, I am. And I'm sorry
about the rough stuff.'

Fanny Lacera looked as though she appreciated the apology.
'You have lodgings here in Casuarito?'

He pocketed the card. 'For tonight. In the morning I'll get the
ferry and catch the first plane out of your life.'

And he could tell by the look in her eyes that his departure
couldn't come a moment too soon.


The early morning sun finally cleared the garden wall of Mario
Dubois's bungalow villa and lit the tiny patio where his brother
in-law Julio Mela sat nervously smoking yet another basuko cigarette.

He glanced sideways at the man he knew only as Carlos. The
local leader of the Vipers was a thin man with hunched shoulders
who habitually wore a string vest beneath his open-fronted shirt.
His gaunt face with its straggly moustache was a picture of grim
concentration as he leaned against the wooden upright of the


88

awning, cleaning his fingernails with the point of a switchblade
knife. Two other gang members sat sprawled on patio chairs,
bored.

They both turned their heads at the sound of the pick-up as it
drove into the street at speed and pulled up outside.

Carlos snapped closed his switchblade and pocketed it, looking
up as Jos6 and the others entered. Among them was El Gn'ngo, the tall Englishman whom the Vipers addressed as Sefior Guy.
None of them looked pleased.

'There's no sign of them,' Jos6 reported solemnly. 'We've
checked the airport and all the roadblocks. They've vanished into thin air.'

'Hiding up,' Carlos decided, then directed his expressionless
gaze at Julio Mela. 'You are playing a dangerous game.'

Julio stubbed out his basuko with trembling fingers, burning
them in the process. 'Honest to God, I don't know what's happened.
Mario told me to meet him here - why should I lie to
you?' --

The lids of the leader's eyes hooded as though he were tired,
even half-asleep. Julio knew that expression all too well and was
anticipating the words when they came. 'You would lie to me
because he is your brother-in-law. You contact me to throw us off
the scent - to send us looking in the wrong direction.'

'No, no!' Julio protested. 'Honest! I would never do such a
thing.'

Carlos appeared not to hear the protest. 'So you have a simple
choice. Tell me where Mario Dubois and the gringos are, either
the hard way or the easy way.'

The young man was visibly shaking now, his eyes wide with
dread of what was to come. 'Believe me, please! I would never lie
to you! I do not know where Mario is, I swear by the Sacred
Virgin!'

The leader glanced across at El Cmngo for confirmation. Julio
could not see the expression of the man's angular features
because of the shadow cast by the wide brim of his stetson hat.
He found that unnerving; even more so when the Englishman
gave a slow nod of agreement. Carlos turned to Jos6.


89

'Get Dubois's woman and child out here,' he ordered in a low
voice.

Julio heard the words and sprang to his feet as Jos disappeared
inside. 'No, no! Look, I have coke! The parcel that I paid your
tax on last night. You can have it, all of it! LOOK! Look, see!'
Then he was on his hands and knees, crawling along the garden
path to seek the flagstone under which he kept his treasure.
Splitting his nails in his eagerness to lift the heavy weight, he then
held the package of cocaine aloft. 'See, see, it is all yours. Take
it!'

At that moment Jos reappeared at the French windows. Luz
was by his side, her hair tousled and her sleep-filled eyes squinting
against the morning light as she held the baby in her arms.

'Julio! Please tell me what is happening? Where is Mario?'
'Exactly what we want to know,' Carlos said.

Julio was still on his knees, offering up his precious package.
Now tears were trickling down his face. 'I DON'T KNOW!' he
screamed.

El Gringo caught Carlos's eye and inclined his head just a fraction.
Then the Englishman turned away, real slow, and walked a
couple of paces. Julio watched him, wondering where he was
going. Noticed the figure nine tattooed three times on the knuckles
of his right hand. Was surprised when the man suddenly
stopped and turned back. Was shocked when he saw the pocketsized
black Ingram that had apparently materialised from
nowhere.

The violent noise made him jump and the package of cocaine
fell from his hands as the sound shattered the tranquillity of the
garden. His mouth dropped open as he saw the half-magazine
emptying into his sister's chest and belly, the force of fire tearing
the baby from her arms. Blood and gobs of flesh filled the air
instantly in a fine mist like sea spume.

'NNOOOO!' The cry was wrenched from his throat, highpitched
and involuntary. It merged with the stammer of gunfire to
reverberate around the garden walls, echoing back and forth in
mockery of his pleading. At last the hideous noise ebbed away to a
stunning and absolute silence. Even the birds had stopped singing.


90

Julio was transfixed, cemented to the flagstone path in terror
and disbelief. He was paralysed, numbed, tears welling in his eyes
and dripping down his cheeks onto his little cocaine package.

Carlos's voice was hardly raised above a whisper. His words
sounded almost sympathetic. 'Now, will you tell me?'

'I don't know.' His mouth said slowly, but nothing was audible.

Jos
smiled, seeing the joke. 'I think he means it.'

'Shit,' Carlos said, then turned to El Gringo. 'What shall I do
with him?'

'Whatever you like,' the Englishman replied. 'We've wasted
enough time here. C'mon the rest of you, we've got to find those
people.'

The gang members followed him out into the street, leaving
Carlos behind.

Moments later they heard a single shot.

In some eighteen hours' time the piranhas of the Orinoco
would be enjoying yet another midnight feast7


Maria Palechor hardly seemed to be driving at all. She relaxed in
the plush leather seat with one hand languidly on the wheel and
the other on the arm rest, allowing the automatic Mercedes
coup6 to do all the work.

Sitting beside the lawyer, hidden behind the dark-tinted windows,
Mallory was trying to regulate his breathing, to quell his
rising anxiety and thudding heartbeat. The unfamiliar restraint of
a tie didn't help. Silk or not, it felt suffocating. He was thankful
for the ice-cool air conditioning; it dried the perspiration beneath
his expensive jacket as they drove through the streets of Cali to
their appointment with the capo.

'I wasn't sure about you at first,' Maria Palechor confessed. 'I
had our associate law firm in London check you out with Colonel
Maidment at Portcullis. It seems he's known you for a long time,
Sefior Pike.'

She had striking good looks, he thought. Dark eyes and high
cheekbones, her long wavy hair dyed to a deep chestnut brown.
And he found her tanned legs distracting, the tight skirt of her


91

charcoal business suit rising high across her thighs as her foot
tickled the accelerator in an absent sort of way.

He said: 'I've known Sefior West even longer.'

Her smile was easy, her teeth very white and her English perfect.
'So I understand. It is only because Sefior West is such a
good and trusted friend of Sefior Jaramillo that he agrees to meet
with you.'

'I'm most grateful,' Mallory murmured. There was no point in
saying more. He had already asked Maria why she had met West
at Las Noches/rabes bordello in Casuarito and what they had
discussed. With practised charm she had replied that it would be
Sefior ]aramillo and only he who could decide how much should
be told.

Mallory lay back against the headrest and tried his best to
relax.

Ruiz Edilberto Maya Jaramillo was known amongst his intimates
as Ruiz Jaramillo, unusually adopting his mother's family
name rather than his father's. According to Savage's intelligence
sources, Ruiz had hated his father Jorge Maya, who had been
one of Colombia's earliest drugs barons. Bar gossip said old man
Maya had been a drunkard and a wife-beater before he had been
mysteriously shot to death by unknown gunmen.

It didn't take a tremendous leap of the imagination to assume
that the killers were acting on the orders of the man's son, Ruiz
]aramillo. Nicknamed El Matador, after his reputation as a man
of courage, ruthlessness and honour among his fellow narcorraficantes.
Neither the DEA nor other intelligence agencies were quite
sure where or how he fitted into the so-called Cali drugs cartel only
that, somehow, he did. Jaramillo was distantly related by
marriage to the Orjuela Caballero family who were cousins of the
Rodriguez Orejuela family, recognised as the major players in the
Cali organisation, along with the Santacruz family.

Jaramillo was distant enough to be able to claim no connection
with the drugs business, yet for all anyone knew, he could in fact
have been near the very top. And that was what the DEA, SIS
and the Investigations Division of HM Customs and Excise in


92

London all suspected.

Mallory had learned all this since the horrendous three-day
mule trek from Casuarito two weeks earlier. He and Georgina
Savage had been led expertly by Mario along the steaming jungle
trails of the man's emerald-smuggling route until they were able
to hitch a lift by truck on the rough Puerto Carrefio road. It was
then to take another two days' travelling before they finally
reached the capital Bogota and made contact with the British
Embassy there.

They now knew that Vic West had arranged a meeting in
Casuarito with a lawyer called Maria Palechor. It took just two
phone calls to establish that the high-powered company she
worked for was often hired by suspected members of the Cali
organisation.

Georglna Savage had then persuaded Mallory to go along with
her plan to make direct contact with Palechor, claiming to work
for Portcullis. There was nothing to be lost, Savage believed; he
would either meet a brick wall or have the chance to renew whatever
deal Vic West might have been developing.

In London, Colonel Maidment had readily agreed to the
deception and falsified the existence on paper of Mr Harry Pike
in readiness for the inevitable investigation by the Call organisation.
All was in place when Mallory telephoned Sefiora Palechor.
Her reaction was guarded, but not unfriendly. An appointment
was quickly made for a meeting at her office. She listened as he
told her of his search for a colleague who had gone missing after
having met her in Casuarito, a fact that, incidentally, she neither
confirmed nor denied. Finally she asked him to book into Cali's
luxurious Intercontinental hotel on Avenida Colombia by the
riverside and wait to be contacted.

That had been five days earlier. Her call had come unexpectedly
that morning, just as he'd finished breakfast. She arranged
to pick him up by car at noon.

Now, as the car glided through the leafy city garden suburb,
with its magnificent villas hiding behind high walls, Mallory
realised that two motorcyclists had fallen into line behind them.

Maria Palechor noticed his uneasiness. 'It's quite all right,


93

Segior Pike, they are working for my client. They have been keeping
watch since I left my office to ensure we are not followed.
Please rest assured.'

Only then Mallory realised that he had become as tense as a
coiled spring. Colombia was one of the most dangerous and
unpredictable countries in the world, and to get yourself mixed
up with the narcotraficantes was to put your head in a lion's
mouth. The actions of rival narcos, police, army, the DEA or any
number of covert organisations could so easily put you in the
wrong place at the wrong time. And most were renowned for
shooting first and asking questions later.

So it was with considerable relief that he realised they were
turning offto a large hillside villa which looked down on the city's
surrounding sugar-cane fields. As they neared the perimeter wall
of strawberry pink stucco topped with terracotta roof tiles, the
electronic security gates slid open to admit them. Clearly the
armed guard had viewed their approach from a closed-circuit
television screen in his concrete pillbox and had checked the registration
number of the lawyer's car before pressing the button.

The ease of their entry was altogether uncanny; too slick and
too smooth, it added to the air of deadly efficiency and hidden
menace for which the Cali organisation was renowned. Their
self-confidence was in itself chilling when Mallory reminded himself
that every major law enforcement agency in the Western
world was ranged against them. Yet they had no doubt that they
were the ones in control.

Gravel crackled beneath the tyres as the Mercedes came to a
standstill beside the marble-columned portico. He stepped out of
the car and barely had a chance to take in the sweep of architectural
splendour, the balustraded balconies and candy-coloured
sun canopies, before a young woman emerged from the villa.

'This is Sefior Pike,' Maria Palechor announced, removing her
sunglasses.

The young woman, dressed in a floral summer frock, smiled
broadly and gave an unconscious toss of her dark hair. 'My father
very much looks forward to meeting you, seflor,' she said in
excellent English and offered a delicate hand in greeting. No


94

more than nineteen, Mallory guessed. 'Would you both care to
come this way?'

They were swallowed up by the delicious cool of the interior..
Maria's high heels cracking on the black marble floor, the sound
echoing through the spacious rooms on either side of an enormous
hallway. Huge and sombre Renaissance oils hung in heavy
gilt frames and classic bronze statues and antique Spanish furniture
decorated the rooms they passed. The place resembled a
museum rather than a home, Mallory decided. He was just wondering
how many priceless masterpieces were secreted within the
villa's walls when they stepped outside again into the glare of the
midday sun.

'Papa, Sefi0ra Palechor and Sefior Pike to see you!' the girl
called out.

Mallory squinted against the bright refraction on the surface of
the swimming pool as the big man propelled himself forward with
powerful butterfly strokes. Large hands grasped the marble edge
and, with one massive effort, the great muscular shoulders shot
him clear of the water. The arms locked at the elbows to lift the
body upright while the capo lifted one leg to gain a foothold on
the side. As the torrent of drips fell from the mass of curly black
hair on his back and shoulders, Mallory was momentarily
reminded of an enormous walrus.

But Ruiz Jaramillo had overestimated his strength. For a second
he balanced precariously on the edge, with just insufficient
muscle power to lift his second knee clear and roll onto the terrace.
The swarthy plump face, with its round rubber swimming
goggles and large sodden moustache, looked beseechingly at
Mallory. He began to waver, his right hand reaching out for help.

Instinctively Mallory reacted to save the man from toppling
backwards. Then, as their fingertips almost touched, he hesitated.
For a moment his eyes locked with the blank blue lenses
staring back at him and he was filled with an overwhelming urge
to let the man fall. To humiliate him in front of his daughter and
his lawyer and the two bulky bodyguards who sat at nearby
tables.

'Pot favor, sehor?' There was no demand and no pleading in


95

Jaramillo's husky voice.

Mallory relented, and grasped the hand.

The Colombian hauled himself clear and stood bent for a
moment with his palms clasped to his knees as he regained his
breath. When he straightened his back, Mallory saw that he was
not quite as large as the impression he created. In fact, Jaramillo
stood a couple of inches below Mallory's own six foot, although
his chunky build and wide shoulders added to his stature. There
was no doubt real muscle lay beneath the veneer of fat that hung
over the waist of his gaudy swimming shorts.

He tipped off his goggles and grinned. 'Fifty lengths,' he
announced proudly in English.

His daughter looked dubious. 'You do too much, Papa.'
Jaramillo's laugh was like a lion's roar. 'Nonsense! One length
for each year, that's my motto for eternal youth.' He ran a hand
through his sparse curly hair, shaking off the surplus water, and
looked directly at Mallory. 'You should try it, Sefior Pike. It is
Sefior Pike, isn't it? Like the fish. You look exactly like your photograph.'
What photograph, Mallory wondered? He hadn't been
aware of one being taken since his arrival in Cali, but then that
was only to be expected. Before he could reply, Jaramillo was
padding across the terrace, accepting the towel that Mafia
Palechor held out for him. 'When I am sixty, I will be doing sixty
lengths.' He kissed the lawyer on the cheek before draping the
towel over his shoulders. 'And eighty lengths when I am eighty,'
he continued. 'It is what my doctor recommends.'

A half-smile played at Mallory's lips. 'Had you considered,' he
asked slowly, 'that perhaps someone is paying your doctor to kill
you?'

There was a momentary hardening of the moist brown eyes
and an almost imperceptible tightening of the lips. Then suddenly
the moment of tension was past, displaced by a deep,
chuckling laugh. 'Very funny, amigo! I like your sense of humour
- as black as my own. Only I think you make the same mistake

that many people make, both abroad and here in Colombia.'
'And what is that?'

Jaramillo didn't answer the question immediately. Instead he


96

beckoned to the lawyer. 'Come and join us for a drink, Maria.'

He led the way to a table that was out of earshot of his bodyguards.
Drink bottles and glasses were set out in the shade of a
parasol. 'Your usual Ron Blanco?'

She laughed and raised her hand. 'It's much too early, Ruiz,
just a pineapple juice for me.'

He poured it from one of a selection of glass jugs. 'And Sefior
Pike?'

Mallory drank rarely and little; he knew the dangers of alcohol
in his game. 'Just a beer.'

'You see, Sefior Pike, you joke that there may be someone who
would like to see me dead,' he said conversationally as he handed
Mallory a chilled can of Poker and poured a white rum and
Chilean wine for himself. 'That is because you believe all the
newspaper tittle-tattle that I am some narco big shot, a kingpin.
No, I am not offended - I can expect nothing else when these
malicious rumours are so widespread. But it is not something that
Sefior West believes. That is one reason why we get on so well.'
Jaramillo flopped into one of the padded patio chairs and invited
his guests to do the same. 'Because I am wealthy and live in this
city, everyone assumes I am a drugs baron. It is not true. But,
remember, I grow up in this city. I go to school with boys who
have since become big traficantes, I know their families - some are
even related to me. To live in this city is to live amongst such
people and so one gets labelled.'

Mallory took a swig from the can. 'But you are not one of
them?'

A shake of the head, the wet hair fast drying into pepper-andsalt
ringlets. 'Certainly not. But some of these people are my
friends.'

Maria Palechor interrupted. 'Sefior Jaramillo's family wealth
derives from generations of farming in the Cauca valley. Cotton,
tobacco and coffee. In recent years he has expanded into light
engineering, into hotels and the car franchise business. All fully
legitimate.'

The capo raised his hands. 'But then ask yourself who stays at
my hotels and who buys my cars. As this is a poor country, many


97

of them are obviously people who make their money fi:om/as drogas.
And so the DEA gringos kid themselves I am one of them.
Sure, it is drug money, but how can I help that?'

Mallory resisted a sardonic smile. Such a plea of innocence
could well be true, but he didn't believe it for a moment. No
doubt Vic West too went along with the charade. 'I gather the
two of you might have had a deal going?'

'Your company - what is it, Portcullis? - was not informed?'

'We have found nothing in writing since he went missing, but
then Vic was very discreet. You have done business before?'

Jaramillo nodded. 'Several times in the past five years. But you
must know this.'

'Such information would never reach board level. At least not
officially, and never in writing. Seflor West would have named a
third party, an intermediary, so that neither you nor our company
would be embarrassed by direct association. As you've said,
people like the DEA are quick to jump to conclusions.'

The Colombian nodded his understanding. 'And now you'd
like to complete the deal that he and I discussed?'

'Of course, if it's possible, and profitable. Ours is a very competitive
business. You were talking arms presumably?'

Jaramillo hesitated. To admit that was not going to sit easily
with his declaration of innocence a couple of moments earlier.
'How well do you understand South American politics, especially

here in Colombia?'

'Try me.'

'All right, amigo. You probably know that since the cocaine
trade began to be big business in the seventies, there have been
what the press like to call two rival cartels based on families in
Medellin and here in Cali. Of course the word cartel is a ficdon.
It is a question of separate families working both by themselves
and sometimes together on export projects when it suited them.
It is convenient for journalists to lump them together like a single
mafioso.' He waved aside his own pedandc point as irrelevant.
'As the world knows, Pablo Escobar became the best known of
the Medellin narcos - a common campesino like the rest of that
organisation. A thug who got ideas above his station. Money and


98

power went to his head. He began murdering politicians and
judges in an attempt to take control of the country. During his
campaign of terror he succeeded in focusing unwanted world
attention on our country and its problems. And, of course, the
coca business in particular.

'That was not something which my friends here in this city
appreciated. It is common for us to be called 'the gentlemen of
Cali'. However much some may disapprove of the cocaine trade,
you must accept that the Call families believe in quiet commercial
enterprise, law and order. They have friends in the government,
the judiciary and the police. And my friends did not
hesitate to help bring about Pablo Escobar's downfall.'

'As you will know,' Maria Palechor added, 'Escobar was
arrested after a massive police hunt and negotiated a luxury
prison for himself. Finally he decided to escape and died during
a shoot-out with police.'

Jaramillo picked up the story again. 'During that period the
Medellin organisation went into meltdown. With its leader out of
circulation the families feuded and fragmented. My friends here
in Cali were able to step in and fill the vacuum. Peace and stability
returned to my country.'

Mallory tried to guess what was coming next, tried to place
where the pure White Viper brand of cocaine fitted into the picture.
'But not for long?'

The Colombian leaned back in his chair, clutching his drink in
his lap, and stared across the patio. His daughter had changed
into a bikini and was poised at the pool side. She dived, creating
a sharp explosion of water. 'My friends began to notice things
about a year ago. Suddenly there seemed to be a lot of very pure
cocaine on the streets. No one knew where it came from, or who
was behind it. The stuff was called White Viper - the packets
were always stamped with a little snake symbol. It affected the
domestic market here first. The street dealers wanted it and so
did the users, because it was good stuff. They could dilute it and
sell a little on as it was the same price as regular coca.'

Mallory observed drily: 'People always like a bargain.'
Jaramillo's eyes glittered momentarily with disapproval. 'But


99

my friends did not appreciate it, Sefior Pike. It upset the status
quo. Sales of their regular product dropped and a bit of trouble
started.'

'Meaning?'

Maria explained. 'Some dealers started counterfeiting the
White Viper logo - not difficult, it's pretty crude. They'd try to
pass off their own low-grade stuff. There were some doublecrosses
and shoot-outs. It attracted the attention of the police and
the DEA.'

'That irritated my friends,' Jaramillo said, 'but did not worry
them unduly. Coca is used only at home to supplement wages.
You know, pay a man in pesos and a little angel dust, you understand?
But then some of the big buyers in Miami and Madrid
started to pull out of deals, some of them very big. Said they'd
found alternative suppliers.'

'The White Viper people?' Mallory guessed.

Jaramillo sniffed heavily. As he became engrossed, he lapsed
into Spanish. 'They ran a tight ship, security wise. No one
wanted to talk. These people soon let it be known what happened
to anyone who blabbed too much. They would not shrink from
killing not just a man who talked, but also his wife or other members
of his family. It was Escobar's old style. But you cannot keep
such a large operation secret. My friends investigated and began
to trace the source. The heart of their operation is deep in the
Pramo de Carcasi in the foothills of the Ardes. It is a wild and
remote region in the northeast of our country, not far from the
border with Venezuela. A land of wild rivers and rugged mountains.'

Cuchillas
was the actual word Jaramillo used. The Spanish for
'blades' that so chillingly caught the unforgiving nature of such
places. Even as the Colombian spoke, Mallory detected the note
of awe in his voice.

The Englishman said: 'If you have located their operation, I
cannot believe you haven't done something about it.' Despite
Jaramillo's depiction of his Cali friends as the gentlemen of the
cocaine trade, Mallory was fully aware that they were just as
capable of violence and mayhem as their old rivals from


100

Medellin, especially the younger generation of traquetos. The! just didn't shout about it, that was all.

'There is a problem, sefior,' Maria Palechor interrupte
demurely as though discussing some inaccuracy in a recipe. 'Tha
countryside is held by left-wing guerrilleros of the ELN. Th, Ejrcito de Liberaci6n Nacional. Traditionally these revolutionarie
have been at least part-allies with the Medellin organisation
Even the police and army venture there at their peril. To destro)
this base, the Call organisation would need to field an army o
their own with armoured cars and aircraft if they were to suc.
ceed--'

'That is, if conventional means were used,' Jaramillo inter.
jected.

'Is this what you were talking to Sefior West about?' Mallor.
asked.

The Colombian nodded. 'Victor West knew about such things
Covert operations with specialists. You know, commando type.,
who could infiltrate this White Viper operation and discover al
about it. Its supply lines, its methods of operation, its key figure:
and, of course, its ultimate customers. And then, of course
destroy it.'

Maria Palechor's eyes were wide with interest. 'This is some
thing your Portcullis company could achieve for us?'

Mallory considered for a moment. 'Officially, Portcullis wouldn'
touch such an operation. But it will know people who would.'

Jaramillo said: 'We have had British, Israeli and South Africar
experts hired through Sefior West before - to train our people ir
bodyguarding, sabotage and many other special techniques. The3
have always proved reliable, if expensive.'

'The best always is,' Mallory replied. 'But I must have more o
an idea who we would be up against. How much do you know
about these White Viper people?'

'We fear they are a faction of the old Medellin organisation,'
Maria Palechor replied. 'It is an area with a long history o
association with Escobar and his family. Geographically it is parallel
with the city and far closer than we are here in the south. M3
company has investigated and finds that Medellin families owr


101

considerable land and properties in the region. In particular there
are old emerald mines in the cuchillas owned by companies once
associated with Pablo Escobar and other kingpins. We believe it
is one of these which is their headquarters.'

'There is one more thing you should know,' Jaramillo said.
'Something that intrigued Victor West as much as it intrigued
me. The place is guarded by English gringos. Amazing, is it not?
Why should that be? I cannot think. The thugs of Medellin only
trust their own and I don't know why they should tave need of
such people.'

Mallory stared at him. Was this a wind-up? In Venezuela Julio
had mentioned the presence of a mysterious Englishman, but this
was different. It almost suggested a British gang operating in
Colombia. Surely unthinkable? But no, Jaramillo appeared to be
in deadly earnest.

'That is why I met with Sefior West in Casuarito,' Maria
Palechor offered suddenly. 'We could not take him into the cuchillas - that would have been impossible. But this gang, which
they call the Vipers, also have a strong presence in Casuarito and
across the river in Puerto Ayacucho. He wanted to see these
people for himself, to gauge .what he would be up against. You
met with Dofia Fanny Lacera at Las Noches .K, rabes - she works
for us. A spy, if you like. The families here in Call set up the bordello
as a way of collecting information on these people. Fanny
thought it would be safe enough for Sefior West to go there.'

But she was wrong, Mallory thought angrily. Terribly fucking
wrong.

'And in the meantime,' Maria Palechor was saying, 'you continue
your search for our dear friend Sefior West?'

Mallory smiled grimly. 'I'm afraid so.'

She returned his smile. 'Then perhaps I can help you. He was
murdered in Venezuela nearly three weeks ago. It is very strange
you do not know this. A breakdown in communications perhaps?
You see, his body was flown back to Britain in a private aircraft
owned by Portcullis. In fact Colonel Maidment himself made the
arrangements. '

Christ, Mallory thought, and felt the trickle of fear like ice


102

water running down his spine.

Ruiz Jaramillo began chuckling at the expression on
Englishman's face. 'If we are to do business together, Set, or Pik,
then I suggest we are a little more honest with each other i
future. Do not take us for fools and do not underestimate us.'

Mallory's smile was half-hearted; there was really nothing h
could say.

'Although it is impossible for us to confirm, our best inform
tion is that Seor West was followed by the Vipers when he le!
Puerto Ayacucho. Something must have aroused suspicion
Maybe someone recognised him - he knew many people. An
they kill him - just to be sure. It happens all the time.' He pause
and gave a tight, sympathetic smile. 'And do you think you kno,
exactly what Sehor West would have had in mind to help m

friends here in Cali?'

'I've no doubt.'

And he didn't. Vic West had made immediate arrangements t,
see Oliver Maidment and Portcullis's chairmhn and chief execu
tive had flown to South America on the frrst available flight.

His old friend would have known this was going to be a top
secret and totally deniable operation. A job for the organisatio:
that had no name.

And Vic West would have known that there was only one pel
son qualified for such a dangerous assignment. Kurt Mallory.

	Mario Dubois was a broken man when

	they met at the back-street cafe in

	Bogot. 'They butchered my Luz and

my son. Blasted them away - just like that! Can you believe it?'
His shaggy head shook from side to side, still scarcely able to
absorb the news he had heard when making a phone call to'a
friend in Puerto Ayacucho. The unconfirmed rumours slushing
around the town's bars - that the murders had been carried out
by E1 Gngo himself, the man with the three nines tattoo - and
that there was now a price on Mario's head too. He should not
return.

Mallory had never seen his friend cry, would not have believed
that anything could have reduced the tough and amiable rogue to
such a state of despair.

No words, he knew, would console the man. Yet something
had to be said. 'They'll pay the price, amigo, I promise you that.
They are the same people who killed Vic West.'

The big Martinican sniffed heavily and rubbed his forearm
roughly across his moustache. His composure had returned, but
the dark saucer eyes were still moist. 'If you are going after them,
Kurt, then count me in. That is the only promise I want from
you.'

Their eyes had locked across the table strewn with empty tinto coffee cups. 'I promise.'

That conversation had haunted Mallory throughout the seven
days since his return to the croft in western Ireland. Try as he
might, he couldn't shake the picture of his friend from his mind,
the inconsolable sobbing. A big man with an even bigger heart,
broken, his hopes for a simple and happy future shattered in a


104

vicious blood bath. An act that had no other purpose than
revenge and intimidation. Well, two could play at that game.

The weather had improved with the onset of early summer and
Mallory had taken out the lobster boat with old iattie. The
beauty of the cold green sea and the hard physical work had distracted
him for a time. But he knew it would not be long before
the call came and, until it did, he knew his spirit would be restless.

Word
had spread that he was home and on the third day Kelly
O'More had called to see him. Every day since, they had taken the
horses out together, galloping hard along the rugged shoreline.

Today had been particularly enjoyable, but she had detected
his continuing preoccupation.

'What is it, Kurt?' she asked as they were unsaddling the horses
and rubbing them down. 'What happened while you were away?'

He turned to look at her, the riding boots and snug fit of the
jodhpurs emphasising her height and the baggy sweater failing to
conceal her slim, athletic build. The wind had tousled her long
copper hair into a nightmare tangle of curls and had made her
mascara run.

'An old friend of mine was murdered.'

Her green eyes were bright with concern. 'Where? In South
America? Why?'

Mallory shrugged. 'For knowing too much, for knowing the

wrong people. That would be reason enough.'
'So who did it?'
'Villains. A bad lot.'

Kelly knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't talk
about it. Even if he wanted to. Certainly no details. 'Christ, Kurt,
do you have to get involved with those sorts of people?' Her head
shook with disapproval. 'And Georgie promised me she wouldn't
ask you to do anything dangerous.'

'She wasn't to know the risks. Neither did I really, until we
arrived there. We were trying to find out who killed my friend
and why.'

Now she understood. 'So your friend was murdered before you
went out?'


105

'That's what George came to tell me that time. That and to ask
my help.'

'And did you find out?'

tie nodded. 'But at a terrible price.'

She sensed that there was more to come, that there was
another deeper reason for his black mood. 'Tell me about it.' She
touched his arm, tentatively. 'If it would help.'

I-Ier face was only inches from his as he looked into her eyes.
He thought, not for the first time, how beautiful they were and
wondered why he was allowing her to slip away through his fingers?
Just like all the others. He knew what she wanted, what she
needed. Knew what he had to say and do to keep her, yet somehow
he couldn't bring himself to say and do those things. V�.as it
that he was incapable of showing his emotions, or just that he
didn't have any? Maybe it was partly South American machismo,
a legacy from his childhood. Or some primeval need for personal
freedom that he was afraid to put at risk. Was it that he didn't
trust commitment, couldn't believe in it? Or was it a mistrust of
all women, of even this exquisite and intelligent creature looking
at him with misty green eyes, offering to share his pain. Eager for
him to open his soul to her, however black it might rum out to
be.

The intensity of her expression touched him. Perhaps she was
right, he needed to tell someone what had happened. He said: 'I
looked up another old friend over there and asked for his help. It
was a mistake. As an indirect result his girlfriend and his son got

killed. Murdered. Shot by gunmen.'

'God, Kurt, that's awful.'

'I shouldn't have involved him.'

She was close now, her hand on his shoulder. 'Surely you
weren't to know. Don't blame yourself, it wasn't you who pulled
the trigger.'

He sighed. 'But that's not how it feels.'

She understood what he meant and was touched by his intimate
admission. People who didn't know him would probably
swear that only ice water ran through Mallory's veins. Maybe,
perversely, that was what had first attracted her to him. Yet it was


106

those rare insights into his humanity, those glimpses of what lay
beneath that steely veneer that had really drawn her closer over
the years.

Her voice was hoarse as she said: 'Would you like me to stay
over tonight? I could make the fish stew - your favourite.'

He was warmed by her smile. 'And what about El torro rabioso?' She screwed up her face in an expression of mock anger,
amused that Mallory always referred to her new lawyer boyfriend
from Madrid as 'the raging bull'. 'Miguel doesn't arrive until
tomorrow. So you'd best make the most of me while you can before
he whisks me away to marry him.'
'You mean he's asked you?'
'No, but I'm working on it.'

And her laugh set the tone for the evening which followed.
Much joking and banter and music as she strummed Irish folk
ballads and rebel songs on the old Spanish guitar he kept on the
wall, but had never himself learned to play. They were cocooned
in a quiet and private world, lit only by the smouldering turf fire
with dancing shadows on the bare croft walls and the air sweet
with peat smoke, while outside a storm blew up unexpectedly,
fierce winds and rain sweeping in from the Atlantic and rattling
at the small windows set in the thick stone walls.

They made love at midnight, or thereabouts. On the old sheepskin
rug by the hearth. It was lingering, unhurried. They had
nothing to prove to each other, no carnal secrets and no anxieties.
Any lust seemed tempered by an unspoken desire to prolong the
sensual pleasure of it all. Although she loathed to dwell on it, it
occurred to her that perhaps a lifetime of stolen pleasure with
whores and hookers around the world had taught him quite a lot.

That night he seemed unusually gentle and caring. She felt a
shiver of pleasure to think that there was really no earthly reason
why the rest of her life couldn't be like this. Languishing in his
arms. Could be, she thought dreamily, if only the man were
someone other than Kurt Mallory.

Then she was asleep, cradled against his shoulder as he lay
motionless, staring at the dark ceiling beams. For an hour or two
she had transported him, taken the burden from him and lifted


107

his spirits. But now she was asleep and sure enough the demons
were crowding in again out of the shadows. The faces of those he
had killed taking shape in the flickering flame of the fire. And
those who had wanted to kill him, all laughing and taunting him.
Somehow the devil never seemed to give up the souls of his own.

Quietly he slid away from her, covered her long and glistening
body with a rough blanket and threw more turfs on the fire. Then
he pulled on his jeans and sat by the hearth, his naked upper body
warmed by the glow. He broke his own rules and poured another
slug of Bushmills into the tumbler and lit a cigarette. Still he
couldn't quite break the habit. Silly really, when you only had
one lung.

The wind gusted suddenly, shaking the bolts of the door..For
a fraction of a second his idling brain thought someone was there.
It was always a possibility. And just for a moment his warm and
safe sanctury was threatened, the illusion shattered and the spell
broken.

At his feet Kelly stirred and turned languidly, the firelight shining
on the copper strands of her hair. It could all have been so different.
If only she knew the half of it, she might even understand.
This tranquillity would not last, it never did.

But this was somehow a special night. One he would often
remember and think about in the weeks to come. Somehow he
knew it, even then.


The storm had cleared by dawn and Kelly left early for her
father's home. She wanted to be in good time to meet her 'raging
bull' when he flew into Shannon airport later that morning.
Mallory thought she looked-a little uneasy as she prepared to
leave. A sense of guilt, he wondered, that somehow she was
betraying him, yet knowing that was hardly fair? Perhaps she was
afraid he would think she was behaving like a whore?

He smiled as he considered that. She should realise he would
not hold that against her. The thought that tonight she would be
in bed with Miguel Castafio, the playboy lawyer from Madrid,
did not fill Mallory with jealous anger. Years of experience had
long ago led him to believe firmly that mankind was more akin to


108

the animal kingdom than most would wish to admit. Men driven
to hunt and sow their seed, women seeking protection to bring up
their young. Was it really conceited of him to believe that a night
with the Spaniard would not match any of the times he and Kelly
had spent together?

'Perhaps we can go tiding again next week,' she suggested as
she left.

'With or without the horses?'

'Cheeky.' She looked more relaxed at that. 'Shall I come round
on Tuesday?'

It was agreed and she began climbing up the path to where her
car was parked, passing Matt Rooney on his way down.

He and Mallory then set about preparing the boat for a day's
fishing.

That was before the postman arrived. A postcard from
London. It was signed Sally XXX. It had been over two years
since he'd heard from Sally. Sally was Oliver Maidment. Three
kisses meant urgent. Quickly
he read the contents and translated the meaning:


Dear Kurt, I have to go away unexpectedly on a business
trip. It may take some months, but at least I'll be with old
friends. They'll look after all my needs. I'd better start
brushing up on my ,4merican Spanish.


He replaced the card in his pocket and turned to the old fisherman.
'Something has cropped up, Mattie.'

'I see.' The old fisherman didn't try to hide the disappointment
in his voice. Before Mallory had moved into the croft, Rooney
didn't have a real friend in the world. He had outlived his old
fishing mates and his dear wife and had been kindly treated by the villagers in that patronising way that younger generations
have. That changed when Mallory arrived; he had a genuine
interest in the fisherman's tales and his local knowledge. The
strange Englishman with his equally strange accent had become
like the son he'd once had before the sea had taken the lad from
him.


109

But Rooney knew better than to ask the whys and the wherefores.
Mallory, he'd learned, was a very private man; if he wanted
the fisherman to know something, he'd tell him in his own good
time.

'Can you look after the horses and the livestock for me?'

Rooney made light of it. 'Sure, Kurt, you know 'tis no problem.
'Cept them bleddy waspies o' yours.'

Mallory laughed; the old fisherman couldn't abide bees.
'They'll look after themselves till I return, don't worry.' He
peeled a wad of notes from his tattered leather wallet. 'That'll
cover any feedstuffyou may need to buy and I've an arrangement
with the vet if anything serious happens.'

There was nothing else for him to worry about. Rooney knew
two teenage girls in the village who were more than willing to
exercise the two horses. All Mallory had to do was throw a few
things into his old khaki rucksack. He travelled incredibly light: a
spongebag, a spare pair of old jeans, a thick woollen seaman's
sweater with leather elbows, two T-shirts and a change of socks.
He'd never worn underwear since being a kid in Paraguay, so the
only other things he took were the clothes he stood up in.

Taking his old canvas jacket from the hook behind the door, he
set off up the cliff path without a backward glance. Although the
A-reg Escort estate was battered and rusty, he maintained the
mechanics regularly and it started at the first turn of the key.

Thirty minutes later he drove between the moss-covered gate
pillars of the O'More family home. He had always liked the place,
ever since Kelly had brought him there for the first time. Previous
generations had been wealthy with numerous domestic staff to
maintain the house and gardens. But now the lawns were only
kept down by a tethered goat and the flowerbeds had become a
tangled battlefield between advancing weeds and the original
plantings.

He parked on the forecourt and rang the bell push beside the
paint-peeled double door. There was no reply, but he could hear
voices and laughter from the rear garden, so he sauntered round
to the arched opening in the side wall. As he pushed open the
wrought-iron gate, he could see the three of them seated at a


110

wooden table on the terrace. Kelly and her father, Joe O'More,
white-haired and smiling with those legendary green Irish eyes
that his daughter had inherited. He was tanned and trim for a
man in his seventies, looking comfortable in V-necked sweater,
tweed tie and old cords as he enjoyed the sunshine. His wine
glass was raised to their guest. El torro rabioso.

In fact, it was the Spanish lawyer who noticed Mallory first.
The dark eyes were alert in the handsome face as he turned in his
chair, the teeth white and faultless in an easy-going grin.

'Ah, Kurt!' the old man called, as he saw the Englishman
approach. 'Nice surprise, come on and join us for a drink.'

Despite her smile, Kelly looked a little embarrassed. 'Hello,
Kurt. This is my friend from Madrid. Miguel Castao. Miguel,
this is Kurt.'

The lawyer rose swiftly to his feet and offered his hand. A tall
man he looked younger than his thirty-five years with a generous
mane of black hair which he wore fashionably long so that it
curled at the neck of his sweater. An Aran sweater, Mallory
noted, with cavalry twill slacks and polished brogues. In all, a
fairly passable imitation of Irish gentry. He obviously had his feet
under the table already, quite at home. 'I've just been hearing
about you, Kurt. Gather you are quite a horseman - Kelly was
telling me you have two free creollios at your place.'

Mallory nodded. 'But I'm afraid I don't play polo.'

Kelly frowned, detecting the edge of sarcasm in his voice and
praying he wouldn't pass one of his instant judgements on the
'filthy rich' as he was so fond of calling them.

At least Castafio did not appear to notice. 'That is a shame.
I'm sure you'd be very good at it. Perhaps the three of us could
go for a ride together some time while I'm here?'

'I don't think so,' Mallory replied flatly and turned to Kelly.
'I've just called to say I've got to go away for a while, so I'm afraid
next Tuesday's off.'

He saw the disappointment in the girl's eyes, and then the look
of concern. 'You're not going back... ?'

'No, to Europe. Paris.' It was the first place that came into his
head.


111

'Business?' Joe O'More asked. There was just the hint of mockery
in the old man's eyes. Mallory knew Kelly's father enjoyed his
company, although he considered him to be little more than a

beachcomber. But then the man could hardly be blamed for that.
'Sure, business.'

'And what sort of business are you in, Kurt?' Castafio asked
casually. 'Maybe I have contacts in Paris who could be of help to
you?'

'I doubt it. I'm just doing a little translation work.'

Kelly added quickly: 'Kurt speaks fluent Spanish and German.'
Joe O'More said: 'Still, time for a glass before you go?'

Mallory shook his head. 'Afraid not. I have a plane to catch.
I'm sorry.'

As he turned to go, Castafio called out 'Hasta luego!' But' if he
was expecting a response, he was disappointed.

Kelly caught up with Mallory at the gate. 'Kurt,' she whispered

hoarsely, 'are you telling the truth about Paris?'

Fie looked into her eyes. 'Of course.'

'And whatever you're really doing, it's not dangerous?'

'I promise.'

'Flow long will you be gone?'

'A few weeks, maybe months, I'm not sure.'

She was looking at him closely as though trying to read what
was behind his eyes. 'Well, anyway, take care.'

Then he kissed her quickly on the lips before she could pull
back; he was certain that Castafio was watching them. 'Go to
your raging bull before he gets jealous.'

'Bastard,' she mouthed but she was smiling as she said it.

She returned thoughtfully to the table where her father and
Castafio were laughing together. 'What's the joke?'

O'More tried to constrain his mirth. 'Miguel was just commenting
on Kurt's renowned lack of dress sense.'

The lawyer showed his teeth. 'I just said that whoever your
friend is doing these translations for, they are not paying him
enough.'

O'More began chuckling again and sipped at his wine. Kelly
smiled politely.


112

Why the hell had he behaved like that?

Mallory could have kicked himself. El torro rabioso had been
charming and well-mannered enough. Was it just because the
man was so obviously wealthy? Not really. Mallory had always
rejected the trappings of luxury himself, felt uncomfortable with
them. To him they were almost obscene. But he'd never condemned
those who didn't share his view. He recognised he was
one of a very small minority who got more out of life when it was
basic and without pretensions.

Or was it because the man was a lawyer? The one human
species he despised above all others for feeding off other people's
misery. Hardly, he thought. Kelly was a lawyer and she was on

of the kindest and most considerate creatures he'd ever known.
Then it only left jealousy, despite what he told himself.

But, by the time he'd reached Shannon, he had put all suct
thoughts from his mind. He parked the car and bought a ticket to
Heathrow, checking in almost immediatelyyArriving in the earl
afternoon he took the courtesy bus to the Long Stay Car Park.

As always, the postcard from Sally had contained a series of let
ters and numbers written in the margin. He reversed them to give
the row and parking slot of the vehicle and its registration number.
A blue Mondeo with the ignition key hidden in the exhaust pipe.

He entered and flipped open the glove-box. There was the
envelope. A hundred in used notes for incidental expenses and a
sheet of paper with an address and time.

After burning the note and dropping the remains out of the
window, he set off towards London. He had plenty of time and
practised his fieldcraft repeatedly on the journey, doubling back
on himself numerous times until he was certain that no one had
followed.

The precautions might have seemed overelaborate, but he
knew from bitter experience that you overlooked them at your
peril. The organisation operated beyond the law. Not only were
the powerful drug barons and mafiosos their enemies, but they
could expect no quarter from the police either - anywhere in the
world.


113

It was eight o'clock when he parked the car near Stamford
Bridge football ground in Chelsea before walking back to the
King's Road. Twice more he took precautions to ensure that
nobody could have successfully shadowed him, then headed
south again down Beaufort Street to Pier House.

A boy and dolphin were captured in bronze, swimming for all
time through the air in the gardens outside the riverside apartment
block. Mallory approached the glass doors and spoke on the
intercom. Oliver Maidment's voice answered and then the doorlock
buzzed, allowing Mallory in. The silent elevator jetted him
to the top floor; the door of the suite was opened by the colonel
himself.

'Hello, Kurt.' The handshake was brisk, no-nonsense. 'Good
of you to come so promptly.' He led the way through a hallwa
of plain pastel walls decorated with signed watercolour prints of
the Thames. 'Officially this place is privately owned by a director
of one of our lesser known subsidiaries. Useful if we need to put
up some VIP who it wouldn't do for us to be associated with. You
wouldn't believe some of the famous - or should I say infamous
- people who have stayed here.'

The living room had the sumptuous but impersonal feel of a
five-star hotel lounge: charcoal leather settees and smoked glass
coffee table set before an artificial coal fire, a dove grey shag-pile
on the floor and a glittering night view of the river through the
panoramic windows.

'Take a pew. Drink?'

Mallory dumped his rucksack by one of the settees and sat
down. 'A mug of tea would go down well. No sugar.'

'Tea?' Maldment was bemused. 'Ah, of course. Not a great
drinker, I recall. Splendid, that's no problem.' He hesitated,
clearly finding it difficult to choose the right words, to steer the
best path. Mallory sensed that he still wasn't liked by the colonel
despite what had passed since Sophie's death. Still not forgiven
for defiling his daughter, defiling her memory. Found guilty for
not resisting the natural animal urges given to all men. Guilty of
accepting love from a woman for the first time in his life. Or so
he had thought at the time. If he and Maidment had become


114

closer after he'd executed those ultimately responsible for
Sophie's death, then the past three years since they had last met
had put the distance back between them.

'What is it?' Mallory asked, then smiled. 'Teabags and hot
water, it's not difficult.'

'What?' An awkward laugh. 'Oh, no, not that. I was just thinking
Look, Kurt, I'd like first to thank you for what you did in
Venezuela, finding out about Vic West. Especially as it was rather
hijacked by SIS. Sorry about that, but when they took an interest,
there wasn't much I could do. I needed them to find you.'
'It worked out.'

'And going to see Ruiz Jaramillo in Cali, I was gratefifl you did
that. It explained a lot. But it could have been dangerous - could
have turned out very differently. Your report was very interesting.'
He smiled. 'Even if the spelling was atrocious. And you
really must let me get you a new typewriter.'

Mallory cut through the small talk. 'You've called me here for
a reason. On organisation business. That's why I'm here.'

The colonel poured himself a brandy from the cabinet. 'Are
you still willing to help us? Come out of retirement?'

He'd thought about it a lot. He wasn't getting any younger and
had pushed his luck too far too many times. 'For this, yes. For
Vic West and for Mario.'

Maidment frowned. 'Mario?'

'You don't know him. A friend of mine in Venezuela. He's
helped us out before as a favour to me.'

Recognition dawned. 'Oh, the man who got you out of Puerto
Ayacucho, whose wife and child were murdered? God, Kurt,

these bastards never change, do they?'

'What d'you want me to do?'

'Your report says Jaramiilo is willing to pay my company to
have this new gang - some Medellin faction called White Viper,

or whatever - infiltrated, investigated and ultimately destroyed.'
Mallory nodded. 'One million US, plus all expenses.'

Their eyes met, Maidment's gaze intense. 'You know there is
only one person who would stand the remotest chance of pulling
this of.'


115

'Of course. And it was originally Vic West's suggestion. That's
what he sold to Jaramillo. And Vic would have known I was the
obvious choice.'

The colonel lifted one eyebrow. 'The only choice, Kurt.'

'So how do you want to play it?'

'I suggest you move into this apartment and use it as your base
to set up the operation. You've got everything you need here.
There's a small office with a telephone with scrambler and fax, a
word processor...'

'Are you fucking winding me up?' Mallory snapped. 'I read
with the speed of an eight-year-old and you've just told me I can't
spell--'

Maidment raised a hand. 'Keep calm, Kurt, for God's sake.
You can't do an operation like this all by yourself. There'll be
others working with you to deal with all that sort of thing.'

'You're joking, aren't you? Since when have I been any sort of
corporate executive? It's not the way I do things.'

Maidment's eyes narrowed. 'It's the way we'll have to do
things this time. It's bigger than anything we've ever handled. We
can't do it by ourselves.'

Mallory heard it then. The sudden raised murmur of conversation
and the laughter as someone made a joke. He was on his
feet, moving towards the dining-room door that stood slightly
ajar.

The colonel's voice was behind him, anxious. 'We were just
finishing supper when you arrived.'

Mallory pushed the door open to reveal a long mahogany table,
bright with white china and silverware. Abruptly the talking
stopped and the two faces turned towards him.

Georgina Savage looked stunning. A simple cutaway black
number, her shoulders glistening beneath the chandelier, her face
flushed with alcohol and laughter at the joke she'd just been told.
'Hello, Kurt, lovely to see you.' She inclined her head towards
the man who sat opposite. 'You won't have met Dale.'

The man dumped his napkin on the table and rose to his feet.
In the flash of anger that pulsed through him, Mallory hardly registered
what he saw. Just an impression of a broad-shouldered


116

man, middle-aged or maybe younger, with fairish skin that had
been coarsened by too many years in the sun.. And the eyes.

Flinty grey eyes that had seen too many deaths. A professional.
Savage said: 'Dale Forster is attached to the DEA.'

The rest of her words were lost as Mallory withdrew, shutting
the door and rounding on Maidment. 'What the hell is this?' In
his anger his Germanic accent became suddenly and heavily
noticeable. 'I understood this was a job for the organisation. So
why is George here and some monkey from the DEA?'

'I was about to explain, Kurt.' For a moment the colonel
seemed lost. 'This thing is too big for the organisation alone.
Think about it. Even if you manage to infiltrate and find out what
we need to know, we'll then have the problem of closing the
whole White Viper operation down. That means we'll have to act
simultaneously in - I don't know at least three countries. And
we'll be up against big muscle and firepower. We just don't have
those sorts of resources.'

Mallory shook his head, stared at the floo/'

'The colonel's right.'

It was Savage who spoke; she was standing in the doorway with
the American behind her.

There was a smile on Dale Forster's face; it could have been
sympathetic or patronising, it was impossible to tell. 'Say, can we
just sit and talk this through before we all get our wires crossed
and someone blows a fuse.'

Mallory hesitated. Maidment said, 'I'll put that tea on.' And
left for the kitchen.

'Let me explain,' Savage said as they sat around in the leather
chairs. 'As the colonel has just said, the operation that Vic West
proposed to Jaramillo in Cali is just too big for a company like
Portcullis to handle. Besides, my department knows all about it
and we have a vested interest now.'

'Because of these Brits working with the White Viper gang?'
Mallory guessed.

'Exactly. And because we now know about it, it becomes our
responsibili, to follow it up to the best of our ability. It's not
something that can be shirked.'


117

Mallory noticed that no mention had been made of the organ�
isation; he doubted the American had been told about its existence
and Savage was being discreet. 'What if the colonel and
Portcullis refuse to co-operate with you? If he goes it alone?'

Savage looked pained. 'Try to cut out riverside? C'mon, Kurt,
how far do you think any of you would get?' Then she smiled.
'Look, I understand any reticence you feel about an operation
with our people after that last time in Spain, God knows. My
chief understands too. That's why you'd have a free hand at operational
level for the infiltration. Your plan and your choice of
men on the ground.'

Mallory looked at her long and hard before inclining his head
towards the American. 'And your friend? Is this a private party or
can the whole bloody world join in? Do you seriously believe that
I'd go in against a cartel with the DEA involved?'

She knew straight away what he meant. The Drugs Enforcement
Administration was in too deep, its operators in the
business too long. At any time their cover could be compromised
or the identity of their informants known to the cartels. It was
something he would never know until it was too late. And that
meant DEA members and their informers could, in theory at
least, be got at by criminals who could afford to pay whatever it
took.

Every intelligence officer the world over knew the truth of the
old espionage maxim that everyone had a price. Usually money,
but sometimes prestige, status or power. Or all three. And if that
failed, blackmail, intimidation or the threat of violence to friends
and loved ones would always work. Most DEA agents were on
the level, Savage knew, but there was always the risk of a rotten
apple. Some inevitably became corrupted by the dirty business in
which they worked. Worse still, others were just plain incompetent
with access to too much dangerous information.

'Force of habit,' Savage said in an apologetic tone. 'Dale here
isn't actually with the DEA, Kurt. It's just what we put about for
convenience.' She glanced at the American. 'Perhaps he should
tell you himself.'

Forster didn't like that one bit. Those hard grey eyes said it.


118

'Do you think that's wise?' he asked in a low voice.

Mallory answered for her. 'It is, if you want me in the team.'
Forster considered and realised that without Kurt Mallor3
there wasn't a team. 'As you know,' he said slowly, 'the DEA ha,,
always been in the forefront of the fight against drugs. But sinc
the late eighties, all US intelligence and military agencies haw
been ordered by Washington to co-operate with their expertise

I'm actually with the Defense Intelligence Agency.'

That took Mallory by surprise. 'Not the CIA?'

Savage intervened. 'Not for this one, Kurt. Langley is too ham.
strung by red tape nowadays to be effective. You know, reportint
to Congressional committees and all that. And they've lost a 1o
of their hands-on field officers - it's all satellite and electroni
intelligence now. That's why the Defense Intelligence Agenc
formed its own dirty tricks unit, Intelligence Support Activity. It
true rrle and function is pretty much unknown on Capitol Hill
Dale here's with Activity.'

The American winced visibly at Savage's 'dirty tricks' descrip
tion. He said quickly: 'If we follow this one through, Kurt, we'/
be sleeping with the enemy. Acting on behalf of one drug carte
against another. And they'll be picking up the tab. That am'
going to look too good if it gets out.

'No die-hard Republican is goin' to be seen to approve, le
alone the woolly-headed Democrats we've got trying to run
show at the present time.' He glanced at Savage. 'So, in fact, I'rr
not even on Activity's payroll. I'm just a no-good, two-bit ex-DI/
rogue agent turned mercenary operating out of neutral territory
I have a front company in Liberia, as it happens. My expenses arc
met from an untraceable DIA black fund...'

Mallory raised his hand. 'That's enough, I get the picture
You've already told me more than I need to know. When some.
one's putting your balls through the mincer, you tend to get
good memory. So, okay, you're DEA. And I hope Dale Forste
isn't your real name.'

There was a faint smile on the American's lips. What do yot
think, it said.

'We were rather obliged to involve the States in this,' Savag,


119

explained. 'South America is their backyard and this one is too
big for us to go poaching. Besides, we'll no doubt be thankful for
US intelligence on the ground. Dale can get access to DEA computer
data without any questions being asked and, as you know,
they're in control out there. The anti-drugs police and DAS - the
Colombian secret police - pretty much dance to their tune. So
the DEA will have complete computer listings of all foreign
nationals who've entered or lef the country in the past year.
That'll be useful when it comes to identifying members of this
White Viper outfit.'

Mallory nodded his understanding; despite his reservations
about any government involvement - let alone two - it made

sense. 'But we do it my way, right? My methods and my team.'
Forster's smile was an icy veneer. 'It's all yours.'

At that moment Maidment re-entered from the kitchen with a
tray of tea and coffee. 'Do I hear we have agreement?'

Mallory said: 'If I can have Mario Dubois and Goldie as hard
backup.'

Savage raised an eyebrow. 'Mario? Is he up to it? I mean, he's
had no professional training.'

'He doesn't need to, he's a natural. And I owe him.'

Forster's face was expressionless. 'It's your back he'll be watching.'

'And
Goldie?' Mallory pressed, looking directly at Maidment
as the colonel handed him a mug of tea. 'You're in touch?'

'You'll have him, Kurt. Provided he's not away on assignment.
Last I heard he was freelancing for Mossad again.'

'Ask him anyway,' Mallory said. Goldstein wouldn't let him
down; would drop anything he could to come along. 'And field
controller?'

Savage was putting cream in her coffee. 'It has to be someone
from outside Colombia. We were thinking of Simon Cadbury
from our station in Caracas.'

We, he noted, not I. It was not her idea. 'Is he any good? I've
never met him.'

Maidment cleared his throat. 'I have.'

Mallory looked up. 'And?'


120

'My guess is he's never faced a dangerous situation in his life
and never been under fire - unless it's ducking paper darts from
his superiors, no doubt telling him to get off his arse.' He pronounced
the last word in that very proper English way that
expressed utter contempt. 'The only back he'd ever watch is his
own.

'He's very experienced,' Savage said defensively. 'He's the correct
choice.'

Mallory looked at her. 'But it's my team, George, and my
choice is you.'

She shook her head. 'That's not possible.'
He grinned. 'Better the devil you know.'
'I'm Head of Desk now, Kurt.'
'Too grand to get your hands dirty?'

'It's not protocol. It's against the rules and my chief would
never allow it.'

'Have you got a cigarette?'

'What?' That threw her. Of course, Mallory was always trying
to give it up. Never buying a pack, but trying to buy the odd one
off a barman or waiter, which never went down well. As though
the whole world was like South America.

As she fished in her handbag, Mallory said: 'From what I
understand, this mission is breaking every rule in the book. So we
may as well start as we intend to continue.' He accepted the cigarette
and her light. 'Tell your boss I have you as field controller
or it's off.'

Dale Forster looked at the man opposite him, then glanced at
Savage before saying: 'And me, Kurt, am I acceptable to you as
operation commander? Or do you have your own ideas about
that too?'

Mallory ran his eyes quickly over the man, perhaps seeing him
properly for the first time. Not as young as he'd first thought.
Maybe early forties like himself, with an ingrained tan disguising
the lines and the grey hairs amid the fair not noticeable at first
glance. But the eyes still gave him away, the eyes he'd noticed at
once. The colour of slate and just as hard. Shrewd and appraising,
a man used to making snap evaluations.


121

Military background, Mallory guessed, the trim haircut and the
gleam on his shoes confirming it. West Point, Fort Bragg and
Pentagon. The creases in the suit were knife-edge, but the material
Washington grey and the tie unmemorable. A man used to
melting into his surroundings when it suited, but not a man to
mess with.

'If you're acceptable to George,' Mallory said slowly, 'then
you're okay by me. It doesn't matter, because she's my cutout.'

Savage almost smiled as she felt a flutter of pride at his faith in
her, understanding exactly what he meant. Mallory trusted her to
watch his back. His team's back.

To emphasise the point, he added: 'And if you luck up, she'll
have your balls.'

The American didn't like that, but had the good sense to hide
it. Nevertheless the atmosphere, the tension, was unmistakable,
each man drawing his line in the sand, testing the other.

Like two rutting stags, Savage thought as she moved the conversation
on: 'The colonel will allow this apartment to be used as
the base. First off, I suggest we contact Jaramillo to arrange a full
briefing and sort out the contractual side. Maybe get his lawyer the
Palechor woman - to come over here to act as go-between.
I'll keep out of it, at least until my chief agrees to give clearance.
Palechor can meet Dale as former DEA gone rogue -- they'll
understand that and it'll appeal to Jaramillo's sense of humour.
Getting one of his old adversaries to dance to his tune. And, of
course, Kurt as Harry Pike of Portcullis.'

It was agreed and shortly after the meeting concluded. From
now on Dale Forster would live in at the apartment while he
organised the setup of the operation. Mallory was offered the
same facilities, but declined. He'd use the place as an office when
necessary, but preferred to take a room in a cheap tourist hotel
where he'd have the privacy to live his life as he liked it - down
at heel and working hours that suited him. He sensed it wouldn't
be a good idea living in close proximity to the American for any
length of time. And besides, he wanted Forster to know as little
about him as he knew about Forster. Keep everything boxed and
separate, that was always safest.


122

Mallory paused and faced Savage at the front door, his rucksack
over his shoulder and carrying a plastic bag containing a new
Harry Pike suit and a mobile phone, both of which she had provided.
'I'm only doing this for Vic,' he said, 'and for Mario. Not
/'or your department.'

And for yourself, she thought. 'I know, Kurt. I'll come round
to the apartment daily. See how things are progressing.'

She wondered if he might kiss her, if only on the cheek. Just to

confirm the bond they once had. But he didn't.

Oliver Maidment left shortly after.

'That Kurt's a strange guy,' Forster said as she returned to the
living room.

'He takes some getting used to,' she admitted.

'Hope we're not making a mistake. We've got quite a few
Hispanics - even some Colombians - who could fulfil his r61e.
Experienced people I can trust.'

Suddenly she felt weary and slumped onto the settee. 'Not
Colombians, Dale, they'd be too vulnerable ever to be relied on.
Family and friends at risk. We've been through all this. What
Kurt has going for him that none of your people can possibly
have is that he's British. And so are the gang. In our estimation
that'll give him a head start.'

Forster wasn't totally convinced; his eyes said it. 'And when it
comes to the conclusion, you think he'll be up to it--?' He let the
words hang.

Savage lit a cigarette. 'Kurt killed for the first time, as far as I
know when he was twenty-two years old. Do you really want a
complete body count? I personally know of ten others, two of
those when he served for a short time in the SAS. Others were
jobs associated with us.'

'Then let's hope he's not just a psychopathic killer. I've met his
sort before.'

That angered her. 'Christ, Dale, some people just can't be satisfied.
You ask me if he can handle wet jobs and I tell you it's no
problem. I didn't say he enjoyed it.'

Forster's expression stiffened. 'Are you sure?'

'What?' Perplexed.


123

'Mallory's worked for some of our agencies in the past. Point
Four, undercover policing of US aid in Latin America and some
stuff for the CIA. Nothing heavy but I've read some confidential
profiles. Some suggest a personality disorder - the experts reckon
he might actually enjoy killing.'

Savage's eyes narrowed. 'Did you ever kill for your people?'

The American's mouth twitched fractionally, confirming, but
not wanting to say so in words. Old habits.

'And just who do you think Kurt has killed for our people?'
Savage asked. 'Innocent women and children?'

It was Forster's turn to be irked. 'Of course not.'

'Hazard a guess, go on.'

'Terrorists, maybe. Or some political tyrant or corrupt official
you couldn't get at any other way. Some big-shot gangsters perhaps.
I know the types, the untouchables. Guess I can imagine
the likely scenarios.'

She smiled. 'Absolutely right. And in those circumstances yes,
I expect Kurt did enjoy it. If I had the guts, I might even quite
like to do it myself.' Her eyes narrowed again, lynx-like. 'Your
people really don't know Kurt very well, do they?'

Forster stared back at her, unblinking, for what felt like several
seconds; it was as though he could read something in her eyes.
'But you seem to.' His voice was low. 'So tell me.'

She pulled a small, tight smile. Where did you start to tell
about a man like Kurt Mallory, she thought? And where did you
stop? His story could fill several volumes, and that was just the
parts of it she had come to know.

Quickly she recounted the double tragedy following his birth
which had left him orphaned in Germany at six weeks old. His
dead father's family in England were ashamed that their son
should have been planning to marry a prostitute refugee from
East Germany and horrified that the couple had produced what
the newspapers in those flower-power days liked to call 'a love
child'.

Mallory's grandfather had flown out to Berlin, where he found
the baby boy in the care of an orphanage run by the Glaubehaus,
a small radical sect.


124

At least the old man had squared it with the necessary authorities
that the child had British citizenship, aware that his dead son
would have wanted that. But Mallory's grandfather was also
painfully aware that neither his own wife nor the rest of the family
wanted the love child brought back to England. The scandal
and, frankly, inconvenience would have been too much.

Then he had stumbled on the perfect solution. The
Glaubehaus suggested that baby Kurt might be raised in their
commune in Paraguay. There he would be loved and cared for in
a God-fearing atmosphere with a real family in one of the commune
villages.

Mallory's grandfather signed the necessary documents and
agreed an annual fee to be paid until the boy's eighteenth birthday.
The family skeleton would be safely locked away with an
entire ocean to separate them.

'So the boy made good in Paraguay,' Forster observed, pouring
two glasses of whisky.

'I don't know about good. Kurt was a bit of a wild child and
the Glaubehaus were a strict sect, so he had a pretty hard time of
it. The family had their own kids and he didn't fit in. He rebelled
against his foster parents after they told him about his true circumstances.
Finally he ran away in 1961 when he was just eleven.

For five years he survived as a gaucho on the cattle ranches.'

'I find that hard to believe.'

'As I said, Dale, your people don't know him. Apparently he
was tall for his age and the ranchers in the remoter regions
weren't exactly paid-up members of Save The Children.'

She recounted his trip to England and his rejection by the
British Army on account of his illiteracy before setting out to
serve as a mercenary in a string of bloody bush wars in Africa.

'And this first killing of his?' Forster pressed. 'When he was
twenty-two, you said.'

'I don't know the exact details. He was bumming around
South America after one of his African contracts finished. He was
staying with this family on a cattle ranch in Mexico. They were
being given a lot of grief by a local thug and his gang. You know,
a sort of protection racket. When the family wouldn't pay, cattle


125

would die mysteriously, the water supply was poisoned then a
barn burned down. Well, one day, Kurt went into town, found
out where the thug was staying and slit his throat while he was
asleep. The trouble was over.'

A low whistle escaped Forster's lips. 'So our Mr Mallory is
some sort of hero.'

Her smile was involuntary. 'That's not what everyone would
say. But if Kurt has pathological tendencies, it's not about killing,
it's about intimidation and injustice. If he can do something
about it - in his way - he will.'

Was that a smirk on the American's lips, she wondered? A
patronising glint of humour in those fathomless eyes like icewater
pools? Well, sod you, Dale Forster.

'So, Georgie, when did Mallory first come to the notice of your
people? Before we used him, I believe?'

She nodded. 'He returned from Africa in '76, at the age of
twenty-five, I think, and reapplied to join the British Army. As
he'd by now taught himself to read and write reasonably well, he
was accepted and joined the Light Infantry as a ranker. Three
years later he passed selection for the Special Air Service
Regiment. They unearthed the talent he'd developed in the
African bush wars for infiltration and covert operations, and by
1980 he was seconded to 14 Intelligence Company - they looked
after many deniable ops in Northern Ireland. I guess that was

when SIS, my people, started to take an interest.'

'And the Falklands?' Forster prompted.

'That's when we really came together,' she confirmed. 'He was
deployed to Argentina doing what he does best, playing el vago
pequeo.'

'Pardon me?'

'The little tramp - our in-joke, like Chaplin. He was in there
solo with one of our Buenos Aires agents acting as go-between
and cutout. He had no backup and no escape route. But no one
suspected this drunken Paraguayan bum drifting around villages
near key air bases. Several highly successful missions were
mounted by the SAS following his intelligence reports. Indirectly
you could say he was responsible for neutralising most of the


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Exocet missile threat to the Royal Navy.'

'But he must have left the army almost immediately afterwards
because some US agencies were using him in late '83?'

'Yes. He hadn't been well suited to regular army life and he
was really too much of a loner for the SAS. Self-reliance is all very
well, but you have to be a team player. And Kurt speaks his mind.
Upset one or two senior officers. Besides, his stint in Argentina
had given him renewed interest in South America. So he left the
army and went freelance. We gave him a few jobs and passed his
name on to your people and the Israelis. Good freelancers are a
rare and precious commodity, as you know.' She paused to sip at
the whisky. 'But basically Kurt just worked when he needed to mostly
to pay for his travels and cover his exes. He did the odd
investigation job for insurance companies - claims from South
America are a big headache for them - and he liked to help out
for causes he believed in, like the active international human
rights charities.'

Forster raised an eyebrow. 'That wasn't on my file.'

'They've sent him out to negotiate the release of political prisoners
in various South American countries. Mostly it was a question
of paying backhanders to judges. Kurt was virtually a
hundred per cent successful. The charities wouldn't have known,
of course, but I expect he used the familiar South American
choice - the silver or the lead.'

'And the last time you used him was about two years ago,
right?'

'Yes, to investigate renewed links between the IRA and the
Basque separatists in northeast Spain. That's when he was
wounded and retired from the business.'

The American smiled, as though reassured by what she was
telling him. She relaxed a little then, wondering why she'd felt it
so important to protect Mallory from the American's probing
cynicism? It was then that Forster's next words caught her off

guard. 'And the organisation? Does he still work for them?'
'I'm sorry?' She almost choked on the whisky.

'C'mon now, Georgie, if we're going to work together, we can't
have secrets. Does he still work for the organisation, the network?'


127

She floundered. 'I told you, he hasn't worked for us in two
years.'

'Not your goddamn secret service.' He was losing patience.
'That secret anti-drugs network that's somehow tied up with the
Freemasons.'

'I've no idea what you're talking about.' Was he just fishing?
she wondered, deciding quickly that attack was the best form of
defence. 'But I'd like to know, Dale. Please tell me about it.'

There was a brief glitter in those eyes. Was it a flicker of irritation
- or admiration that she'd parried so quickly? His easy grin
said it was of no importance. Maybe only a test. 'Just a rumour
our boys picked up. Guess you guys would know if there was anything
in it.'

She smiled demurely. 'If I hear anything, Dale, you'll be the
first to know.'

6

Mallory didn't sleep well that night.

Lying on the hard mattress in a
seedy Fulham hotel, he found that his
mind was a confused jumble of thoughts. He really didn't want
to be here, doing all this. It was a life he'd left behind. So why
had he agreed? Was it really the chance to avenge Vic West, or
the brutal murder of Mario's woman and their young child?

Or was it something else entirely? He didn't need the money
and had nothing to prove to himself. Surely he'd avenged Sophie
Maidment's death by now? He'd killed the rnhn responsible. And
a dozen other bastards like him since. Yet there always seemed to
be more where they came from.

He stood and paced the room and stared at his own face in the
chipped mirror above the sink, his face hard in the glare of the
fluorescent tube. The face of a convict, the mug shot of a killer.
Face-on and profile. Only the number missing.

Was that who he really was, a cheap killer who murdered for
the pure enjoyment of it? A predatory beast who killed for pleasure
rather than to survive? Was the taste of revenge really that
sweet, even on behalf of others?

Over his shoulder he saw the face of Brother Hermann. Just for
a split second; then it vanished.

He watched his reflected face mouth the words. 'Oh yes, the
most satisfying sensation in all the world.'

And now he was about to put his life on the line, just to taste
it once again.

He returned to the bed and sat on the edge. But this time it was
different. Strictly speaking, it wasn't for the organisation.
However much he trusted Savage, he knew that she was just like


129

him. Ultimately a pawn in someone else's game. And once the
intelligence services were involved you could never be certain
what the real game was.

The schemers at riverside could be good friends. But only
while it suited them. When it came to protecting their own backsides,
they'd shaft their best friends in the blink of an eye. That
would include Savage and him. Especially him. He was on the
outside, looking in. Expendable.

Was that why he was feeling so uneasy, why he couldn't sleep?
To make matters worse, this was more than a deniable operation,
it was downright illegal. On the payroll of one narcotics cartel to
destroy another. What would the sniffing newshounds of the
tabloids and the TV documentaries make of that? Heads could
roll in high places - only, of course, they never would. That was
when the knives really came out, searching for the scapegoats.

And then there was the involvement of the Americans.
Necessary, he understood that, but unwelcome because it
doubled the number of fat cats. Doubled the number of backsides
to be protected. Doubled the danger.

Insurance, Mallory decided, that was what was needed. It was
the last thought in his mind when he finally drifted into a fitful
sleep in the early hours of the morning.

He awoke before eight with a plan of action already forming in
his mind. After phoning down for a pot of tea, he washed and
shaved before dressing in the Harry Pike suit. He downed three
cups of tea before leaving and catching a tube train to the City in
search of a copy of the day's Lloyd's List. Eventually he tracked
down the specialist publication at WH Smith in Liverpool Street
station.

On returning to his hotel, he ordered more tea and settled
down to pore over his purchase. It provided a daily snapshot by
port of the world's shipping - arrivals of merchantmen, their cargoes,
destinations and anticipated departure dates, as well as
reports of damage and losses at sea.

At various times in his life it had been Mallory's bible for working
his passage round the world. Today he wanted a busy, cosmopolitan
port that handled rusting tramps from all over the


130

globe rather than a supermodem container facility. His finger ran
down the listings until he reached Cork. Southeast Ireland. Ideal,
he decided. It would add weight to his story while providing an
additional hurdle for anyone trying to investigate it. Irish officials
tended to be easy-going, a little lax. And, strictly speaking, it was
a foreign land.

He scanned the column of ships in port, pausing when he
reached the Bombay Star. An ageing tramp with a mixed cargo,
and a long time gone from her home port. It was due to leave
Cork the next day. Perfect.

At noon he walked back to the Thames-side apartment.
Forster opened the door. He had his shirtsleeves rolled and tie
askew and held a maple syrup waffle in one hand. 'Hi, Kurt,' he
said amiably as he chewed. 'Just having a working lunch. Fancy
some?'

Mallory declined. 'I just want to make some calls.'

'Sure thing.' The unspoken antagonism of the previous
evening had evaporated. Forster was a pro. He led the way to a
small room that served as an office; the computer was already up
and running, the screen full of figures. He pointed to the telephone.
'Help yourself. Who you planning to call?'

'Jaramillo's lawyer in Cali.'

Forster glanced at his watch. 'Eight o'clock there.'

'They'll be in,' Mallory assured him, and dialled the number.
Within seconds, he found himself talking to Maria Palechor.
'Harry Pike here from Portcullis. I'm afraid my company cannot
help yu as requested, but we can put you in touch with someone
who can.'

'And what company would that be?'

'Confidential at this stage, I'm afraid. They'll want to speak
person to person as soon as possible.'

'My client may not like that. He is not keen on travel.' She
didn't say to a country where he didn't have protected status.

'Not your client, you, Sefiora Palechor. How soon can you
travel to England?'

A pause as she consulted her diary. 'Er - I could come in four
days, arriving Friday.'


131

'Our contacts will need to know the fullest details.'

'Of course.' Her tone was slightly indignant. 'And I'm sure my
client will be very pleased to hear this news.'

He gave her the telephone number of the apartment. 'Call
when you have your flight details. Our car will collect you from
Heathrow.'

Next he tried the number he had for Mario Dubois who had
returned to his home country of Martinique. It took several

attempts to get through, when a slurred, sleepy voice answered.
'Boozing again?' Mallory chided lightly.

A throaty chuckle, but without humour. 'Just to kill the pain of
a broken heart, amigo. Comprendes?'

'Si, comprendo.' What the hell did you do with yourself after
your woman and child had been murdered? 'That job we talked
about has come up. I need you over here. Give me the number of
your bank and I'll cable you money for the fare and expenses.'
That would cheer him up, Mallory knew. Take his mind off
things.

When he hung up, he turned to Forster who'd been tapping
away at his computer keyboard. 'I have to go away for a few
days.'

The American swivelled around in his chair. 'Away? You're on
the team now. You're supposed to be here, helping with the planning.'

Fuck you, Mallory thought. But he said: 'You won't need me
until Jaramillo's lawyer gives us the briefing. This has all happened
so quickly - I've some personal matters to attend to.'
'How long will it take?'

'I'll be back before she arrives.'

Forster smiled without humour. 'Guess I don't have much
option. Just remember that I'm running this show.'

Mallory raised an eyebrow in gentle mockery. 'Does that mean

you hold the purse strings?'

'Sure.'

'Then I need an advance.'

'How much?'

'A thousand pounds. Cash.'


132

Mallory noticed the skin loosen around Forster's mouth, read
the contempt in his eyes. Thinking what a paltry sum and how
easy this scruffy tramp was to please, bearing in mind this whole
operation would cost hundreds of thousands to mount.

Nevertheless, Mallory had his thousand before the bank closed
that afternoon. Saying farewell to the disgruntled American, he
visited a Milletts store to purchase a pair of jeans, two shirts, a
sweater and a cheap denim jacket.

The next morning, dressed in his new casual but smart
wardrobe, he drove north out of London. He picked up the M1
motorway for a while before turning off to connect with the A41
to Aylesbury. The town had been chosen for no other reason than
that it was quiet and respectable; without a vast urban underclass,
engaged on widespread social security fraud, he gauged his
story was more likely to be believed. On arrival, he began his
search for a room to rent. He found what he wanted in a quiet
back street. The uninterested landlady pointed to the payphone
in the hallway - no incoming calls - and shbwed him the bedroom
- no women visitors. It had yellowing net curtains, a sink
and two-ring gas cooker. She listened impatiently as he explained
his name was Jim Tate, a seaman, who had just renamed home
and was looking for a land-based job for a while. And no, she
didn't know of anything suitable going. Her eyes only showed any
indication of life when he paid her two months' rent in advance.

During the afternoon he telephoned Cork docks to confirm
that the Bombay Star had sailed. In the evening he visited half a
dozen pubs, having a meat pie and chips at the first of them. By
ten o'clock he had selected the one he wanted. Its smoky public
bar was filled with lager-drinking youths playing pool. Nearly all
were wearing tight jeans and cutaway T-shirts to impress their
microskirted and vacuous girlfriends who sat around gossiping
and eating prawn-flavoured crisps. A few Sharons and Traceys
here, he mused.

Settling down in a corner with a half of bitter, he observed the
scene, working out which boy was with which girl. He decided
that the most arrogant and loutish pool player was someone
called Den. Acne-faced and unshaven, he looked to be in his


133

early twenties and about thirteen stone, muscle nmning to fat
with a lip of beer gut over the belt of his jeans.

His girlfriend was Jeannie, tall and skinny, hard-faced and
hard-smoking. She was sitting at the table next to Mallory's and
looking bored as she waited for her boyfriend to finish his game
and pay her some attention.

'Gotta light?' Mallory asked. And when she obliged, he said:
'That's a nice ring you've got. Engagement, is it?'

It was as simple as that. Mallory had always been mildly
amused at how women could blabber for hours about their jewellery.
Diamonds and sapphires, birthstones, the number of
carats. Within five minutes they were deeply engrossed in banal
conversation, Jeannie delighted to find someone interested in her
collection of rings, interested in her. Her face softened and she
began to laugh at Mallory's quips and jokes, a piercing laugh like
a bleating sheep that caused heads to turn.

But, despite appearances, Mallory had only been half-listening
to what she said, as he kept one eye on Den as he leaned over the
table with his cue.

Jeannie laughed once too often. Now everyone knew she was
being chatted up by a middle-aged chancer. A stranger in their
midst. Something had to be done and Den wasn't about to lose
face in front of his friends.

A shadow was cast across Jeannie's table. 'What's your game,
mate?'

Mallory looked up, and smiled. 'Do you have a problem, sunshine?'

Suddenly the room went quiet. Movement stopped and all eyes
were on them. Den's mouth formed into a snarl. 'It's you who's
got the problem.' Then he realised Mallory had spoken with a
strange accent. 'What are you? German? A fuckin' Kraut.'

'Leave it out, Den,' Jeannie pleaded. 'We're just talking.'
The man turned on her. 'I know exactly what you're fuckin'
doin', girl.' His attention returned to Mallory. 'Right, Kraut,
you're outa here. OLYF!'

Mallory shrugged resignedly. 'Okay, okay, I know when I'm
beat.' He stood up and offered his hand. 'No hard feelings.'


134

Den knew he'd won; a smug grin of triumph spread across his
face, aware that his friends were witnessing his victory. It was all
too easy. Instinctively his hand came forward to shake Mallory's,
and then he hesitated. Perhaps something in the other man's eyes
told him it was not a good idea.

But he was too late. Mallory sprang like a panther, snatching
Den's arm with both hands, twisting it over until the elbow joint
was levered against his own left forearm and his right hand had
hold of the young man's little finger. The snap of the bone was
heard above the gasps of surprise from the audience - until Den's
wailing scream filled the public bar.

Mallory shifted stance, addressing the gang of youths over
Den's bent-double shoulders. 'Your mate has just broken a finger.
If you don't want me to break his elbow, I suggest you leave
this pub. All of you. NOW!'

There was a mumble of consternation from the group, hesitation
and a shuffling of feet.

'P-please!' Den gasped. 'Do what the blok says!'

Slowly, grudgingly the gang shuffled towards the door, picking
up jackets from chairbacks, pints of lager hastily drained. Little
acts of defiance. Faces turned as they filed past Mallory and his
hapless victim.

One toothy youth with lank hair wagged a finger. 'We'll fuckin'
get you for this!'

Mallory ignored him. Now the bar "was clear part from a
couple of middle-aged regulars and an apprehensive Jeannie. Fie
r,leased his grip on Den's arm 'I suggest yo get him to
hospital.'

For a moment the girl's eyes met his and held them with a
questioning look. Then they "were both gone.

The remaining half-hour before time passed predictably
enough. Catcalls and obscenities were yelled from outside as the two regulars bought Mallory a drink and congratulated him on
standing up for himself. Den was a lout and a troublemaker,
most of his gang little better. The taciturn landlord was less
enthusiastic at having his customers turfed out, but as a mere
relief manager wasn't interested in making an issue of it.


135

Five minutes before closing time, Mallory went to the pay
phone on the wall, dialled 999 aod asked for police. He gave the
name of the pub. 'You'd better get a car down here fast. There's
a big fight outside and it looks nasty.'

He returned to the bar, finished his drink and left.

Outside, Den's gang of friends was waiting, as he knew they
would be. They were gathered in the shadows, drunk and menacing.
He waited for them to come to him, then went for their
temporary leader - the leather-jacketed youth who had threatened
him - and his sidekick. Both were floored, writhing in agony
on the car-park tarmac, before the weight of numbers overwhelmed
him. He felled three more before he went down under
the hail of flying fists and kicking boots, and tasted blood in his
mouth.

Now he played for time, on his back with his legs up to defend
himself, swivelling around against anyone trying to break into the
circle. Then he heard the wail of the police siren and the screech
of brakes, followed by shouts and the sound of running feet as the
gang dispersed, taking their wounded with them.

'You all right, sir?' the constable asked, helping Mallory to his
feet. 'You've got a nasty black eye there.'

'I'm okay,' he replied, trying to regain his breath. 'Sore kidneys,
but no bones broken - oh, Christ!'

'What is it, sir?'

'The bastards have taken my case. Eve .rything's in it. Passport,
papers, bloody everything!'

They were very sympathetic at the station. Paper cups of tea
kept coming as they took down his statement. How he, Jim Tare,
was a merchant seaman who had disembarked from the Bombay
Star in Cork the previous day after nine years at sea. He'd come
to Aylesbury, a town he'd heard was quiet and pleasant, to find a
land-based job and settle down, only to get beaten up by a bunch
of thugs and have his document case stolen. No he couldn't
remember his passport number, his National Insurance number.
Sorry.

The desk sergeant promised to do his best to find the culprits
and retrieve the case, but he didn't sound hopeful.


136

Mallory returned to his digs at two thirty in the morning and
slept soundly until nine the following day.: .

Feeling sore and bruised, he made his way to the local Job
Centre and explained his situation to the plump and bored
female clerk.

'If you're looking for work, Mr Tare, you'll need a P45 form.
Do you have your National Insurance number?'

'No, that's what I've just explained. All my papers were stolen.'
'And you can't remember it?'
'Sorry.'

'I need the number before I can issue a P45. DO you have a

passport or some form of ID?'

'Sorry, they took the lot.'

'That's a problem. I mean, I can't just issue you with a new
number without verification. And without a number you're a
non-person.'

'You mean I don't exist?'

She missed the mockery in his voice. 'Perhaps I can trace you
on the computer. When did you last work in the UK?'

'About nine years ago.' He looked sheepish. 'Casual labour,
I'm afraid. Cash in hand. On building sites and farms up in
Humberside.'

'Did you have a doctor?'
'Never seen one.'
'Dentist?'

A shake of the head. 'Not for years. I've got good teeth, but I
must admit I ought...'

'Oh, dear.' She stared at him. 'Let's start at the beginning.
Where were you born?'

'Liverpool, I think. 1951.'

'Think?'

'I was an orphan. I was fostered by a local couple, but the wife
died when I was five and I was sent to Paraguay to the
Glaubehaus sect. My foster parents were members. Have you
heard of it?'

She shook her head.

'A religious order from Germany. They brought me up at an


137

orphanage in Paraguay. I lived in South America until I came
back to England in '81 when I was thirty. I worked for four years
in Humberside before going to sea.'

Her eyes had glazed over and he sensed her groaning inwardly
at the prospect of hours searching through computer records with

little hope of success. 'At least that explains your accent.'

'The brothers speak mostly German.'

A tight smile. 'That's good. We have to be careful not to issue
numbers to illegal immigrants.'

'Of course not. I understand. Why don't you telephone the
local police station? Sergeant Bilton can vouch for my story and
the port authority at Cork in Ireland will confirm I left the
Bombay Star the day before yesterday.'

They wouldn't be able to, of course, but they would at least
confirm that the ship had left. His story was as watertight as it
needed to be.

'Do you have a contact address?'

'Yes, I'm renting digs.'

'Well, that's something. You must have a permanent address.'
'I really do need to work. And to see a dentist.'

'Of course.' She noted down his address. 'Come back to see us
in two days.'

Mallory left the office with a spng in his step and a grin on his
face. He doubted the lazy cow would even bother to speak to
Sergeant Bilton or put a call through to Cork. It was so much
easier to issue a new number.

And that meant Mallory' would have his new secret identity.


On the following Friday, Maria Palechor renewed her acquaintance
with Harry Pike of Portcullis.

They met at the luxurious apartment overlooking he Thames
where she was introduced to a smart, bright female executive
called Georgina Hayes.

Hayes worked for a small anonymous security firm to which
Portcullis regularly subcontracted jobs it could not handle
because of its high public profile� An American was also at the
meeting; Dale Forster had been chosen by Hayes to head up the


138

operation. Palechor knew his type: a gung-ho soldier of fortune
who'd probably served in 'Nam, Cambodia and Laos, then
Nicaragua and E1 Salvador. Possibly ex-CIA, bitter at being shed
as surplus to requirements. Rough, tough and unlikely to ask
questions provided the money was right.

After the first meeting a Portcullis chauffeur had driven her to
the Park Lane hotel. From the foyer she used a public phone to
call a firm of City solicitors who acted for her in the UK. They
were expecting her call; all they needed was the address where the
meetings were taking place.

Within minutes the private investigator was driving towards
Pier House, a camera with telephoto lens lying beside him on the
front passenger seat.


Just over a month later, a solitary figure entered the morning
chaos that was Bogoti bus station. He wore soiled ieans and a
canvas jacket and carried a small battered rucksack over one
shoulder. It was difficult to be certain of his age or nationality.
His hair was long and greasy, his face tanned but unwashed, with
several days' growth of beard.

No one paid him a second glance. He was just another bum,
another penniless drifter. Another one of the hundreds of thousands
who floated around South America in the endless search
for a fast buck, forever in the vain hope of making a fortune.

His dog-eared British passport said he was Kurt Hulse. Each
page was stamped to overflowing with entry and exit visas going
back over five years. There were ones for virtually every country
in the continent. His last entry stamp to Colombia was a month
old, which meant there were two months left to run.

In fact, the passport had only been in his possession since the
previous night. It had been delivered to him personally in downtown
Bogota at the Hotel Presidente by a messenger from the
British Embassy. The SIS Head of Station had organised an ingeniously
authentic-looking forgery.

As far as Georgina Savage and Dale Forster were concerned,
Mallory had made his way to Bogota via Paris and Caracas travelling
under his Harry Pike identity provided by the secret ser


139

vice. But he had changed the name of the ticket-holder at the last
minute to his own new identity, that of James 'Jim' Tate. A
month earlier, the Job Centre at Aylesbury had issued him with a
new National Insurance number and P45 which he was able to
use as his basis for a passport application, bank account and
American Express membership.

He had entered Colombia as Jim Tate and intended, eventually,
to leave that way too. If ever someone was looking for Kurt
Mallory, Harry Pike or Kurt Hulse, they would have a long wait.

It was nine o'clock and the terminal was filled with passengers
waiting for buses to take them to all points of the compass. The
routes fed out from the capital like spokes of a wheel, not just
along made-up roads to other big cities, but also probing fearlessly
down miles of rutted unpaved mud tracks to the wilderness
beyond. Here, as in all of South America, the buses were the lifeline
of the impoverished population. They ranged from brightly
painted, geriatric corrientes, which offered long and often dangerous
rides at knock-down prices, to ageing pullmans and super
modern luxury coaches with air conditioning and showing
interminable Kung Fu action movies dubbed into Spanish. You
paid your money and made your choice.

Mallory picked his way through the bodies camped patiently
on the concrete concourse, past Indians with their pathetic cardboard
boxes of belongings, campesino village women with their
grubby children and trussed live chickens and down-at-heel businessmen
in their worn suits and soiled shirts. Armed police sauntered
by, a deterrent to the street urchins who waited for easy
pickings, as he scanned the tour boards above the ticket kiosks of
the bus companies: Expresso Bolivariano, Flota Magdalena,
Coopertrdn.

He reached the ticket desk beneath the Santa Maria destination
board. 'How much one way?'

'Five thousand.'

Mallory peeled off the dirty peso notes from a thin roll. 'How
long is the journey?'

'Nine hours. It leaves at half past.'

Of course, it was no surprise to Mallory when the journey ran


140

to an exhausting eleven hours, and it didn't bother him. It was a
pullman coach that had seen better years, but it was comfortable
enough with reclining chairs and a toilet, even if it failed to flush.
He even welcomed the time to adjust mentally to his new environment
and to consider the events of the past four weeks.

The arrival of Maria Palechor from Cali in London had seen
the start of planning in earnest. She had brought with her
detailed maps of the remote Pfiramo de Carcasi region, some
hundred and seventy miles northwest of Bogota by road. With
map-reading expertise acquired during his years in the SAS,
Mallory had the ability to read contour lines as easily as threedimensional
photographs. And even the clinical interpretation of
the cartographers had left him in no doubt about the wild and
unforgiving nature of the terrain - rocky Andean foothills scarred
and gouged by racing rainwater streams and waterfalls plunging
thousands of feet into precipitous canyons to form whitewater
rivers that swept away towards the Amazon basin hundreds of
miles away. Roads were nonexistent, only seasonal mud tracks
linking the few settlements worthy of a name. In short, it was the
last place on God's earth that anyone would choose to live. Those
who did would mostly be indigenous Indians, eking a living from
grazing or crops, or guerrillas of the left-wing Ejkrcito de Liberaci6n
Nacional, known more simply as the ELN.

According to Maria Palechor, the region was very much in
their control, from which it could be assumed that the rhite
Viper gang was paying a cut to allow them to operate in such a
suitably remote and inhospitable area.

She had said: 'I recall we explained that our intelligence indicates
that the gang could be operating from one of the many old
emerald mines in the district. But we don't know which. I have
checked with the land registry and have found that most are
owned by Medellin families who may have been connected with
Pablo Escobar's mafia. Several have applied for and been granted
operational licences in the past two years.'

She had then drawn a circle on the map. 'Most are in this
region, close to the Servita river.'
The area was some thirty miles from the nearest settlement of


141

Adoraci6n by mountain track, which was itself a farther twenty
miles beyond the regional town of Santa Maria. And most people
regarded Santa Maria as the end of the world; it was where the
bus terminated. To all intents and purposes the target area might
as well have been in outer space.

'We had been hoping for more detailed intelligence,' Maria
admitted.

'But?' Forster pressed.

'Our informant has disappeared and I'm afraid we fear the
worst.'

It had been a timely reminder, if one were needed, of the operational
risks involved.

With the financial arrangements agreed and in place, the
lawyer had returned to Cali to report to Ruiz Jaramillo.

Meanwhile Mario Dubois had arrived from Martinique,
closely followed by Bertram 'Goldie' Goldstein, who had just
completed a freelance operation in Athens for Mossad. With their
arrival the sombre mood of the planners was uplifted immediately,
starting with an impromptu drinks party at the apartment.

Dale Forster's evident disapproval of such high spirits had
been swiftly overcome as the two men greeted Mallory like a
long-lost brother and Mario produced a bottle of Ron Viejo de
Caldas dark rum from his suitcase. His carefree bonhomie and
roguish good humour were infectious, while Goldie, whose shy
manner, slight build, spectacles and wild hair bore more than a
passing resemblance to the comic actor Woody Alien, regaled
them with. a torrent of anti-Semitic jokes.

Mallory had noticed Savage watching them and guessed that
she was feeling somehow apart from the happy reunion. These
laughing men were blood brothers. Whatever the bond between
them, it was not one she could share. She was, like Forster, an
outsider. These men had come to know each other through the
organisation, each doing what he did for his own personal reasons,
whatever they might be. These men were the organisation's
executive arm, its secret killing machine.

Mallory wondered if she felt any sense of shame that she and
the American were using them, asking them to do what no


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human being should ever ask of another.

At one point he'd seen her glance at Forster .and the man
smiled back at her, feeling easier now, realising he had a team and
how it might all work out.

The following day, after Mario and Goldie had spent a wild
night in London's West End, they had made a start on the planning
thrashes, nursing hangovers with black coffee and aspirin.
The Israeli had suggested that to provide Mallory with hard
backup and to gain access to the area, they should pose as a
wildlife film crew. Savage had liked the idea and within twenty
four hours they were in business as independent producers, the
company registered and stationery printed. The first letters
requesting permission to film in the area were sent to the cultural attache at the British Embassy in Bogota. With them were
instructions to the SIS Head of Station to get everything rubber
stamped by the appropriate authorities using any means possible.
That, in Colombia, would no doubt require bribery, corruption
and even discreet threats of blackmail on occasions. Meanwhile arrangements were made through the BBC Wildlife Unit in
Bristol for the two men to attend a crash course that would
enable them to pass themselves off convincingly. Special communications
equipment was hastily adapted to be secreted within
the filming and sound equipment.

Savage and Forster would operate through one of the many
United Nations development agencies, evaluating needs in
deprived areas. That in itself would guarantee the opening of
doors via the local authorities - and, for that matter, indigenous
guerrillas - anxious for aid funding. Forster made light of any
problems; clearly US intelligence agencies had used such
'authentic' cover many times before.

While Savage would carry communications equipment to keep
in touch with the wildlife film crew, Forster himself would
arrange for the international co-ordination needed when, hopefully,
the entire White Viper operation was closed down at a
stroke. Already they'd seen the benefits of the American's
involvement. He had arranged for an Intelligence Support
Activity agent on the ground to overfly the emerald mine area to


143

take high-resolution photographs. As a result they were ninety
five per cent certain they had identified the exact location of the
base and its layout: laboratory, radio shack, bunkhouses, watchtowers
and defences.

In addition, Forster had persuaded allies in Washington to
access the DEA computer in Bogot for all British nationals who
had entered Colombia legally in the previous two years and those
who had subsequently departed. That left a balance of over three hundred. Somewhere in that list would be the thirty-odd men
running White Viper.

Now Mallory felt more relaxed, leaning back in his seat as the
pullman left the grey concrete towers of Bogoti far in the distance
and sped through the rolling green countryside. It reminded him
a little of the Welsh valleys, except for the Spanish styling of the
haciendas and the accumulations of roadside garbage.

There was a lunch stop at the town of Tunja, after which
Mallory found he had a fellow passenger seated next to him. He
was a small middle-aged man with bright raisin eyes, the grey
whiskers on his weathered face not quite dense enough to make
a beard. From his scruffy denim dungarees and battered straw
stetson, Mallory guessed he was a farmer. The man confirmed
this as the pullman began the next leg of its journey.

Introducing himself as Victor Tafur, he offered a bag of boiled
sweets. 'It's the first time I've been to Tunja in fifteen years. It's
changed a lot.'

'You're travelling all the way to Santa Maria?'

'Yes. My daughter meets me to drive me back to our smallholding.'
'Whereabouts is it?'

'Just a place they call Cruz de Oro.'

'It's a village?'

The man chuckled. 'Hardly that, my friend. There is a mission
chapel and a few farms like mine and a scattering of houses.
Mostly Indians live in this area. Hardly even a settlement. Our
nearest real village is Adoraci6n and that is just one street.'

Mallory recognised the name; clearly the farmer did not live far
from the emerald mine encampment that the Vipers used. 'What


144

brings you to Tunja?'

'I was looking for a lawyer - I am trying to sell my land.'

'It's a long way to come. Isn't there a lawyer in Adoracirn?
And there must be several in a big town like Santa Maria.'

Tafur shook his head sadly. 'But no one I can trust, I am

afraid. Maybe eighteen months ago, or even a year, but not now.'
'Why, what's the problem?'

Suddenly Victor Tafur looked wary. 'Ah, well, things have
changed in the region. There is much influential money slushing
around. And lawyers can be bought just like policemen and
judges.'

Mallory was genuinely puzzled. 'What's that got to do with you
selling your land?'

Tafur shrugged and stroked thoughtfully at the wisps of his
beard. 'Let us just say that I want to choose who I sell my land
tO.'

Then Mallory had an idea of what lay behind the farmer's
problems. There had to be a connection. He asked discreetly:
'How else have things changed in your district?'

Tafur's eyes squinted against the light as he stared at his fellow
passenger, wondering if he'd already said too much to a total
stranger. 'It is still the same beautiful place of my childhood. My
father's home and his before him. The life is hard for little
reward, but we survive. We do not ask for much. Only now it is
not a place where I would want my children's children to grow
up.'

'The guerrillas?' Mallory asked.

A hint of a smile crossed the farmer's face. 'Well, their presence
does not help, but many are the sons of my neighbours and
they give us no trouble. But then it is better that I do not talk of
this.' His change of tack was quite deliberate. 'So why do you
travel to Santa Maria, my friend? You have relatives there? But I
think your accent is not from these parts?'

'I was brought up in Paraguay, but actually I'm English.'

Tafur's mouth dropped. 'A gringo? By the Holy Virgin, I cannot
believe that!'

They laughed a lot at that and Tafur explained that he'd spent


145

time in America during his twenties when he went to agricultural
college. Now his English was rusty, he said, but immediately
began to put it into practice.

'It is many years since I was in England,' Mallory said. 'I'm
goiag to Santa Maria to find a job - I like to bum around and just
pay my way.'

'I'here are not many jobs in Santa Maria.'

'I'd heard some emerald mines had reopened. I know something
about that.' In fact, until a month earlier Mallory had
known virtually nothing about such work; Savage had organised
a crash course on the subject for him.

'lnat may be true,' Tafur replied evasively, 'but I doubt they'll
offer work to strangers.'

'Xgrhat about your farm, sefior? I'm good with horses and live
stock.'

The farmer laughed. 'I cannot even pay myself, Sefior Hulse,
much as I would like a good helper around the place.'

'I'd work for one meal a day and somewhere to sleep.'

Tafur regarded him for a moment, instinctively taking a liking
to this foreigner with his strange accent. 'We will see. At least you
must come and visit us, meet my wife and our daughters. If you
still have no work, maybe we can talk about it.'

Mallory gave a nod of appreciation. 'And tell me, did you find
a suitable lawyer in Tunja?'

'I am afraid not. Their fees would be more than my farm is
worth. So I am afraid I will be there for many more years to come. '

e pullman had now begun its steady climb up into the
Andean foothills. Paved road gave way to a narrow track of rutted
red earth that clung tenaciously to the precipitous contours of
a vast river canyon. Far below, through a veil of mist that floated
like a false ceiling, the mighty Chicamocha seethed and foamed
along its course, silvery green until it burst in a white fury over
the rocky crags of the rapids, ever fed by the streams running off
the Drown and rock-mottled hills, eroding deep fissures until the
peaks resembled the damaged knuckles of a prize fighter who had
fought once too often.


146

Despite the twists and turns and gaping chasm, where earlier
landslides had eaten into the track, the driver saw no need for
caution. His foot seemed glued to the accelerator. Campesinos driving
their beat-up cars were contemptuously overtaken, regardless
of looming hairpin bends. He would hoot at struggling chiva
buses, with their rattling wooden bodywork and belching
exhausts, to pull over and let him pass.

Mallory wondered just what it was about the macho Latin psyche
that transformed a man the moment he sat behind a steering
wheel. Could the pullman driver really be that oblivious to the
countless little trackside shrines in memory of those who had
gone before, diced with death and lost? Was the man throwing
down a gauntlet to fate, challenging it to do its worst? Life in this
godforsaken place was cruel and cheap, always on the edge. So
why not push it a little closer, a little harder? You were going to
die soon enough anyway. Viva la muerte! Long live death and let's
fuck the angels!

Twilight settled in and with it came the rain, drumming on the
roof and running in torrents across the mountain track. The tyres
of the pullman spun and slid and squelched in a morass of ochre
mud while, ahead, the single working headlamp picked out the
trackside shrines in its sweep. More plaster Madonnas, wooden
crosses and faded colour photographs. The driver's teenage assistant,
or ayudante, opened the front concertina door and hung out
on the step to give a commentary and warning of the next looming
hazard. And the pullman thundered on.

Villages were few and far between now, just occasional clusters
of adobi houses beside the road, perched precariously on the
canyon edge. Far out in the distant misty void, lights began twinkling
like stars as Indians lit candles in their remote homestead
shacks. Somehow those isolated signals of humanity served to
emphasise the aching emptiness of the bleak landscape. Then the
night closed in completely, absorbing them in swathes of white
vapour as the pullman climbed into the cloud base.

By the time they stopped in the narrow, single main street of
Colonia San Miguelita, where the houses, shops and bars opened
straight onto the rain-sluiced and broken tarmac, the coach was


147

two hours behind schedule. The driver had parked outside a cafg
where he planned to have his supper and some beers. Mallory
was relieved that the man was at least taking a break. After some
relaxation and with a hot meal inside him, there was a better
chance that he'd continue the manic journey without hurtling the
pullman and all its hapless passengers into some unseen abyss.

'I could do with stretching my legs,' Victor Tafur said. 'Do you
fancy a drink, amigo?'

Mallory followed him through the squeeze of children who had
gathered by the pullman's exit to quiz the passengers about
everything and anything. Who were they, where were they going,
where had they come from, where did they live, what did they do?
The pullman's stopover was the highlight of their day. Inside,
candles threw macabre shadows around the walls and reduced
the calf's customers to sinister, half-lit ghosts.

'Power lines down?' Tafur asked as the barman served two
anis-flavoured aguardientes.

'Yes, all over the area as far as Santa Maria.'

The farmer lifted his glass. 'Welcome, mi amigo, to the land
that God - and everyone else - forgot.'

It was to be almost another three hours before the pullman
finally rolled into the Santa Maria bus station a few minutes
before midnight. Rain sheeted from a thunderous sky, setting the
lacquered puddles dancing as the passengers stepped wearily
down to the ruptured concrete concourse.

In the couple of seconds that it took Mallory to say farewell to
Victor Tafur, he was soaked and his hair flattened. Steam began
rising from his clothes as he shouldered his rucksack. With no
lights on anywhere, he fumbled like a blind man along an alleyway
towards one of the streets that led to the town plaza.
Thankfully, like most South American towns, it was built to a
grid pattern and it was relatively easy to find one's way about
without getting lost.

His boots splashed through an inch of water as the concreted
street became a fast-flowing stream, carrying the deluge away to
the lower slopes. Tripping over the broken and uneven sidewalks,
he felt his way past the walls of shuttered houses and shops.


148

Then, suddenly, he was outside the entrance of an hotel, its sig
illuminated by a thoughtfully placed Gaz lamp. El Imperial. A
eleven dollars a night, it was the nearest Santa Maria had o a lux
ury hotel. Above him, in one of those unlit windows, he knex
Georgina Savage would be sleeping. Unless she had lain awake
worrying about him. Thinking about him. Wanting him, ever
He felt a sudden stirring of warmth beneath his sodden jeans.

He put the thought firmly from his mind and walked on. Barel
fifty metres and he reached the plaza, the presence of its tree
only discernible by the rustling of their leaves beneath
remorseless patter of rain. Even the huge edifice of the cathedra
which dominated the centre had melted completely into the in
gloom.

Two small hotels, Tafur had informed him, cheap and not s,
cheerful, both on the square. He stumbled into the first, barel'.
able to read its signboard - La Concordia - in the darkness
Cracked hallway tiles led to an unmanned reception desk and
collection of sagging sofas. The hotel had ben built around thi
central lobby area; several levels of balconies and rows of bed
room doors faced in on all sides. High above was a fanlight o
which the rain rattled like gravel; a rapid drip of water plinke,
loudly into an old copper spittoon positioned for the purpose
After he'd rung the bell several times, a fat mestico woman wad.
died in from a room behind the desk. Rubbing the sleep from he:
eyes, she was clearly unamused at being disturbed. Yes, she ha
a room available - three dollars a night and a shared lavatory
the landing. He followed as she shuffled up the creaking woodel
stairs by torchlight and along the balcony of the first floor.
lock on the door was missing, he noticed, as she pushed it ope,
to reveal the bare, unpainted cell. An army of cockroaches van
ished at the sudden influx of light as she played the beam over th
bed with its moth-eaten cover a cracked porcelain washbasin an
a wooden chair.

'Okay?' she asked, lighting the candle that stood in a saucer
the seat of the chair,

'Home from home,' he murmured.

But either she didn't hear or didn't care, and left him to it with.


149

out a further word.

He unpacked his old sleeping bag and rolled it out on top of
the bed. He never travelled without it; it was his projection
against other people's fleas, other people's lice. Within seconds of
climbing in, fully clothed, he had fallen into a deep and dreamless
sleep.

It had begun.

7

Georgina Savage was already awake as
the first pearly radiance of dawn
seeped into the eastern sky. In fact she had slept badly, disturbed by the relentless Andean rain and wondering
about Mallory. Presumably he'd survived the treacherous
journey from Bogota, but was he on schedule and now in town?

The previous day had gone well for her and Dale Forster.
Their journey had been made fortyeight hours earlier, travelling
in a white Chrysler Cherokee which the American had arranged
to be liveried with blue United Nations transfer symbols. This
affectation would not have been the normal practice of that institution,
but Forster wanted their presence to be high-profile and
above suspicion. He saw the advantages in everyone being aware
that the UN was in town and for the purpose of their research to
be public knowledge.

Yesterday had begun with a meeting with the town's
Administrator, who had greeted them warmly and had coffee and
biscuits brought by his secretary. A small ferret-faced man, he
had been anxious to find out how muct aid money might be lavished
on his area, and Savage guessed by the particular line of his
questions, how easy it would be to syphon off a percentage of it for himself.

Forster had obviously been here before. He made it sound as
though the money was almost a foregone conclusion if the
Administrator co-operated with them fully and put up a good
case to satisfy the UN commissioners.

'Of course, much will depend on our having access to the surrounding
area,' he had explained. 'We have to be free to visit the
outlying villages where money on irrigation and healthcare pro151


grammes might be spent.'

The Administrator had been relaxed and expansive. 'That is no
problem. We can arrange for a police or army escort for you - the
guerrillas, you understand.'

Forster had nodded. 'I understand, but nothing can really be
achieved without the co-operation of those people. We really
can't have ourselves or other UN workers later being seen as targets
by the guerrillas. It's my understanding that many of them
are drawn from the local population. They must be made to
realise that the results of our mission will be of benefit to their
own villages and families.' He paused for effect. 'Do you think
that a meeting could be arranged between us and the local guerrilla
leadership?'

The man had sucked on his teeth. 'Ah, now that might pro,e
difficult. Our only contact with them is usually over the sights of
a rifle.'

Lying bastard, both Forster and Savage had thought. In a
remote region like this, there had to be give and take. A little honest
horse-trading. Otherwise the guerrillas could overrun the
town, just as the army could mount a sweep-and-destroy operation
over the surrounding hills. Far safer for the status quo to be
maintained by mutual standoff. Live and let live. In South
America there was a certain natural order about things and there
was little doubt that here, too, the warring parties found a way to
compromise whenever it suited them.

'Anyway, give it some thought,' Forster had concluded as he
rose to shake hands. If it suited the Administrator, he would
probably find a way.

Savage recalled the prolonged meeting as she showered and
dressed in beige safari culottes and a coffee-coloured blouse.
Throwing open the window, she peered down into the rough
concrete-paved street. It was bustling already with colourful and
rattling chiva buses, ancient American limos, and Japanese pickups,
all plying their trade. The sunlit sidewalks were filled with
shabbily dressed townsfolk and campesinos who'd come in for a
morning's shopping; ragged denims and straw sombreros were
much in evidence. After the blackout and pitiless downpour of


152

the previous night, she found herself sharing the people's obvious
sense of recharged vitality in the rain-freshened air and the gathering
warmth of the sun. It showed in the friendly waves and the
happily gossiping women on the street corners.

She hadn't quite known what to expect to find in Santa Maria.
Fully aware of the dangers that awaited them, she had anticipated
that the town would somehow be dark and dangerous, with menace
lurking in every shadow. Certainly the bright and pretty, if
run-down, adobi buildings and the cheerful inhabitants lingering
in the leafy main plaza had all come as a surprise - and not a
little relief.

'Are you up?'

She turned to find Dale Forster standing at her door. 'Sure,
but next time would you mind knocking? I could have been taking
a shower.'

He grinned, unperturbed. 'Just my luck you weren't, rosebud.
Anyway the door was open - not a clever idea anywhere south of
Mexico.' ..

Savage felt a rush of irritation. 'Is it my hearing or did I miss
the apology? And the door was open because the lock is bust. Just
like the sink plug is missing.'

There was an unmistakable look of mockery in those smiling
eyes. 'You've operated in South America before, so you ought to
know Rule Number One. Always pack a door-jamb device and a
universal basin plug.'

'Thanks for that, Dale,' she retorted, nevertheless aware that
he had a point; overlooking such basic essentials made her feel
rather foolish. 'Now would you like to tell me what plans you
have for the day?'

'Let's talk about it over breakfast, rosebud.'

'Fine,' she replied with a tight smile, 'just as long as you stop
calling me that.'

He feigned surprise at her complaint. 'A sweet English rose,
that's all.'

'Get stuffed, Dale.'

He'd changed, she thought, as they crossed the road to the
court3,ard cantina that had an arrangement with the hotel to


153

supply breakfast for its guests. From almost the moment they'd
set foot in Colombia, the American had become a different man.
Back in London his behaviour had reminded Savage of some corporate
executive, tense and tight-lipped with a distinct lack of
humour, shrewd and utterly focused as he assembled the team
and planned the operational details. Now he seemed more
relaxed, perhaps happier being in the field, at the sharp end. But
if that sense of freedom was going to result in his trying to lord it
over her and lapse into patronising sexism, then she intended
Forster would be in for a rude awakening.

'Maybe today we should enlist the help of the town priest,' the
American said. It didn't surprise her that he'd gone native and
ordered potato soup for his breakfast.

'Never a bad idea in South America,' she replied. Priests were
always a fount of knowledge in rural areas. And not to be outdone
she ordered a santafereo, bread and cheese that was eaten
after dunking it in the accompanying drink of hot chocolate.

That caused Forster's eyebrows to rise, she noted with amusement,
but he didn't comment, simply saying: 'The priest can get
us the informal introductions to those who really count - doctors,
teachers, local businessmen. Maybe we can get the priest's help
to set up a public meeting to spread the word that the UN being
here is good news.'

Savage smiled. 'Ever thought, Dale, that maybe you're in the
wrong job?'

Ir was just then that she noticed him. A nondescript individual
in torn jeans, a canvas jacket and baseball cap had sauntered into
the cantina. He was unshaven with long greasy hair and his
shoulders hunched as he sat down alone at a table. She heard him
ask the waitress in colloquial Spanish what was the cheapest meal
they had, then ordered vegetable soup and bread.

Only then did she realise with a small thrill of satisfaction that
Forster hadn't recognised him.


The single-engined Piper bucked and tossed on the afternoon
thermals and Peter Stafford found himself peering through the
scratched perspex windows at the fragile, trembling wings. With


154

a kind of detached and morbid curiosity, he wondered when they
were going to snap off.

You can't allow yourself to believe you're really here, he told
himself. Not letting some macho police pilot practise his aerobatics
while you sit cramped up in this little eggshell with four
other passengers and their luggage. Not trusting your life to this
frail craft being thrown around the sky at the whim of the crosswinds.
Not flying low between the bleak canyon sides of the
Chicamocha river that carved its way through these forbidding
mountains. Really believe where you are and you'll throw up or
shit yourself. And not necessarily in that order.

How many times in his life had he been driving a car when he'd
had a breakdown? Nine, ten times? And here he was in an aircraft
with a similar engine which was probably badly maintained like
most things mechanical on this continent. Even if the pilot was a
bloody genius, there was nowhere to land in an emergency.
Everywhere just rocky peaks and precipitous slopes or else raging
rivers. --

Before he'd left he'd promised himself two things, as any sane
and rational man might. That he wouldn't fly in anything that
didn't have at least two engines and that he'd never fly in the
afternoons when the Andean thermals were at their most unpredictable.
And here he was, doing both. Why?

Well, he knew the answer to that one. You don't reply to some
mysterious ad in Soldier of Fortune magazine, get short-listed for
some no-questions-asked mission to Colombia and be interviewed
by two bruisers whose muscle weight Arnold
Schwarzenegger would have envied, get paid a small fortune in
used dollar bills, only to complain that you didn't like flying in
small aircraft. These people, whoever they were, weren't paying
for wimps.

Warrant Officer First Class in the British Paras. That's what
had appealed to them. Up through the ranks of the red-bereted
headbangers, working boy made good with the social niceties of
the officer class learned quickly as a necessary extra for the mess.
They liked that, just as they had no problem with the fact that
he'd been dishonourably discharged from Her Majesty's Armed


155

Forces. Pete Stafford had tried to evade his interviewers' questions,
but the men were faultless in their technique. Hard man,
soft man.

'If we find out you've been lying to us later,' Beavis, apparently
a one-time corporal in the Prince of Wales's Own, had promised,
'we'll break your fuckin' legs off and feed 'em to the condors.'

'You can tell us the truth,' said the other, a former Marine
whom he knew only as Clan. 'After all, we aren't exactly looking
for sodding social workers.'

And when Stafford had finally admitted his discharge had followed
him being caught in flagrante delicto with the battalion
commander's wife, Beavis and Clan seemed highly amused.
Instantly it had been deemed worthy of another round of drinks
from the bar of the Las Vegas hotel. However, that first application,
some twelve months earlier, had not proved successful,
although they told him he'd at least made their shortlist. So he
had returned to Britain, jobless and penniless. And he was still in
that unhappy state, struggling on a computer retraining course,
when he'd received the surprise telephone call a week earlier.

'We need a replacement,' Beavis told him without much preamble.
'If you're still interested, we'll cable you the money for an
economy ticket to the States. As far as family and friends are concerned,
that's where you'll be for the next year, working on oil
exploration in the desert and not reachable by phone. We'll give
you a post office box number in Miami. All uniform and kit provided.
The pay's a thousand dollars a week and a ten thousand
annual bonus after the first year.' He added ominously: 'Which
you will collect.' It was obviously not a job you were expected to
quit.

So here he was. Overnight flight to Miami, changing airlines to
Bogot via Caracas and a regular internal flight to Bucaramanga,
the capital of the up-country state of Santander. Then it was to
be a scheduled Aerataca flight by twin-engined Otter through the
Andes to the remote strip at Santa Maria. Only it wasn't to be,
because it had been cancelled. Guerrillas had phoned a warning
to say they'd mined the landing area. This happened regularly,
the bored desk attendant informed him. Usually they were
156

hoaxes, but not always, and the airline wasn't prepared to take
the risk.

Infuriated at a day's delay, Stafford had found himself commiserating
with two fellow would-be travellers. Introducing
themselves as Goldie and Mario, they explained that they were a
natural history film unit under contract to the BBC. Apparently
they planned to make Santa Maria their base while they recorded
the life - and no doubt sex lives, Stafford thought with a smirk of
the animal kingdom.

'I don't want to spend another night at that hotel,' Goldie, the
Jewish cameraman, said. 'Security's piss poor and there are no
locks on the doors. Someone tried to break in last night, and
there's us with fuck knows how many thousand pounds worth of
kit. Our luck can't hold, some thieving little snot will get his
hands on something.'

'Maybe there's some other private commercial flight going,'
the man's partner, Mario, suggested. He was a big, mustachioed
man from Martinique. ..

The desk attendant smiled. 'Why don't you speak to someone
in the police office? They fly out regularly to Santa Maria. If
they'll take you, we'll refund them your fare.'

It was another of those commonplace South American
arrangements. Not exactly illegal, but it was hardly ethical for
police pilots to combine operational flights with a little private
enterprise and to pocket the profits. Nevertheless it resolved the
problem for Stafford and the natural history unit because the
police Piper was due to fly in an army colonel to investigate the
guerrilla threat. That had left room for three more passengers
plus the film equipment.

The little aircraft dropped suddenly in an airpocket, a sickening
sensation like the fall and abrupt arrest of a lift in a shaft.
'God, I'm going to be sick,' muttered the cameraman. He was

wedged tightly between Stafford and Mario the sound-man.
'Not over my recording gear, thank you!'

The pilot overheard and laughed. 'If anyone throws up in my
airplane, he walks the rest of the way.' He brought the nose of the
Piper round, tilting the wings so they could see the awesome


157

range of cuchillas. Bare, desolate and inhospitable. 'There, can
you see? Up ahead is Santa Maria.'

Light reflected on the sprawling mass of adobi buildings spread
across a plateau atop the canyon wall at two thousand metres
above sea level. Even from that distance Stafford could make out
the symmetrical grid of streets around the bright greenery of the
central plaza where the tiered frontage of the cathedral glistened
like sugar icing in the westering sun.

What a bloody stupid place to have a town, Stafford mused.
Before the days of air travel, it could only have been reached by
miles of tortuous mountain track. And why had they thought it
necessary to build not just a humble chapel, or even a modest
church, but a sodding great cathedral? In his mind's eye he could
just visualise the hundreds of mule carts lugging building materials
up the mountainside.

Mario might have been reading his thoughts. 'Es magnifico, eh,


Stafford nodded. 'But why here, in this place?'

The man smiled. 'I see you do not understand South America.
In such a place it is important that God's presence be seen. To
create such a wonder is not just a feat of human endeavour, it is
an act of faith.'

As the pilot levelled out, Stafford could now see the grass strip
on the outskirts of the town. It was cut like a shelf into the mountainside,
sloping slightly to slow incoming flights and to add speed
to those aircraft taking off straight out over the river canyon.

He found his knuckles tensing as the strip grew rapidly to fill
the cockpit windscreen, aware that if the pilot was just a few feet
too low they'd fly smack into the rock beneath the shelf- an
instant fireball. Then they were down, wheels hitting hard and
the plane bouncing skyward. Stafford held his breath. From the corner of his eye he saw Mario cross himself. Down again, then
up like a rubber ball, each jump less energetic than the last, until
they were running smoothly over the cropped grass and the tail
finally came down.

'Fuck me,' the cameraman muttered, 'who taught this arsehole
how to fly?'


158

But the pilot had not heard, instead transforming instantly into
a Grand Prix driver, spinning his Piper round with.abandon and
racing towards the perimeter fence.

Relief only swept through Stafford once the whine of the
engine finally died and the hatch doors sprang open.

As their luggage and the film crew's equipment were unloaded
from the rear compartment, Goldie lit himself a cigarette. 'Would
you like to share a taxi into town?'

Stafford shook his head and scanned the motley collection of
parked vehicles beyond the perimeter gate. 'No thanks, I think
I'm being met.'

'A-h, I see. Anyway, Pete, I've been rude. Didn't ask what an
Englishman's doing in this wild west town?'

For a moment Stafford almost forgot his cover story. 'Er, I'm
a mining engineer.'

Mario nodded, grinning widely. 'Emeralds, eh?'

Surprise registered on the Englishman's face. 'How did you
know?' 'There
are plenty around here, it's well known. I used to be in
that game myself.'

Stafford lowered his voice. 'Well, keep it to yourselves. I don't
think my bosses want it spread around.'

Mario agreed. 'This region is full of bandidos, guerrilleros and undesirable types who'd steal the coins from their dead grandmother's
eyes.'

Just then Pete Stafford noticed Beavis. He was standing next to
a brown Range Rover by the gate. 'That's my lift. Say, perhaps
we can drop you off somewhere?'

Goldie grinned. 'Sure, that would be good. We're staying at
the Imperial. They say it's the only hotel worthy of the name.'

Brian Beavis watched impassively as their recruit approached
carrying a canvas kitbag over one shoulder and an aluminium
photographer's case in his other hand. Pete Stafford was talking
to the two men by his side, a raw-boned Latino with a drooping
moustache and a straw trilby and a skinny Jew with thick-rimmed
spectacles who reminded Beavis of some comedy actor whose
name escaped him.


159

'Who the luck is Stafford talking to?' Clan Crabtree asked from
the driver's window. 'They're loaded with bloody film equipment,
and he's carrying some of their stuff. Isn't that a bloody
BBC sticker on it? Jesus, all we need's a fuckin' Panorama team!'

Beavis grunted. He was a big man; he'd tortured his mother
when he'd been born at twelve pounds thirty-six years earlier and
hadn't looked back since. Now the shaven bullet head and short
neck sat appropriately on a combined fat-and-muscle weight of
sixteen stone. He looked every bit the experienced mercenary he
was, right down to the frosty blue eyes set deep in a weathered
square face. A nose that had been broken in two places completed
the picture. 'Don't worry, Clan, I'll mark the bastard's card.'

'Hi, Mr Beavis,' Stafford called in greeting. 'Sorry, if you've

been hanging around. You heard the flight was cancelled?'

'I heard.'

'I met these two guys on the flight. They're making a wildlife
documentary. I wondered if we might drop them off at their
hotel?'

Beavis's eyes did not blink and he did not speak for several
seconds. Stafford started to feel uncomfortable, realising he'd
said the wrong thing.

Goldie shuffled his feet. 'Look, no problem if it's out of your
way. It's a bit of an imposition.'

Beavis glanced at Crabtree, who shrugged. 'Chuck your stuff
in the back.' No point in drawing attention by being unneighbourly,
he decided.

Five minutes later both cameraman and sound-man stood outside
the hotel, surrounded by their equipment, as the Range
Rover sped away. They said nothing, but looked at each other for
a moment and shared a knowing grin.

'Listen, Stafford,' Beavis said darkly as Crabtree negotiated the
plaza and took the country road towards the village of Adoraci6n,
'don't you ever pull a stunt like that again. While you work for us,
you keep yourself to yourself, savvy? Don't talk to strangers about anything. The boss has strict rules about that and breaking them
is punishable by having your balls crushed in a nutcracker. Just the
presence of gringos round here gets tongues wagging and wagging


160

tongues start speculating, and we don't encourage speculation.'

Pete Stafford sat on the rear bench seat and offered an apology.
'I just didn't think. It won't happen again.'

'Too right,' Crabtree retorted. He was a similar build to Beavis
but five years younger and physically fitter. His cropped hair was
dark and he had a bayonet scar that showed white against the
tanned skin of his right cheek. 'And you certainly don't talk to
anyone from the media.'

'They were hardly media. They're a freelance production company
working for the BBC natural history unit...'

'And you'd be none the wiser if they were fuckin' World In
Action,' Beavis cut in. 'You'll soon learn that in Colombia nothing
is what it seems.'

Stafford was starting to realise that fast. And no doubt that
included the outfit Beavis and Crabtree worked for. If this emerald
mine was kosher, they'd hardly object to him talking to a
wildlife film team. Either the mine itself was operating illegally or
its production of precious stones was being smuggled abroad.
Still, he could live with that if the money was good enough.

Crabtree was saying: 'Not that you'll get much chance to talk
to strangers. The camp's thirty bone-shakin' klicks from the nearest
settlement. A boil on the arse end of the world. You stay in
camp until we decide we can trust you to keep your trap shut and
stay relatively sober. Then you might be allowed out for some R
and R on a Saturday night once a month. The local whores aren't
worth a shag unless you put a bin bag over their heads.' He
chuckled at his own description. 'Still, we never promised you life
here would be easy. And we've a good stock of bin bags.'

The roughly paved streets of Santa Maria had given way to a
rutted laterite track that followed a switchback course down the
steep brown slopes of the canyon towards the wide river valley
beyond. They overtook a chugging chiva, packed with dirty-looking
campesinos, splashing puddle water on the gaily painted bus
side as they passed.

'How many guys in the team?' Stafford inquired.

'Thirty now we're back up to full strength,' Beavis answered.
'There's usually around twenvy at the camp at any one time. The


161

rest will be out on errands or riding shotgun for a consignment
delivery.'

So that's it, Stafford decided. A hired gun to protect emerald
couriers. Oh well, it was better than sitting in a classroom unable
to make head nor tail of a computer program. 'What exactly am
I expected to do?'

Crabtree laughed harshly, expertly lighting a cigarette single
handed as he swerved to miss a looming pothole. 'Anything and
everything, matey. You told us you'd be happy doin' whatever
and not asking questions. That's why you're here.'

Beavis added: 'You said at your interview that you were good
at motor mechanics, but not qualified. Well, our ex-REME
grease monkey has just lost his number two, so we thought you
could fill in. Plenty of work to do with roads like these and spares
are difficult if not impossible to get hold of. You need a PhD in
Creative Engineering to work here, so you won't be getting much
free time.

'But you'll still be expected to take your turn on guard duties
- the area's swarming with gun-happy ELN guerrillas and the campesinos round here will nick your Y-fronts if you drop 'em for
a crap. Then there's the police and army. They're based back in
Santa Maria and don't venture out much for fear of the ELN.
But that doesn't mean they're not capable of mounting a raid and
if they do, we have to be ready to stand fast and give them a
bloody nose.'

'We certainly can't trust our Colombian partners farther than
we can throw them,' Crabtree added, negotiating the ruts beside
a dizzying drop into the valley. 'Bunch of gung-ho wankers until
the shit hits the fan, then the chances are you wouldn't see them
for dust.'

'Partners?' Stafford queried.

'Yeah, you don't operate in Colombia without the local mafia's
say-so. Officially their boys run camp security, but whenever
there's one of them, there needs to be two of us. More trouble
than they're worth, but we have to live with it. Pedro the Peasant
takes care of our local policing needs.'

hat do you mean?'


162

'Pedro's the Colombians' head honcho,' Crabtree explained,
'all bandoleers and machetes. It's his job to police the local population.
Not everyone approves of us being here or wants to cooperate.
Pedro makes sure they keep their complaints to
themselves and assists us when necessary - or if not, his boys slap

their legs or sometimes silence them for good.'

Stafford swallowed hard.

Beavis noticed. 'I hope you're going to have the stomach for
life here, Pete. South America can make Northern Ireland or

Bosnia seem like Disneyland.'

'I can hack it.'

'I do hope so. We weren't sure about you before, that's why
you weren't on our first selection. Much as we approved of you
bonking your CO's wife, there are more inspiring reasons for
being discharged from the army.'

Oh dear, sweet Maud - you gorgeous dyed-blonde, forty
something nymphomaniac - why ever did you tempt me? He
sighed. 'You mean criminal?' -

Beavis smiled gently. 'Let's say reasons that showed a healthy
disregard for law and order, because out here that's exactly what
you'll need.'

Stafford felt increasingly out of his depth and hid it with a sudden
surge of irritation. 'I told you, I can hack it.'

'Harry will make sure you can,' Crabtree intervened with a

smirk, 'believe me.'

'Harry?'

'Harry Morgan, our boss. One of your own, Pete, an ex-Para.
Eats people like you for breakfast!'

Both men laughed at their shared private joke.

'Oh, shit!'

Crabtree hit the brakes as they rounded the blind bend and the
Range Rover slithered to a reluctant halt in the churned red mud.
Some fifty metres ahead a log had been placed across the road
where half a dozen scruffy individuals had gathered, all armed
with a mixed collection of weapons. One stood to the fore: a
young, slim man with a toothbrush moustache on his upper lip
and an absurdly wide white sombrero with a pointed top.


163

Stafford gulped. 'Who are they?'

'Local guerrilleros,' Beavis replied tetchily. 'And that's the Cisco
Kid - their leader.'

Stafford had only ever seen a brief clip of the 1950s "IV
Western series for kids, but he instantly saw the resemblance to
the dapper cowboy hero.

'I'll reverse up,' Crabtree decided, looking back over his shoulder
as he changed gear.

'No!' Beavis countermanded. He reached under his seat and
produced two Ingram 9mm sub-machine guns. 'If we back down

now, they'll think they've got us running scared. Bad psychology.'
'If you're sure, Brian.' Crabtree clearly wasn't.

Beavis handed one of the weapons over the back seat to
Stafford. 'Poke that out your window. But keep it down, not
pointed at anyone. Just let 'em know we're ready. If the balloon
goes up, take out as many as you can, starting with Cisco.' He
watched for a couple of seconds as Stafford released the mag,
checked the breech, and reloaded. Good, he thought, the boy
doesn't panic in a crisis. Beavis liked a man with a cool head. He
said: 'Drive on, Clan. Nice 'n' steady.'

The huge tyres spun for a grip, the four-wheel drive finally biting,
and the vehicle lurched clear of the criss-crossed furrows.

Five guerrillas were still spread in line behind their leader,
weapons held at port. Calm and confident, not yet threatening.
In the rear, Stafford lowered his window and let the Ingram rest
casually along the sill as he scanned the sparse undergrowth and
rock clusters for signs of a stop group behind them. None. This
wasn't so bad, he thought. Fucking amateurs.

Crabtree eased on the brakes and leaned out of his window,
aware that the guerrilla leader could see the second Ingram at rest
in Beavis's lap. 'Hi, Cisco, how you doing?'

The brown baby-face with its dark eyes peered in. He was
ridiculously pretty with pouting full lips and long, dark lashes.
'Sefior Clan.'

'Yeah, yeah,' the mercenary confirmed, 'and this is Sefior
Brian, who you know, and a new guy in the back who you don't.
Sefor Pete. He's a Para. Don't mix with him if you know what's


164

good for you - he's one mean hombre.'

Cisco inclined his head towards Stafford in acknowledgement,
his eyes fixed on the Ingram.

'So what's the problem?' Crabtree asked. 'Collectin' road tax
again? Now you know we don't pay your road tax, so be a good
chico and shift that log.'

A flicker of irritation showed in the guerrilla's eyes. 'Quisiero
ver El Seor Harry. Pront6 por favor.'

'What's he say?' Beavis asked.

'Dunno. Something about Harry.'

Stafford gave a polite cough, 'Er, I think he says he wants to
see Sefior Harry as soon as possible.'

'Speak the lingo, do you?' Beavis asked, his surprise edged with
sarcasm.

'Just schoolboy stuff. It's a bit rusty.'

'Ask him why he wants to see Harry.'

Stafford obliged. 'He says it's a private matter between the two
of them.'

Beavis's cheeks coloured. 'Cheeky spick. Okay, say we'll pass
the message on - if he opens this fuckin' track and let's us get on
with our business!'

This time Stafford stumbled over his words, but Cisco followed
the general drift. Grudgingly he backed offand ordered his
men to drag the log to one side.

'He'll be wanting to renegotiate his slice of the action,'
Crabtree decided, gunning up the big V6 engine. 'Harry pays
Cisco and his merry men an amount each month to keep them
off our backs. Not exactly protection money, because we could
easily give them a bloody nose. But it's worth it just to avoid the
hassle. Trouble is, the slimebags are always wanting more.'

'We also promised them some decent arms,' Beavis added,
'and a spot of training. But Harry's stalling on that. Maybe that's
Cisco's beef?.'

Stafford glanced over his shoulder. The chiva they had passed
earlier was now halted by the log which was back across the road.
Campesinos were spilling out of the vehicle at gunpoint. 'How do
the locals take to being turned over by the guerrillas?'


165

Beavis laughed. 'With resignation - a lot are probably related
anyway. Most of them have got fuck all, so there's nothing to rob.
Anyone who's got anything of value - say, a few dollars - will
keep it in his socks or stuffed down his underpants. But young
Cisco's got wise to that. He's started making them all strip off.
Last month they kept all the passengers' clothes on the TunjaSanta
Maria road. They had to drive into town bollock naked.
Quite a hoot really. Guess the ELN's uniform allowance hadn't
arrived.'

His pitiless chuckle faded as he shared Crabtree's concentration
on the pot-holed track. The decline had steepened dramatically,
the trail narrower, the bends sharper and the drops ever
more breathtaking. It didn't invite small talk between passengers
and certainly no one had a mind to distract the driver's attention.

Forty minutes saw them at the bottom of the canyon. There
the track straightened out somewhat, following a gentle descent
into the river valley itself. This was subsistence farm land, the
thin soil offering coarse grazing for a handful of scrawny cattle
and sheep. Only a few crops were attempted, mostly withered
fields of maize or beans. Outside the occasional adobi dwellings
were tethered goats or scavenging pigs and chickens. By one
roadside hut Stafford saw an Indian squatting and staring
vacantly at the horizon. He wore a trilby over long, straggling hair
which fell onto the shoulders of his woollen ruana poncho and he
was smoking a long bamboo pipe.

Marijuana, Stafford wondered, and felt he understood the
need for creature solace in such a starkly beautiful but terribly
lonely place.

Having encountered no other vehicles - just two men on mules
loaded with produce for market - they eventually reached
Adoraci6n. The village was hardly worthy of a name. Two rows
of traditional, white-painted drystone buildings with thatched
roofs rose straight out of the ground on either side of the muddy
street. As the Range Rover splashed along it, Beavis pointed out
the general store and the E1 Bar, both of more recent clapboard
construction. They were set back from the main drag and resembled
a Wild West filmset. It was the only place that showed any


166

sign of life; mules were tied at a hitching rail and a battered 4x4
was parked outside while a local farmer loaded up his monthly
provisions.

'For the next year, this'll be the centre of your universe,' Beavis
said. 'A visit to the voliche or the whorehouse will seem like going
to the West End to take in supper and the latest Lloyd Webber.'

'Sounds great,' Stafford muttered. Christ, what had he let himself
in for?

Beyond the town, they crossed the rickety wooden bridge. The
wild waters of the Servita foamed and crashed around the rotting
timber piles and Stafford found himself holding his breath until
they'd cleared the thirty-metre span.

It was on then for another twenty cratered kilometres. The
land of boulders, scrubland and occasional clusters of windblown
trees was becoming ever more desolate as they began
climbing in the lee of the east canyon wall.

The sudden appearance of the chapel when they rounded a
bend took Stafford quite by surprise. It looked down on the road
from a rocky promontory: a long, low building of ancient limewashed
stone and terracotta roof tiles topped with an ornately
carved three-bell housing above the front gable.

'They call this place the Cruz de Oro,' Crabtree said, 'after the
first gold crucifix that was made for the church from gold panned
by early prospectors in the Servita.'

Below the chapel was a minor crossroad and three near-derelict
hts which looked to be inhabited by Indians. Alongside them
was a bar; its bamboo shutter was down and the rusting, paintpeeled
tables and chairs looked singularly uninviting.

'Otlr local,' Beavis said, 'when the owner is sober enough to
open up.'

The gradient was increasing rapidly, the track winding up
between enormous boulders and stands of eucalyptus. After
another few kilometres, Crabtree suddenly swung left onto a
narrow sidetrack that could so easily have been missed by anyone
not familiar with the route. It plunged down a wooded spur of
land and across a wide running stream before recommencing the
climb.


167

Screened by trees, the camp itself was constructed on a gently
sloping plateau with the canyon side rising quite steeply behind
it. Stafford caught sight of a watchtower and someone with
binoculars before it was hidden from view by the high steel-mesh
fence of the compound. Tall gates swung open on their approach
to reveal a gathering of unsavoury looking campesinos. Tattily
dressed in sandals, straw stetsons and sombreros, most wore bandoleers
of ammunition over their shoulders and carried an assortment
of small arms and rifles.

The men stared morosely as the Range Rover passed through
the sandbag emplacements on either side of the gate. Crabtree
braked outside a low, primitive construction of breeze blocks and
corrugated tin which formed one side of the open compound
square.

'Home sweet home,' Beavis said, climbing out. 'This is the
bunkhouse.'

He led Stafford through improvised double doors of marine
plywood which the new arrival guessed were only ever closed
against wind and rain. There was no glass in the windows, just
torn mosquito nets stapled to the wooden frames. Rows of camp
beds ran left and right, the men's kit parked in neat piles between
each one.

'No lockers,' Beavis said, 'but the men have their own ways of
dealing with anyone caught thieving. So resist the temptation if
you want my advice.'

Above his head, a line of electric cable threaded through the
timber rafters, half a dozen bare bulbs providing night-time light
from a generator. A few of the beds were occupied: one or two
men slept; the others, dressed in vests and boxer shorts, were
reading or listening to Walkmans. Some looked up, nodding their
acknowledgement in an uninterested sort of way. They passed a
communal trestle table loaded with dog-eared paperbacks and a
pile of hard porn magazines.

Once Stafford had dumped his kitbag on his allocated cot,
Beavis led him back out and across the compound, pointing out
the various tumbledown buildings as they walked. There was a
second bunkhouse, constructed out of timber; probably built to


168

house the original emerald miners, it looked to be in imminent
danger of collapse. However it still served as billet for Pedro
Gom6z and the Colombian mafia's hard men. A second breezeblock
building housed the cookhouse and mess with a small
lounge filled with unmatching and dilapidated armchairs and a
makeshift bar. A small timber cabin provided the admin office
and quarters for Harry Morgan and his number two, a man called
Thripp. It also included a spare bunk for any of the organisation's
visiting hierarchy.

Stafford noticed a second, inner compound, its steel fence
topped with razor wire and a solitary block-built structure on the
inside. An armed guard stood by the gate - not a Colombian, a
gringo.

Beavis offered no explanation before they arrived at the workshop.
It was an open-fronted framework of eucalyptus to which
corrugated tin had been nailed to form walls and a sloping roof.
Stafford could hear the hiss and sizzle of an oxyacetylene torch as
they approached. The man who was working, in overalls under
the jacked-up Korean Rocsta jeep slid out on his back-trolley and
climbed to his feet.

'Doug, meet your new oil rag,' Beavis called out. 'This is Pete
Stafford - Doug Tallboys, our resident mechanic magician.'

True to his name, Tallboys was a couple of inches over six feet,
the dirty overalls hanging loosely on his thin body. In his late thirties,
his thinning ginger hair was wild and uncombed, the face
unsmiling with humourless pale blue eyes that appeared to be
devoid of lashes.

He wiped his hands on a cloth before greeting the recruit without
enthusiasm. 'So you're the new boy, eh?' The accent was

Scottish Borders, Stafford thought.

'For my sins, Doug.'

A flicker of bleak amusement showed for a second in the eyes.
'More than you know, son, more than you know.'

Beavis said: 'Take Pete under your wing, Doug, and show him
the ropes. As I told you, he's not a professional mechanic, but
restoring MGs is his hobby, so he ought to be a bit better than
useless.'


169

'Glad of any help I can get around here. These macho soldier
boys are fucking hopeless with anything mechanical that doesn't
kill people.'

'See you later then,' Beavis said, 'Clan and I have got some
work to catch up on.'

As the burly former soldiers strode off together, Stafford
glanced around at the workbench and array of tools. 'How many
vehicles do you have to service?'

'Well, there's the Range Rover you arrived in,' Tallboys
replied. 'We've two of them - the staff cars, I call them. Harry
Morgan and his number two have first call, then Beavis and
Crabtree. That's our officer corps, so to speak. Then the rest of
the shower run round in five of these open-topped Rocstas. Well,
only four now, as we've had to cannibalise one for spares. Not
bad bits of kit.' He nodded towards the Colombian bunkhouse.
'But those bastards cause me the real headaches. Turn up in any
clapped-out old vehicle they've won at cards or nicked off the
local campesinos and expect me to keep them running. Sometimes
off-roaders, sometimes trucks. So I hope you can improvise?'

Stafford grinned; there was something about the other man he
liked. 'I'll learn.'

Tallboys tossed his rag into a corner. 'I've been working since
first light - time for a break. I'll show you the mess.'

'Do you always eat this late?' It was almost three in the afternoon.

'Aye, as a matter of fact I do.' They began walking. 'The rest
have usually finished by now.'

Stafford sensed it, and the words were out before he'd thought
twice: 'You don't get on with the others?'

The Scotsman glanced at him. 'Let's say I like to keep my own
counsel. And you, Pete, have you done much of this kind of work
before? Freelance mercenary stuff?.'

A shake of the head. 'No, first time. Straight offthe dole queue.'
'And before that?'
'Three eara.'

Again that hint of a grim smile. 'I might have known.'

'What d'you mean?'


170

'Most of them here are ex-Paras or Marines - at least they

claim to have been, at one time or another.'

'You don't believe them?'

Tallboys shook his head. 'I didn't say that. It's just that most
of them are the sort you'd cross the road to avoid, if you get my
drift. Question them closely and they tend to clam up.' He
stopped walking and looked directly at Stafford for a moment as
though considering how much he dared say. 'Look, you're new
to all this, so let me put you in the picture before you put your
foot in it. Probably everyone in this outfit has served in the British
Army or the Royal Marines at some time - and been kicked out
for one reason or another. They're the dross. Psychopaths, nutters
and Walter Mittys. Head cases, the lot of them. They're not
even proper mercenaries - I know, because I've worked in Angola
and South Africa. But nowadays there's not much call except for
Bosnia and these guys aren't in the running to get themselves
seriously shot at.'

Stafford didn't completely follow what the Scotsman was tryhag
to say. 'Does it really matter, Doug? I mean, all they're doing
is guarding a bloody emerald mine.'

At that point Tallboys almost exploded with a burst of laughter.
'Oh, Jesus, Pete, you really did come up on the down train,
didn't you? Emeralds my arse. That's all a cover - and a pretty
transparent one at that. These guys are in the dirtiest business of
all. C'mon, this / Colombia. You, my son, are now up to your
neck ha the cocaine business. Just like me. And there's no way out.'

Tallboys began walking again and Stafford found himself trotting
to keep up. 'Are you serious - about the cocaine?'

'I wouldn't joke about something like that. Personally, I don't
find it funny, but it's too late now. I was conned into this by
Beavis, just like you. I wasn't their normal type of recruit either.
It's just that they were desperate for an experienced mechanic
and I fell for the line they shot me.'

They had reached the mess hall now, the trestle tables and
benches deserted. At the far end a fat, middle-aged Colombian
woman tended cooking pots on an open range. 'Two cuchocos,
Martha, and two coffees,' Tallboys called out, sitting astride one


171

of the benches and turning back to Stafford. 'Listen, son, you'll
have to make your own decision how you handle this situation.
But if I were you, I'd choose my friends carefully. Fortunately for
you you're allocated as my assistant. I'll find enough work to keep
you busy - that's certainly no problem here. With any luck you'll
be spared other duties and won't have to get blood on your
hands. At least I carry some clout here, if only because I know
one end of a spanner from the other.' He glanced towards the
kitchen area to ensure Nlartha was out of earshot. 'Nevertheless,
you ought to know who in particular to avoid.'

Stafford was still stunned by the revelation, shocked that he
could have been so stupid. 'Beavis and Crabtree seemed okay.'

'Aye, but they're still hard cases. They'll do what's neces.sary,
no questions asked. Anyway, they're hardly ever here, always
organising recruitment or supplies or sorting out problems in
Bogoti or wherever. Like Harry Morgan himself, they're too busy
with admin to get involved with the fine detail. They'll give
orders and expect things to get done - they don't give a shit how.
That falls to Harry's second-in-command, Guy Thripp. Says he's
ex-SAS, but who knows? He's a right cunt. Don't get ton the

wrong side of him or his mate Billy Susan.'

'Who's he?'

'Billy Susan's the gaffer, or foreman if you like, of the rest of
the men. If Thripp is God, then Susan sits at his right hand. You
might not like what you see here, but don't complain to anyone.
Especially those two. That's what happened to your predecessor,
Hal. A young ex-REME - great lad.'

Stafford felt the air suddenly turn chill. He remembered Beavis
telling him with scarcely concealed menace that he'd collect his
annual bonus and now Tallboys was saying there was no way out
once they were in. It seemed almost stupid to ask, but he had to.
'My predecessor, he didn't leave?'

Tallboys hunched over the table and played his fingers over the
clogged cellar of damp salt. 'Oh, Hal left all right. In a box with
a bullet in the back of his head.' Beyond the compound fence the
distant savage mountains were blurred with mist. 'He's buried
out there somewhere in the cuchillas.'

'No kissing,' she'd warned when they'd
first met.

Like whores the world over, there was one thing that she kept sacred. Mallory always found it sadly
amusing how street girls would happily give blow jobs and offer
their arses if the price was right, yet forbid the simple touching of
lips. The one small, hopeless dream that had to be kept alive,
flickering like a candle in the wind, to make life bearable. One
small gesture, one token of where the line had to be drawn.
Affirmation that one day her prince would arrive and with it her
salvation.

Lucila was no different.

She sighed languidly as he gently unshared himself from her
body and rolled over to the edge of the bed, placing his feet on
the floor. It was quite dark now, the room lit only by the feeble
street lights of Santa Maria. Outside he could hear salsa music
throbbing from the bar next door and the voices of the Saturday
night revellers.

Saturday night. He'd been in town five days and five nights; on

three of those he had spent time in bed with Lucila.

'Could I buy a cigarette?' he asked.

She giggled, her head propped up on one elbow as she
regarded the muscled contours of his back, fascinated by the
whorl of scar tissue around the old exit wound. 'Such a strong
man and still you cannot give it up?' she teased, speaking in hesitant
English.

He turned to look back at her. A pretty mulatto face with dark
moist eyes and a pout that she thought made her look like
Marilyn Monroe. Around twenty-eight, he guessed. Wild and


173

frizzled hair, black but with a few early strands of grey. 'I need
something to calm me down after all that excitement.'

She indicated the packet on the chair which was hung with her
discarded clothes. Bright turquoise Lycra pants, gold lam6 top
and a frilly brassi6re that was running to holes. He removed two
cigarettes, gave her one, and lit them.

'You are a strange man, Seor Kurt,' she said, inhaling deeply.
'Really?'

'I have many customers over many years, since I am fourteen
years old and have to help feed my mother, my brothers and sisters.
But I think I never meet anyone like you.'

He grinned 'How d'you mean?'

She gave a shy smile, the colour of her cheeks deepening with
embarrassment. 'My customers pay and then do what they want.
No one thinks about me - I know, why should they? But you do.
For most of the hour we spend together you are making love to
me, not the other way round. You care that I should feel good
too. I have never known this.'

'When the woman feels good, it makes a man feel even better,'
he said. It wasn't just a ploy, he meant it. Yet his approach had
always worked particularly well with whores over the years. They
always appreciated the smallest kindness. Just to be treated like
ordinary human beings for a few precious moments could mean
the world to them. Gave them back their dignity. And he had lost
count of how many times one simple gesture had been rewarded
during his investigative assignments by being taken into their
confidence and sharing secrets. Cynics might laugh at the old
clich6 of whores with hearts of gold. But there was always some
truth in old adages and he'd rarely met a whore who didn't
respond to being treated with respect.

'Then I am very lucky to meet you. Even my boyfriend does
not treat me like you do.'

Hardly surprising, Mallory thought; her so-called boyfriend
was a pimp. But he said: 'I'm the lucky one, Lucila.'

She stared thoughtfully at her cigarette and blew gently on the
tip until it glowed. 'And I think that all Englishmen are not like
you.'


174

He raised an eyebrow; he'd been right all along. 'You don't
know any Englishmen. You said so.'

'I am sorry.' Her eyes were wide and earnest, anxious that he
should not think ill of her. 'I did not tell you the truth. I was
frightened - well, I still am but now I feel I can trust you. When
you asked me that first night, I think maybe you are from the

police. That is when I still think you are Colombian.'

'You're afraid of the police?'

She shook her head. 'No, I am afraid of the gringos if they

think I tell the police that they are bad people.'

'And are they bad people?'

A shrug of those naked, slender shoulders. 'I do not know.
They are rough with me, but so are many customers. It is just
that they tell me and the other girls not to talk about them to anyone.
They pay extra that we keep quiet. And say they will do bad
things to us if we do not. But one thing I wonder is how you hear
about these people?'

Mallory made light of it. 'Someone I met in a bar in Bogota. I
mentioned I used to work in mines and was looking for a job. He
said he'd heard that some emerald mines were being reopened up
here. He thought it was an English company.'

She reached out and touched his arm. 'These are not nice
people, Sefior Kurt. I do not think you should be involved.'

'I need the money,' he grinned, 'to pay for your charms for a
start. A man must eat and have a roof over his head. Now please
tell me, how well do you know these Englishmen?'

She bit her lower lip. 'This will be private between us?'

'I swear to you.'

. 'Well, I have had just two men go with me.' She felt ashamed
to admit to him it was both of them at the same time; it was what

they wanted and why they paid extra pesos.

'Do you know their names?'

'Just - I think - Sefior Guy and Sefior Billy. These are English
names? They come sometimes on a Saturday. I think they are in
town to collect supplies.'

'Do they speak Spanish?'

Lucila shook her head. 'The tall, thin one called Guy, he


175

speaks a little, but not very good. He has a tattoo on the back of
his right fist. Three figure nines in a row. I say this to the priest

in confession and he says maybe it is the other way. Three sixes.'
Mallory murmured: 'The sign of the devil.'

She giggled sheepishly. 'I think that is true. He can be very
cruel. The other one is nicer - well, he is rough but at least he
does not smile when he hurts me. He speaks no Spanish, just the
fuck word. His face has a mouth that is like a girl's and long eyelashes,
although he is short and quite ugly, I think. But he can be
funny after he has a good fucking. There is a tattoo - it makes me
laugh. The man called Guy tell me that once Sefior Billy is drunk
with his friends in some place - Hong Kong, I think. He falls
asleep and cannot be woken. So his friends have this idea - when
he wakes up he finds there is a big red rising sun tattooed on his
backside.'

He shared her humour, but added: 'You don't have to let them
hurt you, Lucila, remember that. Tell them no violence or else no
fucking.'

She looked touched by his concern. 'I do not think they would
like me to talk to them that way. And like you, Sefior Kurt, I need
the money.' Then a thought occurred to her. 'There have been
other Englishmen from the mine, but they did not go with me.
The girls tell me that one man has a tattoo of a wolf here.' She
tapped her right forearm. 'And the other a heart and roses on his
shoulder. These men look the same, they are twins. But they do
not come for many months now, maybe because there was big
trouble one night. There is a row over money and my friend
Monica is badly beaten. Then another customer tries to help but
these gringos drag him outside. It is a cold, wet night and they all
disappear. The customer is never seen again. There are rumours
that he is murdered, but no one knows.'

Mallor frowned. 'What about the police?'

Lucila gave him a quizzical look. 'What about them? They
come and ask a few questions, see if they can get a shag for free,
and then they go. No one cares about our customer, he was just
a campesino from somewhere up in the cuchillas.' Then she added
brightly: 'But maybe he is still alive. Maybe he is living in


176

Adoraci6n and I see him when I go there.'

The name of the village struck home. 'Adoraci6n? You're
going there?'

Suddenly she looked sad. 'Yes, to work. I will miss you, nice
Englishman. There is a club and some good girls there, and I
have been asked to go. My boyfriend says there is a new owner
and that there is good business.'

'But surely, business can't be good there?' But even as he spoke
the words he guessed the answer.

'It is the gringos from the mine. They go there, do not come
here so much no more.'

He was about to reply, to try and persuade her not to go, when
there was a knock on the door.

'Come,' Lucila called in Spanish.

As the door swung open, Mallory glimpsed the scarlet Lycra
pants and bare midriff in the light from the hallway. It was
Monica.

For a moment she stared fully at Mallorybefore removing the
little pearl cigarette holder from her mouth as she half-smiled.
'Now I see what you like so much about Sefior Kurt.'

'Monica!' Lucila protested. 'Don't say such things to my customers.'

The
older woman laughed. 'I have not yet met a man who does
not like being flattered in that department, my girl!'

'What do you want?' Lucila demanded, concerned that her
friend was poaching.

'The gringos are downstairs. They ask for you again. I wonder
what special treats you give them that make them so eager.'

'I think it is because I speak a little English,' Lucila replied
frostily.

Her friend just smiled again and quietly closed the door, leaving
them to get dressed.

'Can you do me a favour, Lucila?' Mallory asked. 'Tell those
men I was asking about the reopened emerald mine, that I want
to get a job. Say you told me nothing. It might even earn you a
few extra pesos.'

She knotted the front of her bolero. 'That could be dangerous


177

for you. '

He shook his head. 'I doubt it. Please, for me?'

'If you are sure.' She reached up then and kissed him briefly on
the lips. 'But take care. If you get a job, then maybe I see you in
Adoraci6n.'

Mallory made his way into the narrow passage where light from
downstairs could be seen through the tiny gaps between the floorhoards.
He took the wooden steps down to the lounge where
putas sprawled in lewd and extravagant poses to catch the punters'
eyes. There was an archway in the wall that led to the adjoining
bar where he ordered a can of Poker beer before taking an
alcove seat.

There was no mistaking Guy Thripp or Billy Susan. They
stood together, the long and the short of it, elbows behind them
on the counter as they faced into the bar to admire the girls passing
by with plump backsides encased in colourful shrink-wrap
leggings which successfully held in a multitude of sins. Thripp's
thumbs were thrust into his belt and Mallory could just discern
the 999 tattoo on his right hand. Although both men had dressed
down in dirty jeans and Thripp even wore a straw stetson like he
thought he was some kind of Western hero, they were just too
new and unfaded for them to be anything but gringos. Their skin
colour, their mannerisms and demeanour set them instantly
apart.

Just then Lucila flounced happily into the bar, waved and beckoned
the two men. Throwing back their heads in unison, they
drained their drinks and disappeared through the archway after
her.

This could be a dangerous gamble, Mallory realised; these men
would be capable of doing anything to some no-hope stranger if
they thought he knew too much. At least he'd contrived to meet
them in a public place to preserve an element of safety. And, anyway,
he had to start somewhere.

He had just finished his beer half an hour later when Lucila
reappeared at the archway and pointed him out to Thripp and
Susan. For a moment they questioned her, probably doubting
that he was anything other than just another campesino, before


178

they strode purposefully towards him. In one deft and synchronised
movement, they separated as they reache the table, each
taking a chair on either side of him and pressing in close.

'Sefior,' Thripp said in a low, angry rasp, 'I understand you
have been asking after us?' His face, which was long and angular
with high cheekbones, was dominated by a long drooping moustache
and deep-set eyes. 'You speak English, yeah?'

Mallory hardly needed to feign a look of apprehension and a
nervous laugh. 'I ought to, amigo, I am English.'

Billy Susan wore a suspicious frown which did nothing for the
pretty mouth and eyes in an otherwise squashed and ugly face
which had the skin texture of lumpy porridge. 'Not with that
fucking accent you're not. What are you? German? Austrian?
Maybe Polish?'

Mallory gave his usual abbreviated explanation: an orphan
brought up by German brothers in Paraguay. 'So, if you're with the
Englishmen operating the emerald mine, then - yes, I've been asking
after you. I've been bumming around South America for a year

and my money's run out. I need a job and I used to work in mines.'
'Where?' Susan demanded.

'Kimberley - I was an overseer in the diamond mines.'
Thripp's eyes narrowed. 'Who told you about the mine here?'

'Some guy in a bar in Bogota. He came from these parts. Said

I might find a job going."

'What bar?'

'I don't know, just a bar. Up in the Chapinero district.'
'And this guy's name?' Susan pressed.

Mallory was beginning to feel uncomfortable with both men so
close, the smell of their breath in his nostrils. 'Gerardo, I think.
Hell, it was no big deal. He just mentioned it in passing and I
thought why not? It was worth a bus trip. There were no other jobs on offer and I'm pretty, desperate.'

Thripp grunted. 'Well, there's no jobs on offer here either, so
you've had a wasted trip.'

'I speak fluent Spanish and I probably know South America
better than England. I can turn my hand to most things - apart
from my mining experience. I'd do anything.'


179

The tall man pulled a smile that was half a sneer. 'Unfortunately
you appear to have a physical defect. You seem to be deaf.
I said there is no vacancy. And we don't go around employing
any old hobo who just drifts into town.'

Mallory shrugged. 'It was worth a try. If you hear of anything--?'

The two men were already on their feet. 'Sure,' Billy Susan
said, 'we'll let you know.'


Mallory awoke the next morning in a cold sweat.

As he opened his eyes and reorientated himself, recognising the
poky hotel bedroom with its crumbling plaster ceiling, the confused
dream melted away. All he retained was a picture of Guy
Thripp's face. In close-up, staring at him.

Only then Mallory wondered if he'd met the man before?
Something about him had seemed familiar, but he wasn't sure
what. Many unrelated people have physical similarities, mouths
and eyes in particular. It is as though they could be linked by the
same genetic strain, the threads running back into the branches
of a long-lost family tree.

After all, the existence of facial similarities was the basis of
police Identikit systems. So maybe Guy Thripp just reminded
him of someone else he'd once known. It still left Mallory with a
d;stinct feeling of unease.

By the time he'd hauled himself out of his sleeping bag, he'd
made a decision. There was nothing more to be gained by staying
in Santa Maria. He'd made contact with two gang members,
which was a start. They were probably near the top of the organisational
structure, he deduced, because Lucila reckoned they were
the only ones who regularly visited the town to collect supplies. In
other words, while the rest of the gang might frequent the distant
village of Adoraci6n, these two were trusted to keep a low profile.
Also the way in which they had turned down his request for work
without any inclination to refer to higher authority suggested they
were well up in the gang's pecking order.

Unfortunately Mallory's first ploy hadn't worked out; he'd
have been exceptionally lucky if it had. But at least they knew he


180

was around and why. Now he had to get closer to the camp to
improve his chances of crossing paths again. He wanted to make
his second move at the earliest opportunity, although as yet he
had no idea what that might be.

After rinsing his face and torso at the basin, he dressed, selecting
a dull red kerchief which he tied loosely around his neck. Then
he left the hotel and crossed to the Cafe Cosmopolita beside the
cathedral on the central plaza. He ordered chicken broth and
drank coffee until five to eight. Picking up someone's abandoned
newspaper, he walked to the nearest bench beneath the trees at
the plaza's edge, lit a cigarette and began a relaxing read.

The signal that a meeting was requested was simplicity itself. If
either Mallory or one of the other two teams wanted a meeting,
they would sit on that bench at eight and display an item of red.
Mallory's kerchief, Savage's red leather handbag or Mario's red
shirt. A chance encounter would then be contrived in the town cementerio at noon.

Just a few moments later Georgina Savage and Dale Forster
walked by, engaged in animated conversation with a Colombian
who was well dressed in a suit and therefore almost certainly a
member of the municipal authority. Clearly the UN cover was
working well. None of the three appeared to notice Mallory as
they made their way towards the Cosmopolita for their breakfast
meeting.

At ten to twelve Mallory headed for the outskirts of town, past
the pungent vegetable and cattle markets to the long flight of
steps that led up to the cementerio. Horizontal concrete body
lockers formed walls six feet high, each small square door accepting
a deceased's remains before being sealed, leaving a little shelf
to form a shrine. Some held a vase of flowers, some were closed
with little gates of wrought iron or glass; those of poorer families
carried a cheap print of Christ or tacky religious trinkets made of
plastic. These sad and bizarrely decorated walls created a number
of criss-crossing corridors beneath a rain-threatening s'.

A mother and daughter were kneeling together, engrossed as
they arranged a fresh spray of flowers for the recently departed
man of the house. Mallory moved along to the next corridor


181

where an elderly campesino stood alone, staring at a shrine. He
crossed himself, his cheeks wet with tears. No one else. Mallory
moved on.

Savage was standing in the last of the corridors, taking a photograph.

'You don't think people will mind?' she asked as Mallory
approached.

'Not if you're discreet. Tourists will be tourists.' He looked
around, checking they couldn't be seen or overheard. 'How are
things going with you and Dale?'

'Fine. The UN cover is a dream. People can't do enough for
us, hoping there'll be a big investment programme. We've had
meetings with all the major dignitaries, civil servants, the priest,
teachers. As usual, of course, we're getting more from the infrr
real chats over drinks. We're building up a pretty thorough picture
of the realpolitik of the region around Santa Maria.'

'Such as?'

'Well, this really is Medellin cartel country with ties going back
centuries, hence the emerald mines and a lot of other land owned
by many families. They've obviously got involved with the
cocaine cartel in more recent years. No particular history of drugs
in the area though, until our Viper friends moved in. Pablo
Escobar used to have plenty of supporters locally and it seems
quite a few businesses here were set up using narco funds.
Everything that Jaramillo and Maria Palechor said stands up - it would be very difficult for the Call cartel to get a look-in around
here.'

'What about the guerrilleros?'

'Mostly ELN revolutionaries making the most of the remote
nature of the cuchillas; they have quite a lot of support from farmers
and others who think the government's neglected them. Quite
a few locals, mostly yotmgsters, have joined up as part-timers. In
the old days the guerrillas were well connected with Escobar,
even business partners. They'd actually grow coca for him in the
Amazonas. He'd also paid them to provide protected areas for narco operations and prevent interference from the police or
army. And, of course, when he was alive Escobar shared the


182

guerrillas' aim of bringing down the government. You could say
they needed each other.'

'Any trouble from the ELN around here?'

'Apparently there was when the Soviet Union collapsed and
funding dried up - and when the Medellin cartel first went into
meltdown after Escobar's death.'

Mallory understood. 'Guerrilleros need money like everyone
else.'

'But it's been quiet for some eighteen months. They make their
presence felt, but not sufficiently to make the army venture out
of their barracks.'

'Eighteen months,' Mallory repeated. 'Since about the time the
Vipers got established.'

'That's what Dale and I thought,' Savage agreed. 'The Vipers
couldn't operate without the guerrillas' co-operation. So palms
get greased, the region has no violence, God's in his heaven and
all is well with the world.'

'What about the army and police?'

'Well, the army's main priority is fighting the guerrillas, so if
things are quiet, there's no incentive for them to go looking for

trouble and getting themselves shot.'

'And the police?'

Savage shrugged. 'I can't be sure. As you know, generally in
this country they're pretty dedicated to breaking the cartels. The
DEA has a strong influence. Nevertheless, there has to be a rotten
streak - I mean, we know operational intelligence leaks like a
sieve. I've met the local police chief- a fat, complacent bastard
called Alberto Gonzalez. He assures us there are no narco activities
in the area. Perhaps he really believes it.'

Mallory shook his head. 'Don't be naive, George. This is South
America. If Gonzalez has told you be knows nothing, then he's
lying.'

She was irritated by his certainty. 'How can you be sure?
Anyway, just because he's economical with the truth to a couple
of UN representatives doesn't mean he's in cahoots with the
Vipers. That's what you're implying.'

Mallory was losing patience: 'Listen, just wise up, will you? I


183

learned something in the local whorehouse--'

A look of dismay came over her face. 'Oh, Christ, Kurt, not
again--' She bit her tongue in mid-sentence, angry at herself for
letting it show she still cared, could still be jealous of some two
bit hooker.

'You know the way I operate,' Mallory snapped back. 'In this
sort of place, it's one of the best ways to find out what's really
going on.'

'But some pox-ridden puta, Kurt?' She was exasperated.

'Las hennas,' Mallory corrected calmly. 'Like dames or chicks.
It's more polite than puta. Don't forget the girls carry more
respect here than back home. People understand that sometimes
it's the only way they can make a living, bring up kids. There's no
welfare here.'

Anger flashed in her eyes. 'Don't come that old "some of my
best friends are tarts with hearts" routine again, Kurt.'

He ignored her outburst; there were some things she and
others would never be able to understand. 'Some members of
the Viper gang got involved in a brawl at the whorehouse. It's
fairly certain a punter was murdered by them. The local police
barely went through the motions of an investigation. It was a
sham, a whitewash.'

'You can't know that,' she challenged. 'I know South America
too, Kurt. This/s my patch. The police aren't exactly the most
efficient in the world.'

Mallory smiled faintly; there was so much she had yet to learn.
'Efficient, no. They probably wouldn't catch anyone. But they
love their power and their swanky uniforms. In a backwater like
this, there'd be a big commotion, a big police presence. Lots of
interrogations, interviews. They love all that stuff. But strangely
they virtually ignored this case.'

She raised an eyebrow. 'You mean a payoff?'

'Smells like it. Just work on the assumption the police are involved and you won't go far wrong. Meanwhile, I've made contact
with two of the Viper gang.'

'God, Kurt, that's wonderful.'

He couldn't resist a jibe. 'One of the benefits of working the


184
whorehouses. Anyway, it wasn't that wonderful. I asked for a jo
and got turned down. But at least they .know me now, and m

presence shouldn't raise any suspicions.'

'Have you got names?'

'Just first names - if they're genuine. Guy and Billy. Both
their mid-thirties.'

Savage thought for a moment. 'Guy's a fairly unusual name
I'll have Dale run them through the DEA computer.'

He wondered whether to mention that there was somethinl
familiar about the tall man called Guy, something that unnerve
him. But he decided he was being paranoid. 'It's time I got close
to the emerald mine. Maybe travel to Adoraci6n for a start. W.
could use the film crew cover plan. What progress are Mario an
Goldie making?'

She smiled. 'More than Dale and I are with contacting
local guerrillas. Mario's found a schoolteacher who has some former
pupils who've joined the ELN. I think they're close to sorting
something out.'

That was good news. 'Right, then let's arrange a chanct
encounter tonight. There's a busy bar called E1 Loro Verde - th
Green Parrot, on Calle 7. I'll be there at nine. Tell them to si
next to me and start discussing how they need a hired help
travel with them, cart their gear and do some general runnin
around.'

Savage nodded. 'Consider it done, Kurt. And good luck to th
three of you.'


Two days later Mallory was helping to load up Mario and
Goldie's hired Diahatsu Fourtrak with cameras and recordin
equipment.

The chance encounter at El Loro Verde had been textbook: the
two men discussing loudly the need for an assistant, asking the
barman if he knew of anyone suitable, then Mallory apparentl3
overhearing and offering his services. Gotdie's amazement that h
was English, despite appearances. Much celebration and drink.,
all round. By the next morning everyone in town would kno
that the wildlife film crew from England had hired the strange


185

who was desperate to find work.

'So when's the meeting with the guerrilleros?' Mallory asked
while Mario was steering cautiously down the canyon switchback
towards the Servita river.

'Maybe tonight, maybe manana,' his friend replied. 'We're just
to find rooms and someone will contact us.'

'Very cloak and dagger,' Goldie observed. 'Guess they want to
be sure there are no police spooks around.'

'And what's the name of this farmer you met on the bus?'

'Tafur. Victor Tafur,' Mallory replied. 'His smallholding is in
the region of Cruz de Oro.'

'And you're sure he'll put us up?' Goldie asked.

'I can't be certain, but he's amenable and broke. I'm sure the
sight of a few dollar bills will persuade him. The point is, the
location could be perfect for us. It can't be more than five miles
from the mining camp.'

'Sounds ideal. So let's hope your friend can be persuaded.'

It was almost dark by the time they'd completed the seemingly
endless, bone-rattling journey across the valley. The lights of
Adoraci6n winked fitfully through the grey mist of twilight as
they approached. Doleful campesinos watched with mild interest
from their doorways as the Fourtrak splashed down the main
street and children ran in its wake, eager to see who these new
arrivals were. The distribution of candy bars and a few inquiries
led them to a cheap flophouse with two rooms spare. Mario and
Goldie took one, Mallory the poky understairs cubbyhole that
was barely large enough to squeeze in the camp bed and single
wardrobe.

They found a cafeteria and settled down to a meal of chevitohasado,
grilled goat meat served with yucca and platano, and a
bottle of vinegary Colombian wine. Goldie's request for a decent
vintage from Chile or the Argentine met with an expression of
blank indifference from the overweight owner. The place was
half full, the tables taken by several families and one large group
of farm workers enjoying a boisterous game of cards. It was
Goldie who first noticed the two gringos talking quietly over coffee
in one corner. Only the occasional word of English was


186

audible. They were shabbily dressed and might have passed
unnoticed had the new arrivals not been on the lookout.

Mallory and Mario allowed themselves a discreet glance and
nodded their agreement; almost certainly they were Viper members
in town for a meal.

It was then that they heard the four-wheel drive pull up outside.
Moments later the door opened brusquely and the local comisario strutted in. There was no mistaking who he was;
Mallory had seen the type too many times in the remoter areas of
South America. Ostensibly a mere policeman, in reality a comisario
would often be the only official representative of government
and as such wielded immense local power. But rather than
enforce the law of the land, many were a law unto themselves.
Policeman, tax collector, judge and jury and, as often as not, executioner,
if they could get away with it. Others, of course,
brought the only welcome semblance of civilisation and justice to
otherwise lawless lands; dedicated men who were ill paid for a
dangerous and thankless task.

Any doubt as to which category this man belonged was
instantly resolved by the ostentatious pair of chrome-plated six
shooters of which General Patton would have been proud. They
rode at his hips, ivory butts forward, in a tooled leather holster
rig. He wore an army camouflage cap with a peak and a matching
combat jacket over his blue policeman's uniform; the trousers
were tucked into knee-length brown boots.

Mid-forties, Mallory guessed, given the grey hairs in the heavy
moustache. Or perhaps he was younger, the sun and the drink
and too many doses of the clap having taken their toll. He stood
for a moment, legs astride, surveying the room. A respectful two
paces behind him, three henchmen wearing odd items of police
uniform scowled at the customers and faced down anyone who
dared stare a moment too long.

With sycophantic little gestures, the patron scurried forward to
show the comisario's party to a window table. There the policeman
dumped himself into the chair at the head of the table and
demanded a huge churrasco steak for himself, leaving his deputies
to agonise over what they could afford.


187

Mallory watched with interest, noticing how suddenly the voliche began to empty. Even the two members of the Viper gang
finished their meal, acknowledged the policeman with brief nods,
and left.

Goldie ordered more wine. He was relaxed and iovial, sharing
jokes with Mario. Playing his own r61e as the outsider, Mallory
remained quiet and withdrawn. But he knew both his friends
from the organisation were looking forward to the inevitable
encounter with the comisario. They all shared a loathing of the
abuse of power and the insidious intimidation that went with it.
They were eager to establish exactly what sort of man the comisaio
was, to find the measure of a potential enemy.

'Ask for your bill,' Mallory whispered in Goldie's ear. His
Jewish friend nodded, agreeing that it would prompt a reaction
from the policeman in the now deserted room.

Sure enough, as the three of them paid and rose to leave, a
voice like a bullhorn nailed them to the spot. 'I do not believe you
have introduced yourselves, sefiors!' it boomed in Spanish.

Goldie turned, that practised simpleton's smile on his face. It
was the same smile Mallory had seen the moment before the
little Israeli had killed someone. 'Ah, to whom do I owe the pleasure?'
He blinked at the comisario through the thick lenses of his
spectacles.

'Chief of Police, Major Oscar Pulgarin.' The man had demolished
his huge steak in record time and was still chewing, shreds
of the meat entangled in his moustache. 'It is necessary for
strangers in town to make themselves known to me.'

Goldie raised his hands in a gesture of supplication. 'Oi vey!
Forgive me, officer, I am unaware of the local customs in this
place.'

The comisario sucked thoughtfully at some meat that had
caught between his teeth and glanced at his deputies who
watched expectantly. He smiled, sensing some sport. His smile
was one of those warm, generous smiles that fooled you unless
you watched the eyes. 'Then perhaps you should make it your
business to ask.'

Goldie gave a convincing look of utter bewilderment. 'I am


188

sure you are right, officer."

'Unannounced strangers have been known to be arrested and
thrown into jail. Not here, of course, but other places. These are
troubled times and policemen must be on their guard. Guerrillas, narcos, bandits-- There are so many undesirable types nowadays.'

Goldie reached into his inside pocket for his document wallet.
'Does that include natural history filmmakers?'

That took Pulgarin by surprise; he sat upright in his chair and
leaned forward with his elbows on the table. This was not something
he had been expecting. He studied the documents in
silence.

'A letter of introduction from the director of the Animal Eye Production Company,' Goldie began evenly. 'A letter of accreditation
from the British Broadcasting Corporation and the
Commercial Section of the British Embassy in Bogotfi. Then
authorisadon from your own Department of the Interior. And a
letter of permission from your immediate saperior in Santa
Maria, Lieutenant Colonel Gonzalez...'

Mario glanced sideways at Mallory and winked.

Pulgarin grunted and looked up, blood colouring his cheeks. 'I
will keep these for the time being. You understand that I shall

have to radio Colonel Gonzalez to confirm all this.'

'I'm sure that isn't necessary,' Goldie replied.

'Oh, but it is. So that I can issue you with a local permit, for

which a modest fee will be required.'

'Fee?'

'To cover the cost of administration. And of course, you will be
requiring a police escort.'

Mallory groaned inwardly.

Goldie said: 'Filming wildlife is a specialist business, Comisario. Hours of patient waiting, lying still in a hide in uncomfortable
conditions - hardly suitable work for one of your esteemed of
ricers. '

Pulgarin was unmoved, dollar signs in his eyes. 'You will need
to be escorted. It will cost, of course, but the life in these parts is
wilder than you might imagine.' He drew a notebook from inside


189

his jacket. 'Now, where are you staying in Adoraci6n?'

Goldie told him. 'But tomorrow or the day after we hope to
base ourselves at a ranch near Cruz de Oro.'

'That is useful. My police post is in that area. You can come
there to collect your permit - if I receive the necessary authority,

of course. Now what is the farmer's name?'

'Sefior Tafur.'

The comisario looked up. 'That is not well advised. The man is
a troublemaker.'

'We have nowhere else.'

A shrug. 'It is up to you. Now, please, may I see your passports?'


'Bastard,' Mario said with feeling as the door of the voliche swung
closed behind them.

'It's only to be expected,' Mallory replied. 'Besides, he doesn't
know we have a complete duplicate set of all the documents.'

Goldie chuckled. 'It's good to pull one over on scrotes like
him. What d'you suggest we do, Kurt?'

'Forget about him,' Mallory said. 'He's only after greasing his
palm. We'll just avoid him as best we can. Let him come looking
for us - if he can be bothered.'

They were approaching the boarding house. The lights were
off and there was no moon, just inky shadows everywhere.

Mallory sensed it first. That tell-tale ripple of the small hairs at
the base of his neck. Then he smelt it. The faintest tang of unfamiliar
body odour.

The voice came from behind them, talking over the metallic
click of a cocking handle. 'Don't move, gentlemen,' in Spanish.
'Just stand still and no one will be hurt.'

As the three of them raised their arms, Mallory had a torch
shone in his face. Invisible hands came from behind, roughly
checking his jacket and denims for weaponry.

More torches came on, criss-crossing beams illuminating the
muddy forecourt. There were dark figures, the unmistakable outline
of rifles. One of the men turned and began walking towards
the alleyway that ran beside the boarding house.


190

'Follow him,' someone ordered.

Mallory stumbled after Goldie and Mario, an armed stranger
bringing up the rear. They walked for some time through the
wasteland behind the primitive houses, disturbing chickens and
tethered goats. At last they reached a timber shack where candle
glow
flickered from behind the hessian curtain.

'Inside,' said the voice again.

The door opened onto a small living room, just large enough
to take the iron bedstead, table and chairs and a small kitchen
area. It smelled of mildew and tobacco smoke.

There were three men, Mallory could see now. Two were older
men, unshaven and wearing battered straw stetsons, bandoleers
of ammunition showing beneath their woollen ponchos. The
third was young, slim and more smartly dressed in olive drab
fatigues under a fringed buckskin jacket.

He removed his wide-brimmed sombrero with its pointed
crown and waved it in the direction of the table. 'Please be
seated, sefiors,' he said in Spanish. 'I am sorry if we startled you,
but we have to be cautious.'

'And you are?' Goldie demanded, feigning indignation.
'They call me the Wolf.'

'El Lobo,' Mario echoed. 'The local guerrilla leader?'

The younger man smiled. 'We would prefer to describe ourselves
as the people's socialist revolutionaries. And, I understand,
you have requested a special meeting with me to discuss your
business here.'

Goldie nodded. 'I spoke with a teacher at the school in Santa
Maria. He said he would try to make contact with you. To guarantee
us safe passage.'

The man tugged a pack of cheroots from his shirt pocket and
lit one. 'And so he did. Here you are, safe and unharmed. You

are here to film wildlife for the famous BBC?'

'Indeed we are.'

'I love these programmes when I am a boy. But, of course,
there are not many television sets in this part and anyway reception
is bad. I like the one on polar bears. Did you make that?'

'Sure,' Mario lied obligingly.


191

'Then I have many questions to ask you.'

Goldie said: 'Of course, but later, once we are settled in. The
thing is, we understand this region is in your control, so we want
to be sure there will be no trouble.'

El Lobo smiled again. 'I was once the pupil of the teacher to
whom you spoke. He is a good man and I have promised him you
will come to no harm from us.' He hesitated. 'But, of course, the
BBC is very famous, very rich, and we are just a humble peasants'
army. A donation to our cause will persuade my followers not to
take matters into their own hands. Robbery and kidnap is not
unknown. These people have no homes, no livelihood. They
need money for shelter and food.'

Mario saw no point in hedging. 'A thousand dollars?'

The response was instant. 'I had more in mind, three thousand.'

'Two,'
Mario snapped back.

El Lobo smiled again. 'When both parties are unhappy with a
deal, it is a sure sign it is fair. So we are agreed.' He reached
towards the table and picked up the dusty bottle of aguardiente.
'A drink to celebrate, I think. Now tell me, what do you hope to
film in our beautiful country?'

The mood became quite convivial. Weapons were laid aside,
the guerrillas sprawled around drinking and smoking, while
Goldie explained their intentions. How they hoped to capture
Andean wild cats on film as the main subject but, as nature never
performed to order, they would cover anything that moved.

It was then quite bizarre as these veteran guerrillas began relating
anecdotal tales of their own adventures with wild cats, snakes
and even dogs, each story taller than the last.

Finally El Lobo said: 'It is reported to me that you have spoken
to Comisario Pulgarin.'

'You are well informed,' Mallory observed.

'We need to be. And I should warn you that Comisario
Pulgarin is a very dangerous man. He will find a way of taking
money from you for one reason or another. He invents his own
laws and his own fines and sends his thugs to collect. Be warned.'

Not so very different from yourself then, Mallory thought. But


192

he just said: 'Thanks for the advice.'

'And you, sefior,' El Lobo said, regarding the Englishman's

torn and dirty clothes, 'you are a film-maker too?'

'Just casual labour. I needed a job.'

El Lobo regarded him for a long moment. Something in the
young man's eyes suggested that he was not sure he believed him.


'This must be Cruz de Oro,' Goldie decided, lifting his foot from
the accelerator. 'There's the chapel.'

The Fourtrak had slowed to a halt in the rocky gulch that
formed a bend in the road. Amid the tumble of grey boulders
ahead of them, the white adobi walls of the building dazzled in
the early morning sunshine. Stars of light reflected off the brass
of its three bells, so bright that it hurt the eyes.

'Thank God for that,' Mario said. 'I thought we'd never get
here.' The track had become steadily worse since leaving
Adoraci6n, crossing the Servita river and striking out into the
wilderness beyond. They'd blown one tyre ina rocky pothole and
had no other spare.

As Goldie moved forward again, trying to negotiate a route
through the impossible ruts, Mallory glanced again at the handdrawn
map. 'Just past the outcrop and the chapel, there should
be a left-hand turn.'

They entered the shadow of the ravine, the wheels spinning in
the quagmire left by the recent rains. To the right they saw the
single-storey bar with its tables and chairs and a few weathered
dwellings. On the left, a stony track led up the slope beside the
outcrop.

'Here it is,' Goldie announced and swung the wheel. The
Fourtrak tore itself free of the mud and strengthened its grip on
the dry. shale, gathering speed as it climbed. As the trail passed
the chapel, they could see that it had been constructed on a small
plateau of sandy earth. Its position offered a commanding view of
the countryside, sloping away to the far distant river. The track
began to bend round a long, wooded spur of land before plunging
down towards the valley floor. The soil here was friable and
lifeless. It had dried quickly and now a dust cloud followed them


193

through the scrubby landscape.

There was no fence to mark the perimeter of the ranch, just an
archway over the track formed by three eucalyptus poles. A yellowing
cow skull had been nailed to the crossbeam and on one of
the side supports a rough, hand-painted sign said simply
TAFUR. Half a dozen scrawny bullocks were spread out in the
empty distance, patiently foraging for a few withered clumps of
grass. High in the cobalt sky a vulture circled. No building was in
sight.

Goldie grunted, 'Almost makes the Negev Desert seem lush.'
'Godforsaken hole,' Mario agreed.

Mallory said nothing. Perversely he liked the place. He remembered
how Victor Tafur had told him about its harsh beauty and
how his family had loved it for generations despite the struggle to
scratch a living. No matter where you lived in the world, he
thought, home is always home. Besides, in some ways, it
reminded him of the Paraguay of his childhood.

Then the view disappeared, the track twisting unexpectedly to
the right and down a short, sharp slope to a rocky, tree-topped
cutting. Momentarily the growing warmth of the sun was
replaced by the cool air of the dappled shade. As his eyes adjusted
to the sudden gloom, Goldie almost missed the sharp bend that

veered to the left.

'Shitl'

He hit the brakes, spinning the wheel. The Fourtrak responded
slowly, the rear end fishtailing before the tyres bit and the vehicle
straightened up. Then they were out in the open again, the sunlight
brilliant.

It was at that moment Goldie saw the black stallion in his path.
The magnificent beast was rearing, its flanks and haunches glistening
like silk as its hooves pawed the air. Simultaneously Goldie
noticed the girl on its back, riding without a saddle. He was distracted
by the white summer dress she wore, tucked high over her
tanned thighs.

In the back Mallory was jolted again as the Fourtrak swerved.
He cursed and peered forward to see what the problem was. The
sight of the girl whipped at his senses. Her hair was long and as


194

glossy black as the horse she rode. She was fresh-faced, with a
flawless dusky skin that suggested she was barely out of her teens.
He had a fleeting impression of white teeth, her full lips drawn

back in a snarl as she struggled to restrain her mount.

Mario gawped. 'God, what a vision!'

The horse settled, dust swirling around its hooves, just inches
in front of the Fourtrak as it finally grated to a halt. It was only
then that they saw the shotgun. Held in the girl's right hand, it
rested across the base of the stallion's mane and pointed straight
at the windscreen.

Her eyes were wide, dark and angry. 'This is private property!'
she shouted in Spanish. 'Turn round and get out of here!'

Goldie wound down his window. 'We have come to visit Sefior
Tafur.'

She gave a sneer of derision. 'I am aware of that! And I shoot
you if you do not turn round this instant!'

Goldie was nervous. He never trusted women to act rationally,
especially when they were riled. Especially when one of them had
a gun pointing at him. 'We are friends of Sefior Tafur.'

The smile transformed her face, but it didn't quite reach her
eyes. 'From England, of course?'

That threw Goldie. He spoke perfect Latin Spanish, so why

should she think that. 'I have come here from England, yes.'
'Then I think I will shoot you now.'

Mallory had become aware that from her elevated position on
the horse the girl could only see Goldie and Mario in the front
seats. If she lost her temper, she could take out his two friends
with a single blast before Goldie could either reverse or turn.
Quickly and as quietly as he could he opened the rear door just
suft]ciently to allow him to drop silently to the ground.

Goldie was pleading to be believed. 'Honestly, we are friends
of Sefior Tafur.'

'I know my father's friends. And you are not any of them.'

'Please don't point that thing at us. We mean no harm. Can't
we talk?'

Now Mallory was under the Fourtrak, wriggling forward
beneath the high chassis. Just feet in front of him he could see the


195

shuffling hooves of the stallion.

'You threaten to kill my father. To destroy our farm and
cattle. We are sick of your tricks. Your lies! It is my turn to have
the gun, ad now you are not so brave, I think. So get out with
your hands in the air.'

'I'll turn round like you said,' Goldie offered, reaching for the
gear lever.

She raised the shotgun a fraction. 'OUT!'

Mario glanced at his friend and shrugged. They had no real

option. The doors opened and they stepped down to the ground.
'Throw away your weapons.'

Mario spoke for the first time. 'We are unarmed, little one.'
'I don't Delieve you.'

He grinned. 'You are welcome to search me. It will be a pleasure
to be searched by the prettiest girl in Colombia.'

The smooth skin of her forehead fractured in a frown; somehow
these did not sound like the men she knew. 'I will only
search your body when you are dead, sefior! Now drop your pants
and remove your shoes and start walking - back to your camp.
Come on, cluickly!'

Mallory sprang from beneath the engine of the Fourtrak. The
girl was startled by the sudden movement and tried to switch her
aim. But the horse reared, its eyes wide and wild, and the shotgun
blasted into the vehicle windscreen, glass shattering in all
directions. Then Mallory's hands grasped the barrel, wrenched it
from her.

The girl's foot came out to kick him away as she grabbed for
the reins to make her escape. Mallory fell back, his face bruised.
But in those few moments of distraction Mario had sprinted
around the far side of the stallion, behind the girl's turned back.
In one swift and powerful manoeuvre he managed to get his arms
around her waist. She yelled and the horse bolted. Although she
attempted to hold onto the animal with her knees it was hopeless
and she crashed backwards into Niario's embrace sending them
both sprawling to the ground.

Mario laughed as she struggled. 'Sefiorita, you are so forward,
and we haven't even been introduced.'

196

Her flailing fist caught him in the eye. With a yelp he release
his grip. She sprang to her feet, backing away, cornered, her hai
tumbling over her face.

Mallory broke open the shotgun, ejected the remaining car
tridge, and threw the weapon aside. 'You sees we don't com
here to harm you or anyone.'

She looked puzzled and frightened, but her stance remainec
defiant. 'But you are the English? From the mine?'

'We are from England, but we have nothing to do with an.
mine.' He smiled to reassure her. 'My name is Kurt Hulse. I me
your father on the bus from Tunja. He invited me to visit. I an
working for these men, helping out. They are wildlife film
makers.'

She was bemused, shaking her head in disbelief. 'I think yo
come to cause trouble, to ruin the best day of my life.'

'What is your name, pretty one?' Mario asked, still nursing hi
eye.

'Juanita.' ""

'Your papa would be proud of you. For one so pretty you pacl
a heavy punch.' He grinned and she blushed, beginning to realis.
these strangers really did offer no threat.

Mallory said: 'Would you take us to your father?'

Still she looked uncertain. He stepped forward to retrieve th
shotgun then handed it back to her with the cartridge separate
'I'm sorry about the rough stuff. We really thought you wer
going to shoot.'

She looked sheepish. 'I was.'

Mario looked understanding. 'Just trying to find the courage
eh?' He was beguiled by another of her shy smiles. 'So you wil
take us?'

Juanita gestured to her stallion, now calmed and grazing sev.
eral hundred metres away. 'I must catch my horse first. It will no
be easy, he is a bad boy.'

'You go with these two,' Mallory said. 'I'll bring your horse.'
She frowned. 'He will not go with strangers.'

Mallory laughed. 'He'll come with me, I promise you.'

Harry Morgan looked up from his
paper-strewn desk as Guy Thripp
entered. 'Not another fuckin' interruption.'

'Sorry,
boss. Thought you'd want to know. The Cisco Kid's
turned up with a couple of Panchos.'

'Can't you handle it? I've enough on my plate trying to work
out how we're going to get this production stepped up.'

'I can,' Thripp replied, 'but we've been fobbing him off for
weeks. Then he buttonholed Crabtree and Beavis the other day,
remember?'

He remembered. And Thripp was right, it was best to keep the
Cisco Kid and his bloody revolutionaries on board, keep them
sweet. He had enough headaches keeping the production lines
going and organising the convoy runs. And it wasn't just the
product; absolutely everything from food to bog paper had to
come in by convoy along hundreds of miles of unmade road. The
last thing he needed was Cisco disrupting them in a fit of pique.

Morgan leaned back thoughtfully in his chair, balancing it on
the back legs. He was tall and broad-shouldered, smartly turned
out given the primitive living conditions. His olive fatigue
trousers and bush shirt might be faded after countless boil washes
at the camp laundry, but they were clean and knife-edge ironed.
It was part of the Para culture: always be smarter, fitter, quicker
and tougher than the next man. No excuses. That culture had
stayed with him, even after they had kicked him out. Personal
hygiene and appearance remained his first priorities each morning,
even if his shower was just a holed bucket of cold water and
he had only a blunt blade to drag across the skin of his square and


198

weather-hardened face. Standards were everything, which was
why he kept his hair, nowadays more salt than pepper, brushed
thoroughly until it stood upright like iron filings under a magnet.
Lice or fleas didn't stand a chance.

And it certainly didn't hurt to set an example, especially with
the ragtag bunch he had working under him. At length, he said:
'I'm sure you're right, Guy. Show him in, but alone. Keep his
goons outside.'

Thripp tipped the brim of his stetson and turned to the door.

'What's he call himself?.' Morgan asked. 'The Fox or something?'

The other man grinned. 'El Lobo. The Wolf.'

'Fuckin' ridiculous.'

A few moments later, Thripp returned with the young guerrillero
leader. His denims and a buckskin jacket with fringes
would have done Davy Crockett proud, his enormous white sombrero
was clutched in his hands.

Harry Morgan gave the smile he reserved for VIPs. 'Nice to see
you - look, sorry, can't keep calling you El Lobo.'

The toothbrush moustache inverted as the man showed a smile
of even white teeth. In Spanish he said: 'Your men call me Cisco.
A cowboy hero on TV, they say. Fights for good and justice. That
is fine.'

The Englishman grimaced and turned to Thripp. 'What's he
say, Guy?'

'Call me Cisco.'

Morgan grinned. 'Hablo Espaol er poco, er?'

'Muy poco," Thripp added helpfully; his vocabulary was marginally
larger than that of his boss.

'Sure, speak very small er, I mean, little Spanish. Can we try
English?'

El Lobo was obliging. 'I try. Me speak small too.'

'Christ.' Morgan shook his head in frustration. And wondered
for the umpteenth time why the hell Beavis and Crabtree hadn't
managed to find anyone on their team who could speak the lingo.
He'd high hopes when the new recruit Pete Stafford showed up,
but he turned out to be pretty awful too. 'How can we help you,


199

Cisco?'

'You promise training, si? Remember?'

'Sure, I remember.' A steady and sincere smile.
'But, there is no training.'
'Ah, well--'
'Where is training?'

'It comes. Soon. Er - Pronto. Training come pronto. We very
busy.' Now he was talking pidgin. 'Much work. Much to do. We
start soon.'

God, Morgan thought, why had it ever been promised?
Training and arms. A bad idea, but E1 Lobo was right, it was all
part of the deal.

'You promise me.' The young man's eyes were bright and
intense.

'My word, Cisco. You have my word.' Another smile and an
extended hand.

With a handshake his word was accepted. 'Sefior Harry, in

return I tell you things. We are team, yes? Work together.'
'Sure we do. Buddies.'

'I tell you there are three men come from Santa Maria. Make
film.' He did the Charades game hand motion for a camera.
'Shoot wildlife. BBC.'

Morgan couldn't resist a smile. 'I know.'

E1 Lobo was surprised. 'You know?'

Thripp added helpfully: 'Our people met them in Santa Mafia
and the comisado tells us they have now come to Cruz de Oro. He

will keep an eye on them.'

'You do not mind?'

Morgan said: 'I mind, but if they're genuine it's better not to

draw attention to ourselves. Not rock the boat.'

'Please, they are on the river?'

'No, no.' Oh, for God's sake, he thought in near desperation.
'No, Cisco, I do not mind.'

'We will leave them, too.'

'Fine.'

'And the UN?'

'What?'


200

'United Nations. They come, maybe. Want see me, get - er safe
passage. Two peoples.'

The two Englishmen exchanged glances of concern. Thripp
muttered: 'This place is getting like Piccadilly Circus.'

'The UN is to come here?' Morgan asked. 'To Cruz de Oro?'

'I do not know. Santa Mafia, Servita valley, maybe Adoraci6n,
maybe Cruz de Oro.'

'I don't like it,' Thripp said.

El Lobo may not have exactly understood the words, but he
understood the intonation. 'We want these two peoples here. UN
survey is good for the people, for the campesinos. You understand?
Much money comes.'

Morgan considered for a moment. 'I don't think we're in the
business of harassing the UN. For the same reason we'll not
interfere with any wildlife film crew. We don't want to attract the
attention of the outside world.' He didn't add that he would use
Comisario Pulgarin to do that; the man was a wizard at producing
bureaucracy to order on his patch. It should prove deterrent
enough. 'Comprendes, Cisco?'

Morgan's elaborate sign language appeared to have got
through. 'Si, comprendo.'

They parted on good terms. Courteously Morgan and Thripp
showed him to the door and stood outside to watch him and his
escort leave the compound.

'Cisco's a pain in the backside,' Thripp muttered.

'At least he didn't ask for a bigger cut,' Morgan replied. 'That's

what I was expecting.'

'Give him time.'

'At least he's keeping the police and the army out of the area.'
'What about this film crew?'

'Our local sheriff's been briefed. With any luck they'll get
pissed off with Pulgarin and move on. Anyway, as long as they

keep their cameras pointed well away from us...'

'And the UN?'

'Did you know about them?'

Thripp nodded. 'Only that there's a couple in Santa Maria.
Researching for some sort of project fund. I doubt they'd even


201

venture this far. If they did, it would only be for a day or two.'

'Then just make sure the local population are warned to keep
their mouths shut.'

'Don't worry, Pedro will see to that, no problem.'

Harry Morgan stepped back into the shack and turned. 'In the meantime we'd better show willing with Cisco. Can we get a

couple of bods to do some training with them?'

'I guess so. "0ghat d'you have in mind, boss?'

Suddenly Morgan felt weary. 'Fuck me, Guy, can't you think
of something? A bit of target practice, a bit of fire-and-man

oeuvre. Anything! Just keep the bloody Cisco Kid off my back.'
Thripp smarted, but bit his lip. 'natever you say, boss.'

But Morgan noted the tone of insolence in the reply, and it
added to his growing irritation. 'And what are you doing about
that farmer?'

'Victor Tafur. I thought I'd let him simmer a while.'

"Tithout that airstrip, we can't meet the new production targets,'
Morgan reminded testily. 'So never mind about simmer.
Turn on some heat. Let's see the bastard boil!'

He slammed shut the door of the shack, inches in front of
Thripp's nose.


Goldie and Mario could smell the tension in the dry air as they
drove with ]uanita into the fenced yard of the Tafur family's
hacienda.

It was a humble, single-storey affair of white-painted adobe
with arched windows and doorways and a roof of thatched reed.

As the Fourtrak pulled up outside and the dust settled, Victor
Tafur came out to meet them. Not exactly in greeting; he looked
apprehensive and carried a pitchfork with the points foremost.

There was a look of relief in the farmer's wary, darting eyes as
Juanita quickly allayed his obvious anxiety, explaining that these
strangers were friends of the man called Kurt, the man he had
recently met on the Bogot bus.

Only then did Tafur lower his pitchfork, smile broadly and
invite them in. The place was gloomy and smelled of woodsmoke
from the open cooking fire. Above it hung a row of hams,


202

glistening with fat that dripped and spat into the embers.

His wife, a timid-looking woman who wore her grey hair in a
bun, stood by the giant hewn-timber table that filled most of the
room. She gave a bobbing little curtsy as she was introduced.
Clinging shyly at her side was Juanita's ten-year-old sister, every
inch a tomboy in faded dungarees. She shrank back as Mario
ruffled her hair and chuckled.

Tafur turned to his eldest daughter who was lingering at the
door. 'You say Kurt is bringing your horse?' He sounded sceptical.

'I think this is him now,' Juanita replied, watching the dust trail
advance.

Victor and his wife joined their daughter. 'He must be a fine
horseman to have mastered that one so quickly,' the farmer
observed as Mallory dismounted and tied the reins to the hitc
-ing post.

'Victor!' he called, catching sight of the farmer. 'It is good to
see you.'

'And you, my friend.' They shook hands. 'I see you have met
my eldest daughter. This is my wife and our youngest daughter,

Nancy. Come, Maria, coffee for our guests.'

'You're too kind,' Mallory replied.

As they gathered round the table, Tafur said: 'I understand you
are working for these gentlemen?'

'Yes, a natural history film unit.'

'So they have just explained. How wonderful! And it is good
you find a job with them, because I really do not have money to
hire you, however good you may be with horses!'

Mallory shared the farmer's good humour. 'In fact, Victor, I
was hoping we could pay you. These people need a base while
they film and Adoraci6n is much too far away. I wondered about
your farm?'

Tafur looked uncertain. 'I am afraid our home is very small, as
you can see.' He thought for a moment. 'Ah, but there is our

barn. It is dry and there is straw for bedding. Not much, but...'
'It sounds perfect.'

'Maria can provide a breakfast and supper.'


203

'Even better.'

Tafur laughed. 'Then I may even be able to pay you for a little
help around the place after all! Especially as Juanita is stealing my
ranch hand.'

'Papa!' the girl protested. 'I am marrying him, not stealing
him.'

'I have hardly seen him for weeks while he builds your new
home.' He turned to Mallory. 'You have chosen a wonderful time
to call. In just two days it is Juanita's wedding. It will be quite a
party.'

Goldie said: 'I hope you will not be greeting the bridegroom
with a shotgun!'

The farmer looked shame-faced. 'Ah, yes, I am sorry about
that. Juanita at first thinks you are from the emerald mine.'

'She said something about Englishmen,' Mallory confirmed,

Tafur sighed, weary. 'Yes, I am afraid these people give us
much trouble.'

'Is that why you are trying to sell your land?' Mallory coaxed,
remembering their conversation on the pullman.

He nodded. 'Our land stretches up to the canyon. There is an
area of several hectares that is very flat. The English want to build

a landing strip for aircraft.'

'Is it good land?'

'No, but I will not sell to such people.'

Goldie said: 'But they are just miners?'

Tafur shook his head sadly. 'That's what they say--'

'But what?' Mallory pressed.

'Maybe I should not say this. But, by the Mother of Jesus,
everybody around here knows. They are narcos. I will not sell to
such people. Why should I?'

'Can you afford to be choosy?'

The farmer stared at him. 'Yes, my friend, because I do not
want to sell at all. Look, I am Colombian and so I do not view
the drugs business in the same way that the Americans do. But
that is their problem, not ours. If they want this stuff, why
shouldn't poor peasant farmers grow it or help to provide it?
When the Americans stop wanting, Colombians will have no one


204

to produce it for and the problem ends, no?'

Mallory nodded; he was well aware of the South American perception
of the problem.

Tafur continued: 'But these English, they are something else!
They are evil people without souls. This whole region is intimidated
by them and their gang. They are only here a few months
when five farmers are murdered in front of their families in five
separate settlements. The English say that these men have been
spreading lies and rumours about the mine. That they deal in
drugs not emeralds and that their deaths are a lesson to us all.'

'It is true,' Juanita added. 'It was horrible. But it was worse
because those men were innocent of such things. They just talk
amongst themselves like everybody does; they do not cause
trouble.'

Mallory's eyes met Goldie's; both men recognised the pattern.
It was little different from the intimidation employed in authoritarian
states or from the IRA's methods of policing its own ghettos
in Northern Ireland. Traditionally Colombian narcos just did
it a bit more ruthlessly.

'Then everyone is frightened,' Tafur continued. 'There is a
silence of fear. But it gets worse. The English have a big operation.
They need building materials, fuel, equipment, chemicals
for their laboratory and much food and canned drink. An army
of trucks is needed to keep them supplied. So they say to one
peasant, you bring this, or take that in your truck. We do not care
what else you are planning to do. Do this for us now! We pay you
what we think. And the people are too scared to say no. If they
do, maybe they are beaten up or worse. Or maybe their house is
burned down.'

'Have you had trouble, Victor?' Mallory asked.

'Everybody has. Last year I had a farm hand run down and
killed by a car at night when he refuses to drive supplies to Santa
Maria. Nothing can be proved, but we know who was responsible.
And then they say they want to buy my land. The money
was not bad, but I do not want to sell. There is a big row and
many threats. Then our stream is poisoned with chemicals.
Juanita is threatened when she goes shopping to Adoraci6n. That


205

is why I try to find a private buyer. I want to go now, but I will
not give in to these people.'

'Good for you,' Goldie murmured.

'What about the police?' Mario asked.

Tafur gave him a strange look. 'What about them? Comisario
Pulgarin is the last person you go to for help, believe me.'

They believed him.


At eleven o'clock the next morning, Mario was adjusting the tripod
of the camera, having selected a powerful close-up lens. He
tilted it down and tightened the locking bolt to hold it in position.

It was ideal weather for filming - high, bright cloud that cast
minimal shadow. Even high up on the rocky spur of the canyon
wall there was little breeze and he paused for a moment to look
out over the valley. The Tafurs' hacienda was just discernible,
looking like a pretty plastic model on a railway layout. Way
beyond, a deep dark scar of greenery marked the course of the
Servita.

Mario turned back to his work, erecting the reflectors and
adjusting them to even out and lighten up what shadow there
was.

Twenty metres away, Goldie was seated in the back of the
Fourtrak. He had the false front of the sound recorder flipped
down and was adjusting the dials of the radio set behind it.

Still nothing. A mere crackle of faint static around Mallory's
frequency. Insufficient power and mountain atmospherics. He
wasn't really surprised and resignedly switched off and closed up
the false front.

It was fifteen minutes before Mallory appeared, jumping down
over the rocky hillside with the agility of a chamois antelope.

He arrived at the spot where Mario had set up. 'What areyou
filming? Your feet?'

The Martinican looked pained. 'No, mi amigo, wildlife.' He

jabbed his finger at a cluster of little stones. 'Beetles.'

Mallory grinned. 'What sort of beetles?'

'How the luck should I know? A beetle's a beetle.'

'A rare Andean carpet beetle, I should think.'


206

Mario shrugged. 'It's not my fault.' He made a wide gesture to
encompass the surrounding country. 'We've been here a whole
day and I see nothing! No wild cats, no jaguars, no mountain

foxes. Even the snakes are hiding.'

'What about birds?'

'If you hadn't noticed, they fly away when we go near.'

Mallory said, with a wink: 'There's more to this nature filming
than one thinks.'

His friend scowled and looked beseechingly to the empty
heavens. 'God, give me a fucking condor.'

Goldie approached from the Fourtrak. 'Did you pick up my
signal, Kurt?'

'Not bad at all, but I gather you couldn't hear me?'

A shake of the ragged woolly hair. 'I'm not surprised. You
haven't got any power with that thing. A thousand metres, bah!
Where do these manufacturers get their figures from? I reckon
five hundred metres on a clear day - not counting on atmospherics.
'

'So we'll need the solar relay booster?'

Goldie nodded and held one out in his hand. It was a smart
contraption, a radio relay transceiver disguised in waterproof
plastic casing that resembled a boulder. A thin wire aerial could
be run out on a spool and hidden in grass or shrubbery to pick up
the weak source signal and power-boost it to a range of some five
miles. Then the powerful listening device in the Fourtrak would
receive and enhance it. The device was powered by a twelve-inch
plug-in solar panel.

'The problem is,' Goldie reminded, 'we'll have to get this
placed within five hundred metres of the emerald camp.'

Mallory smiled grimly. 'That's assuming I ever manage to get
inside.'

'Faith, my friend, faith. The opportunity will come, you'll see.'

Suddenly Mario moved back from the camera and stared down
the slope. 'We have visitors.'

Goldie quickly placed the relay booster on the ground, indistinguishable
from other rocks, and slid it away with the side of his
foot as the off-road vehicle came into view.


207

It was a flashy big Nissan Patrol which had been customised
with bits of chrome from other vehicles, including an enormous,
gleaming front fender off an American limo and an array of spotlights.
Eventually it stopped a little lower down the slope.

Comisario Oscar Pulgarin, complete with camo fatigues and
ivory-handled six-shooters, climbed down and adjusted his aviator
Ray-bans. His companion was a fat greaseball with an enormous
belly that hung over his trouser belt and he wore a large
floppy sombrero. The two men began to mount the steep, boulderstrewn
incline.

Not surprisingly the policeman arrived first, stood in front of
the camera Mario had set up and looked out at the view. 'I see
you have made a start.'

'We have our schedule,' Goldie answered flatly.

The sunglasses gave Pulgarin an inscrutable look, but at least
his crooked smile suggested he was in good humour. 'It is a pity
you do not bring some pretty film starlets with you, eh?'

Mario smiled back. 'Unfortunately we are stuck with wildlife.'
'So what are you filming here?'
'You're standing on them.'

Pulgarin looked down at his calf-length boots and shuffled his
feet. 'Beetles?'

'Dead beetles now.'

Goldie added: 'Dead Andean rock beetles. Very rare.'

The comisario frowned. 'Rare? My police post is overrun with
these things.'

'Then the government will probably put a preservation order
on it,' Goldie replied.

Blank black lenses radiated pure vitriol for a couple of seconds,
then Pulgarin's smile returned. 'Of course, you are joking with
me. Yes, very amusing.'

'Unless you are an expert,' Goldie explained, 'one beetle looks
very much like another. Now tell me, Comisario, to what do we
owe the pleasure?'

At that point Pulgarin's deputy arrived, wheezing, and immediately
began hand-rolling a cigarette.

The comisario said: 'You haven't called at my police post for


208

your passports. '

Goldie shrugged. 'Why should we? We knew they were in safe
hands. Besides, you're the only person who'll want to see them.'

Pulgarin nodded to the deputy and the man dug into his
pocket to produce the passports, now covered in greasy finger
marks, and handed them over. 'I will hold onto your other documents
- for safekeeping.'

'I suppose there's a fee for that?' Mallory interjected.

'But of course. Just like a bank. Security is to be valued in these
lawless regions. Shall we say ten thousand pesos each? You can
pay when you collect.' He removed his Ray-bans then and made
a show of polishing them with his handkerchief. 'Now, I have
spoken with my chief in Santa Maria by radio. He confirms it is
okay for you to be here. But he warns you are not to film anywhere
near the emerald mine. It is just over the ridge above us.'
'Oh, really, why?' Mallory asked.

'Security, of course. The people at the mine are sensitive about
that, naturally. And we don't want to have you accidentally shot
by a security guard, do we?'

'Thanks for the warning.' Goldie almost sounded sincere.

'And my chief insists I provide you with an escort. This is
Gilberto, he will look after you.'

Gilberto had managed to set fire to his roll-up; he inhaled
deeply, then coughed and hacked before spitting on the ground.
He beamed a smile of rotten teeth and offered his hand.

'Perhaps we should look after Gilberto,' Mario said under his
breath.

'He is a good man,' Pulgarin said. 'For ten thousand pesos a
day, he is good value.'

The money was exchanged and the comisario departed in his
Patrol, leaving Gilberto to protect his charges.

In fact, it took Mario very little time to work out how they
could handle the fat deputy. He enjoyed his food demolishing
most of the team's picnic lunch by himself, and he liked his drink
- a bottle of dark rum was supplied by Goldie. And he liked to
sleep after either. He enjoyed women too, and was courting an Indian widow who lived on the road to Adoraci6n. It seemed the


209

amiable Gilberto had every known vice, as well as a few new ones
he'd invented himself.

After drinking half the rum, he shared an amusing little secret
with them. Although the comisario had a radio in his police post,
it didn't work. Hadn't done for years. So his supposed conversation
with his chief in Santa Maria was quite impossible. Pulgarin
really was quite a character, quite a wag in fact!


In the early afternoon, with five minutes' blurred and shaky
footage of squashed beetles and a hovering vulture in the can, the
unit returned to the Tafurs' hacienda.

Gilberto had left his ancient estate wagon there and was more
than delighted when Goldie told him he was finished for the day.
He was free to pay his vieja a surprise visit. It was a ploy they were
to use regularly in the coming days and Gilberto was not a man
to look a gift horse in the mouth. He grabbed life's little perks
with both hands.

When he had gone, Maria produced a steaming pot of coffee
and the three men joined Tafur, his wife and Juanita around the
massive table. There was only one real topic of conversation, the
forthcoming wedding.

It was half an hour before Tafur asked how the filming had
gone.

Goldie shrugged. 'It's a slow business and we are new to the
area. It will take some time before we locate all the various habitats.'

Tafur
agreed. 'You really could do with some local knowledge.'

At
that moment the conversation was interrupted by the noisy
arrival of the battered farm pick-up, driven by Juanita's fiance. A
priest climbed down from the passenger seat, his cassock floured
with dust from the journey.

Ricardo was a darkly handsome Colombian in his mid-twenties.
It was easy to see how the lush swept-back hair, the longlashed
eyes and ready smile had charmed the farmer's daughter.
He shook hands cheerfully with the strangers and introduced the
priest from Cruz de Oro.


210

'I'd like you to meet Father Le6n.'

The priest, too, had good-looking and swarthy features and
appeared to be only a few years older than Ricardo, with just a
hint of grey at the temples.

With unexpected seriousness he said: 'You do us a great honour
by coming to this place to film God's creatures. As a child I
collected many books on wildlife. So if I can be of any help,
please let me know. Many in my congregation know the best
places to go to find different animals. Indeed, you could do worse
than ask Ricardo here.' For the first time the priest's solemn
expression was lightened by a smile. 'If he will have the time to
drag himself away from his new wife.'

Juanita's fiance was enthusiastic. 'It will be my pleasure to
guide you, of course.'

'But I must issue a word of warning,' the priest added. 'I regret
this is not a safe part of the world. There are guerrillas and robbers
who could cause you problems. Many would target rich foreigners
for kidnap and ransom. Animals-are indeed God's

creatures, but sometimes I wonder about mankind.'

'Amen to that,' Tafur said with feeling.

The priest took the offered cup of coffee from Maria and
sipped at it with relish. 'Indeed, it is over just such a matter that
I am here.' He turned to the farmer. 'This morning I had another
visit from our mutual friends. They gave dark warnings that the
chapel might be burned down if I marry your daughter and
Ricardo tomorrow.'

Juanita looked aghast. 'But why? What are they trying to do?
What have I ever done to them?'

'Sssh, child,' Tafur said softly and placed a consoling arm
around the girl's shoulders. 'We will not let them intimidate us.
It is not you, but me they are angry with. It is all part of the pressure.
You and Ricardo shall marry - regardless of their threats.'

Father Ledn shifted his stance; he looked uncomfortable.
'That may not be wise, Victor. They said if it goes ahead they will
be there. To add their blessing to that of God, was how they
phrased it.'

Tafur's face stiffened. 'Are you telling me the ceremony cannot


211

be held, Father?'

'No, no. If you wish it, we will go ahead. It is just that I think
you should seriously think about the consequences. Not for the
church or for yourself, but for your daughter and her husband.'

Ricardo took Juanita's hand. 'No one will stop us, Father. It's
unthinkable.'

'These are dangerous people,' the priest reminded.

'I am all too aware, Father,' Ricardo said. 'You will remember
I was beaten up by them just a few months ago for refusing to cooperate.'

A
thought occurred to Mallory. 'Father, this is none of my
business, but it would be a shame to ruin the big day for these
two yotmg people. Juanita's father has a barn where the ceremony
could be held. I know it is not a church, but you could
bless the place, perhaps?'

Father Le6n lifted an eyebrow. 'That is an interesting proposition.
It is time we all stood up to these people.'

Mallory smiled. 'Leave those pigs waiting at the chapel, thinking
the wedding's been called off, while all the time it goes ahead
here in the privacy and safety of your home.'

Juanita's expression changed, her face radiant at the prospect.
'Seftor Kurt, what a wonderful idea.'

Meanwhile Mario had been standing idly by the window,
enjoying his coffee and a cigarillo. He saw the approaching dust
trail on the track from Cruz de Oro.

'Excuse me, Victor, but are you expecting visitors?'

Mallory saw then the sudden look of fear in the farmer's eyes.
It was palpable. You could almost smell it on him. Maybe it was
the tone of Mario's voice that set alarm bells ringing. Like
Mallory himself, his friend had an instinctive sense of impending
trouble. A mood change in the atmosphere of a place, a certain
spoken phrase that hid a real meaning, even simple body language.
And body language transferred itself to the way a vehicle
was driven. Essentially, most men drove in a relaxed manner; a
man looking for trouble drove with aggression, powered by
adrenalin. Hard, precise driving allowed a man to build up his
courage and self-confidence.


212

The farmer said: 'I am expecting no one.' He stepped forward
to join Mario by the open window. His mouth began to go dry as
he saw the vehicle take form within the dust cloud. It was a
Rocsta jeep. He crossed himself. In a barely audible whisper, he
said: 'It's them.'

Mario and Goldie glanced towards Mallory, who gave an
almost imperceptible shake of his head. Their firearms were still
secreted in the Fourtrak which was parked outside. While there
was still time to reach them, this was not the place to go breaking
cover. They were not here to protect farmers, brides and
priests. Their target was the Viper gang and an opportunity might
just be presenting itself.

Suddenly Ricardo went to the wooden wall rack by the door
and took down the shotgun.

'I am not sure that is wise,' Tafur said as the lad thumbed in
two cartridges of bird shot.

'It is the only language they understand.'

Maria put a protective arm around little Nancy. 'We'll go to
the bedroom. Victor, please be careful. All of you. Don't go looking
for trouble.' There was an edge of despair to her voice.

They then heard the throaty roar of the Rocsta as it entered the
dirt yard and skidded to a halt. Startled chickens flurried in all
directions and Juanita's tethered stallion pranced nervously at the
sudden commotion.

Mallory followed the others to the door, but hung back in the
shadow of the archway to view the scene. The open-topped
Rocsta had pulled up thirty feet from the hacienda and the driver
and his front passenger were getting out. Both Latinos and both
wearing the shabby unofficial 'uniform' of the campesino: ragged
jeans, filthy tom shirts and straw stetsons. But while the driver
was thin and unshaven with nervy body movements, the other
was corpulent and confident. His face was fat and round, his long
shaggy hair matched with a heavy Zappa moustache, and he had
the air of a man who believed in his own reputation - no doubt
all of it bad. He looked and felt invincible, Mallory thought.
Quite capable of using the 9mm Ingram sub-machine gun which
he carried casually in one hand.


213

Mallory became aware of the increasing tempo of his own
pulse rate as the adrenalin started to flow. He would have to do
something, but he didn't yet know quite what. And the prospect
was scaring him shitless. He looked relaxed and cool, he knew
that, leaning against the door jamb, idly studying his nails, just
glancing up from under the shading peak of his old baseball cap.
No one would guess the dread terror he really felt.

Keep calm, think. Take a long slow draught of air. Force yourself
to control your feeling of panic, to consider the options with
deadly cold logic. Assess the enemy. The big man standing a few
feet in front of his vehicle smoking a cheroot, looking complacent
and almost genial with a wide grin revealing yellow teeth. Armed?
Look again. Yes, a hunting knife strapped to his ankl.e.
Remember that.

The driver. A pace or two behind, subordinate, less sure of
himself, but with vacant dark eyes that meant he was probably
slower-witted, less able to muster rational thought, and therefore
dangerous. A pistol stuffed in his waistband. Probably experienced,
but definitely not professional.

Then he noticed them for the first time. Sitting relaxed in the
rear seats of the Rocsta. Despite the shadows from the wide
brimmed hats, he identified them immediately as gringos. In the
doorway he shifted position slightly and thumbed up the peak of
his cap for an unobstructed view. The two men turned to face
each other, to exchange some comment or maybe a joke.
Sunlight picked up their features for a fleeting second. Then
Mallory had no doubt who they were. The men from the whorehouse
in Santa Maria. Guy, the tall one. A triple nine tattooed on
his knuckles, confirmed by Lucila. The killer of Mario's wife and
child. And the other man whom he knew only as Billy. His heart
began to thud, his body trembling, feeling like the vibration of a
pneumatic drill.

'What do you want, Pedro?' Ricardo shouted from the front of
the gathering by the door. He held the shotgun pointed to the
ground.

The fat man allowed cheroot smoke to escape through his teeth
as he smiled. 'To offer our congratulations to you and your bride214


to-be, of course.'

Ricardo's face remained expressionless. 'Fine, so you've done
it. Now you can go.'

Another smile, and Pedro Gomz flicked his cheroot ash in the
direction of the shotgun. 'You plan to go shooting birds, boy?
That is all that thing is good for.' He looked at his driver and both
men laughed. Then he returned his attention to Ricardo. 'We
would have brought a gift, but we hear a rumour that you do not
marry after all?'

Juanita clutched her fiance's arm.

Father Le6n spoke up. 'It is possible the marriage may be postponed.'
His voice quavered slightly. 'We are thinking the couple
are not ready for a lifelong commitment...'

The smirk widened on Pedro's face. 'I really am sorry to hear
that. But then they are both so young. And Juanita is so pretty I
am sure she will have many suitors.' A chuckle. 'I might even
ask her to marry me!'

Ricardo snapped, 'Shut your filthy mouth!' The twin barrels
lifted a fraction. 'Now get out of here!'

Pedro raised his left hand. 'Okay, okay. That is not so friendly.
But think of this. In just a few weeks you could be away from
here. Maybe settle in a nice new hacienda and ranch in a place
that grows lush green grass rather than tumbleweed. Eh? Maybe
then you and your bride will see a real future for yourselves.
Think abo-tt that, boy. Persuade that stubborn old future father
in-law of yours. But don't take long about it.'

Victor Tafur could stand no more He stepped forward 'For
the last time, Pedro, I have no intention of selling.'

'Is that so?' The Colombian jerked a thumb over his shoulder
in the direction of the Rocsta. 'Even when my boss, Seor Guy
suggests we add one million pesos to our offer? Let us call it a
wedding present.'

Two thousand pounds sterling, Mallory thought. Around three
thousand dollars. A small fortune for a peasant farner in the
Servita valley.

'I am not selling,' Tafur repeated.

All humour drained from Pedro's face in an instant and a pink


215

tongue appeared to wet his lips. 'That is a shame, because these
are such troubled times.' His eyes began to wander. Along the
line of people gathered at the doorway, to Ricardo's battered
pick-up, the hired Fourtrak and Juanita's stallion at the tethering
post. 'So unpredictable. You never know when an accident might
happen...'

It occurred so fast that no one was expecting it. Almost concealed
in his huge paw of a hand, the Ingrain burst into life. He
didn't even bother to aim it, just fired straight from the hip.
Juanita screamed. The horse uttered a strange, gurgling shriek of
pain and surprise as the line of 9ram rounds studded the satin
pelt of its flank. With eyes wild and wide and its mane tossing in

a frenzy, the haunches collapsed under the animal's body weight.
The silence that followed was stunned. Disbelieving.
'See what I mean?' Pedro said apologetically.

The dying horse twitched and whimpered. Juanita broke from
her fiance and raced across to the stricken beast. She dropped to
her knees, taking its head into her lap, stroking its cheek and
gasping out words of consolation. Red foam bubbled from the horse's slack lips and spread in a livid pattern across the white
cotton of her dress.

Mallory had about five seconds to assess the situation, to
double-guess the turn of events. Knew Ricardo would react with
fatal consequences and yet the lad was the only one with a
firearm. Twenty feet to the Colombian gangster and only his
secreted Chinese Poignard fighting knives to bridge the distance.
Bad odds.

Then he noticed the bolas hooked to the front door for decoration,
two balls of lapacho hardwood joined by a thong of guembepi
fibre. He moved swiftly to remove them just as Ricardo
raised the shotgun. Pedro pivoted, ready for the reprisal.
Searching for the girl's fiancr, anticipating the lad's blind anger.
Mario pulled Tafur back. Goldie gave a mighty heave into
Ricardo's back, the shotgun detonating as the lad pitched sideways.

The rounds from the Ingrain sliced through the air where
Ricardo had been standing, chewing a cluster of holes in the


216

hacienda wall. Pedro cursed and arced round on the balls of his
feet, seeking his target on the ground. If he. hadn't, the
Colombian might have caught sight of Mallory as he twirled the
bolas rapidly above his head. Concentration was everything; it
was thirty years since he had last used one in Paraguay, but in an
instant he was a boy again. Remembering the feel of the device,
its weight, the need for a straight-armed throw to keep a good gap
between the two balls during flight. Suddenly it was only yesterday
when he had been a master of the technique.

Pedro heard the strange whir of displaced air as the bolas left
Mallory's hand. Distracted, the Colombian's eyes flickered sideways
to see the loose star of weighted thongs spinning towards
him. But that was all. Then all he was aware of was the stunning
impact as they struck his face, going into centrifugal rotation,
wrapping around his throat with the speed and strength of a baby
python. The Ingram fell instantly from his grip as he toppled
backwards under the impact, his fingers desperately trying to
unravel the living creature that was throttling him.

Mallory was moving in fast on the Colombian's driver. The tall
thin man with the vacant eyes had been watching events earlier
with smug amusement. An unaffected bystander. But all that had
changed. Now his boss had been pole-axed and lay writhing on
the ground and someone was coming at him. Running fast,
crouched low, unarmed, but nonetheless menacing. Feverishly
his hand tugged at the pistol in his waistband. It was caught on
the belt buckle, resisting. He yanked it free.

The double-horn Poignard fighting knives were kept in two
horizontal scabbards fixed to Mallory's trouser belt and hidden
by his canvas jacket. As he closed on the panicking driver, his
right hand reached behind his back, fingers locking around one
haft. His eyes fixed on his target, mind totally focused.

Suddenly the driver's pistol was out, the man's arm high, his
elbow bent, the barrel pointing skyward. Then the driver tried to
bring it down, to level it at the stranger rushing towards him.
Mallory's left arm brushed the gun aside, following up with a
right-hand tttrust. He was not aiming at the man's body but some
point beyond it. Like a karate blow that snaps a block of concrete


217

as though it were a candy bar, the tempered steel tip of the
Poignard punched into the driver's upper abdomen, just below
the ribcage, in a power-driven upward thrust. Just left of centre.
Material, flesh and muscle - even bone - offered no resistance as
the seven-inch blade sliced into the heart.

Mallory heard the astonished cries of those who watched. But
not the driver. He was frozen, speechless, hooked and hanging on
the blade. His legs had collapsed under him, his arms limp and
lifeless by his side. Wide, disbelieving eyes stared at the man who
was killing him, content to leave his victim like a gasping fish.
Enjoying the moment.

Mallory's biceps began to tremble at the effort of holding the
dead weight, but still he stood there, determined that the men in
the Rocsta should remember this. Then, slowly, he lowered the
blade of the Poignard and allowed the body to slither free. It
twitched once, twice on the ground, then lay still.

Only then he breathed again and looked across the yard to
where Pedro still lay on the ground, the skin of his face almost
blue as Mario used a knife to cut away the ravelled thong from
his neck. Goldie stood above them, calmly removing the magazine
from the Ingram while the Tafur family and the priest
watched in shocked silence.

Then the solitary slow handclap began. It was the tall
Englishman Mallory knew only as Guy. At his side Billy Susan
sat, unsmiling, another Ingrain clearly in view.

The man called Guy levered himself over the open side of the
Rocsta and dropped to the ground, Although be appeared to be
anarmcd, he- show,:d , visible concern at e prospect of death
r danger, t{e walked with languorous strides towards Mallory
and the dead man.

Tl-mn l,e stopped, )us a few feet away, and tipped tip the brim
of his cowboy stetson with his thumb. His eyes were dark and
glittering, whether with amusement or anger it was difficult to
tell.

In English, Mallory said: 'You should teach your men some
manners.'
There was a pause while the other man regarded him carefully.


218

'I think you've already done that.' He indicated the figure of
Pedro, now stumbling breathlessly to his feet. 'Buthe's the one

you should have killed. He'll not forgive or forget.'

'And you owe the lady the price of a horse.'

Now a smile surfaced on the angular features, perhaps admiring
the stranger's cheek. 'You think so, eh?'

Mallory wiped the blade of his knife on the dead driver's shirt.
He guessed the Englishman was recalling just how quickly the
driver had met his Maker. 'I think so.'

The man reached into his jacket pocket, very slowly, aware that
Mallory was watching his every move. He drew out a roll of dollar
bills and peeled off some notes. 'Two hundred. I think that's
the going price for a nag.'

'Not that one. It was special, a fine potrillir. Make it five.'
The Englishman's grin deepened and he plucked out another
two hundred bucks. 'Don't push your luck.' He glanced across at
the Tafur family, Mario and Goldie, then looked back at Mallory.
'You asked me for a job in Santa Maria. So what are you doing
here?'

Mallory said: 'That's a wildlife film unit. They hired me.'
'To do what? Be a one-man army?'
'To help out, this and that.'

The man nodded. 'A bit of a waste of your talent - what was
your name?'

'Kurt. Kurt Hulse.'

At that moment, Goldie stepped forward. 'Look, I don't know
what's going on here, but I can do without all this violence.' His
eyes blinked behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. 'I hope you
won't give us any trouble if we're filming in the area?'

Guy Thripp studied the skinny Jew with his mad tangle of
black hair. 'Just take the comisario's advice. Don't point any camera
near me or my men and keep out of our way. You'll be all
right.'

Then Goldie turned on Mallory. 'And you're fired. I wanted
an errand boy, not a bloody murderer. I don't need this sort of
hassle.'

Thripp said: 'There's no hassle.' He waved across to Pedro


219

Gom6z and pointed to the dead driver. 'Get this bag of shit
loaded.' Then he turned back to Goldie. 'It's easy enough to dispose
of a corpse out here. No worries.'

Goldie said: 'He's still fired.'

Zhripp nodded slowly, a thought occurring to him. 'Well,
Kurt, you've cost me one of my men. The least you can do is
replace him. You said you wanted a job.'

Mallory glared at Goldie for a second, then said: 'Give me a
minute while I grab my kit.'

10

'So tell me about yourself,' Thripp
invited.

He was sitting in the rear with
Mallory. Despite having been dumped face down in the cargo
section, the corpse had started to leak and the stench was
putrid. Pedro was driving, but spent more time scowling at
Mallory in the mirror than watching the track. Billy Susan sat
beside him in the front, repeatedly shouting at him to look
where he was going.

It took most of the journey to the emerald mine camp for
Mallory to recount his life story and answer Thripp's questions.
Orphaned childhood in Paraguay, a spell as a mercenary in
Africa, then bumming around the world. Close enough to the

truth to make it sound convincing.
'So no formal military training?'
'I can handle myself.'

'I've seen that. No offence intended. It's just that...'
Mallory looked at him.

Thripp sniffed hard for a second and stared out at the passing
countryside. 'It's just that something about you seems familiar. I
used to be with 22. You know, the British SAS? Can't have been
there.'

Christ! Mallory felt his heart skip two beats in succession, a
spasm of fear knotting in the base of his spine. Now I know where
it was, he thought, and when. Who you are, Guy Thripp, and
what you were.

He was hardly listening as the man continued: 'So you know
South America vcell and speak the lingo?'

'Sure. I'm more at home here than in England.'


221

Billy Susan chuckled. 'And there's me thinking you was a
Kraut.'

At last they had arrived at the camp compound, the gates
swinging open as they approached. When the Rocsta jolted to a
standstill, Thripp ordered Pedro to get rid of the body. In time
honoured fashion it would be left for the condors to pick clean.
Then, after a couple of days, Pedro's men would burn the bones
until nothing remained.

Thripp turned to Mallory. 'You come with me and Billy. We'll
introduce you to the boss man.'

Grabbing his rucksack, Mallory followed them to a small
shack. The door opened onto a small untidy office area with two
old wooden desks that came from a previous era. 'This is where
I work,' Thripp announced, pointing at an ancient upright manual
typewriter and a pile of paper. 'As you can see, running our er
- export operations isn't easy without rood cons. That suits to
a degree, being this remote. But electricit3- and telephone lines
don't extend beyond Adoraci6n so we're stuck with unreliable
generator power. So no phones or fax or computers. We have to
radio our small office in the village and send all paperwork by
messenger. Makes us pretty labour intensive. I work alongside
Harry Morgan, the boss, and we share this office. Billy's the
gaffer and oversees the manpower. From now on that includes
you.' Susan's rosebud mouth pulled a smile that looked
obscenely pretty in the pock-marked face. 'If Billy says shit, then
you shit. His orders aren't orders, they're holy commandments.
Goddit?'

Mallory nodded.

Thripp moved to the left and threw open the door to the adjacent
quarters. It was barely large enough for the two camp beds
on which a middle-aged man sat as he pulled on a pair of leather
boots.

'Sorry to disturb, boss, but have you got a minute?'

Harry Morgan climbed to his feet. He was tall and heavy, all
muscle, with that flatfish, lived-in sort of face that had ex-Para
stamped all over it. And he was smart.

'What is it, Guy?'


222

We ran into that bloke I told you about. The one who asked
me for a job in Santa Maria. I thought we could use him. He's a
bit handy.'

Morgan stepped into the doorway and fixed his eyes on
Mallory. 'Don't think we have a vacancy for a tramp. Got enougl
of them here already.'

Thripp said: 'He killed Pedro's driver.'

Morgan blinked and looked at his number two. 'Say again?'
'We were doing some business down at the Tafur ranch. Pedro
got a bit excited. This bloke stood up to him - quite a spectacle,
boss, you should have seen it. Floored Pedro with one of those
bolas contraptions, then stabbed the driver before he could draw
breath, let alone his gun. Thought we could use him. He speaks
the lingo.'

Slowly Harry Morgan nodded; clearly he trusted Thripp.
Lighting a cigarette he walked in and across to his desk. 'Okay,
Guy, tell me what this is all about.'

He remained silent and thoughtful, just-blowing occasional
smoke rings while Thripp and Susan related events at the ranch
in detail and what they knew of Mallory's background.

When they had finished, Morgan reached into the drawer of his
desk and extracted a bottle of Black I-abel. 'Get some mugs:
Billy. Maybe we've something to consider here. Join us in a drink:
Kurr?'

'I ��n't drink.'


, ,,} .,':;v, S you're one f as. Kurt? British, but speak fluent
Spanish and German. And you know how to handle Latin burns
like Pedro Gomdz, it seems. Now, what do you know about this
operation?'

Mallory accepted one of the mugs. 'They say you've reopened
one of the old emerald mines.'


223

'Who's they?'

'Folk in Santa Maria and Adoraci6n. The drunk I met in
Bogota.'

A ghost of a smile played at Morgan's lips. 'But you don't
believe them?'

Mallory shrugged. 'Maybe, maybe not. This is Colombia. It's
famous for its emeralds as well as its coca.'

Morgan's face was a picture of innocence. 'Coca?'

'The guns, the heavies, knocking the locals around to demand
loyalty - well, that could be emeralds. Sounds like the white lady
to me.'

'Or White Viper,' Susan chuckled at his private joke.

'And tell me,' Morgan said, 'would you have a problem with
that?'

A grin cracked Mallory's face. 'I may be one of you, Mr
Morgan, but I'm more South American than British. If it earns
the old campesinos a few bucks, I'm all for it. If I get something
out of it - even better. Just what would you want me to do?'

Morgan shot Thripp a knowing glance before replying. His
number two nodded shrewdly. 'You see, Kurt, we have a little
problem. This operation is a partnership, see? You probably
realise that.'

Mallory nodded. 'No foreigners are going to operate here without
a Colombian mafia's say-so.' He hesitated. 'In fact, I'm surprised
they've allowed you to have your own men on the ground
at all.'

Thripp said: 'They didn't in the beginning and we got ripped
off pretty bad. Individuals and local groups of villains all pointed
the finger at each other. We didn't know who the hell to believe.'

'So we took the pragmatic view,' Morgan said, sipping at his
whisky. 'Said if they wanted our money and expertise, we needed
to get in deeper. So we upped our investment in return for our
own muscle on the ground to protect that investment. They provided
Pedro Gom6z and his gang of hooligans and Guy here
organised our team. They're supposed to work together but in
truth it's more like a mutual standoff.'

While they were in a talkative mood, Mallory decided to push


224

his luck. 'I don't understand why the Colombians should want
you at all. What expertise do you have they don't already have
themselves? Why let you have a slice of the action?'

Mallory quite distinctly felt the air chill as Morgan's eyes narrowed.
'Let's just say we understand some markets better than
they do.'

'You mean Europe,' Mallory said, nodding as though it made
absolute sense to him. He avoided eye contact as he added: 'I
guess the US is becoming pretty much saturated - and anyway,
the price per kilo is much higher in Europe.'

'Know a lot about it, do you?' Billy Susan said hoarsely.
Mallory shragged. 'I know South America, what makes it tick,
how it works.' Time to get off the subject, he decided. 'So how
can i help?'

Thripp glanced at his boss, unsure whether he should say
more. But Harry Morgan seemed satisfied. His number two said:
'Basically we don't trust Pedro's crowd. Although they've been
supplied by our Colombian partners, we never- know when they
might decide on a little action of their own. For that matter, our
partners themselves are capable of mounting- what shall we say?
- a hostile takeover bid. None of our lads speaks more than a few
words of the lingo. Usually "How much?" and "Take your knickers
off." Harry, me and Billy, well, our vocabulary's a bit bigger,
but not much. What I have in mind is to put you in with Pedro's
lot. Call it a liaison r61e, but in fact it'll be to keep an eye on them
and report back to us. You've got off to a good start, killing that

idiot of a driver. They respect that sort of thing.'

'I've also made an enemy of Pedro.'

Billy Susan chuckled. 'Then we'll soon see if you're up to the
job, won't we?'

'I'll need a firearm. Preferably a 9mm automatic.'

'No problem.'

'And I'll do things my way.'

Harry Morgan had no intention of paying this stranger the
same rate as Thripp's men. He said: 'Five hundred dollars a
month.'

Mallow- shook his head. He didn't want to sound too eager.


225

'I'm not putting my life on the line for fun. This is a chance
me to sort my life out, get some cash together and start over.
getting too old for bumrking around the world. So make

thousand and we're talking business.'

'Seven fifty.'

'I said a thousand.'

Morgan smiled. 'Done.'

Mallory shook the offered hand. 'Just one thing. What's
vendetta with the Tafur family?'

Morgan scratched at his chin. 'It's no vendetta. We want
old bastard to sell up. There are very few places around here s
able for a landing strip and he's sitting on a prime site. Perf
Only he won't budge. Until he does, all product and raw ma
ials have to come and go by road to Santa Maria with all'
attendant risks and costs. Once we've got our own strip, we
more profits and a lower profile - and we can quadruple our
put within six months. We've offered the old sod a good pt
but he just won't take it.'

'We've been too soft,' Thripp added.

Morgan shot him a disparaging look. 'Maybe, but my pec
and our Colombian partners would like to do it all nice and le
ff possible. Quietly and no fuss. There's no halfway ho
though, because that'll draw attention to us - we don't want
law cases or any government or press involvement. So if Ta

won't co-operate we'll just have to put the fear of God into hi
'I see.'
'Anything else?'

Mallory considered. 'Tell Pedro Gomz to leave me alone.'
'I will,' Guy Thripp promised, 'but you'll still have to look a!
yourself. You made a fool of Pedro in font of everyone. You
dented his machismo and he won't forgive you for that. Wa
your back, because he'll choose his moment.'

Harry Morgan said: "Welcome aboard.'


Mallory settled into camp life.

He was billeted in the Colombians' bunkhouse and allocate

wooden camp bed. There were around thirty men in all. Hh


226

muscle. Most had at one time or another worked for Pablo
Escobar of the now disintegrated Medellin cartel. Within a week
Mallory had established that many had killed in what they affectionately
called 'the good old days' before their master had been
imprisoned in luxury then escaped only to meet his death at the
hands of the 'armed police'. The men could be relied on to do
exactly as ordered: intimidate, torture or murder, all necessary
and regular activities to keep the narco machinery well oiled and
efficient. They were so deep in the filth, they'd never be able to
climb back out. Helpfully, Harry Morgan gave them liberal
bonus perks of White Viper cocaine to keep them sweet.

Other Colombians worked in the laboratory, a sealed compound
within the camp. These chemists had learned their trade
down in the wild areas of the Chapare and Beni in Bolivia.

From the start Mallory was treated with a grudging respect.
Word of how he'd killed the driver with a fighting knife that had
seemingly appeared from nowhere and his ignominious defeat of
Pedro Gomz had arrived before him. Generally the Colombians
didn't speak to him voluntarily, but they responded politely
enough to his questions. Pedro himself had protested vehemently
to Harry Morgan at having this Englishman imposed on him,
until it was explained that Pedro's own chief from Medellin had
been consulted and had agreed to the liaison r61e. After that he
avoided Mallory as best he could; thankfully, as foreman, Pedro
had his own wooden hut and the two men rarely had to be in each
other's company.

Gradually, as the days rolled by, Mallory became more
accepted by the rank and file. He spoke their language and
understood their psyche. He had a good repertoire of jokes and
anecdotes that gained him. a fair measure of popularity.

English=born he might be, but .they would scarcely have
guessed it. To Pedro's men he was, to all -intents and purposes,
one of them. As each day passed he was thought of less and less
as an outsider.

His work was varied. With three other Colombians, he accom=
partied a local mack to the airstrip at Santa Maria to collect and
deliver large plain packages. Invariably a sealed envelope was


22"/

handed to the pilot. On one of those trips he saw Georgina
Savage and Dale Forster across the street, but made no attempt
to contact them. Other duties were more distasteful. An Indian
who had been press-ganged into helping load and unload trucks
was suspected of stealing part of the consignment, which he fervently
denied. That night he was visited on the orders of Billy
Susan. Half a dozen of them, led by Pedro, burst into the man's
primitive house where he was eating a meagre supper of maize
and bean soup with his wife and daughter. He was dragged outside
while one of the gang forced a double-ended stave into the
ground. Mallory knew what was coming. Elpalo hablar. The talking
pole. A neat South American trick that was as old as the
Conquistadores. There was nothing he could do but watch and
ieer with the others as they tied the man's hands behind his back,
removed his trousers and sat him on the upturned stave point.
Then the men stepped back and allowed gravity and body weight
to do the rest. They had their confession immediately and, satisfied,
walked off into the night, leaving the impaled Indian to die.

On another night they visited a man who had been overheard
gossiping about the mine and its involvement in la coca. He was
held down and his lips sealed with an industrial staple gun.

Mallory had felt sickened but, strangely most might think, not
by these acts of barbarity in themselves. If he'd ever seriously
considered it, he might have accepted that his childhood and
later life had brntalised him, blurred the fine line between violence
that was justified and violence that was not. What angered
him was the intimidation that was at the core of it all and the
utter helplessness of the victims. Did it matter whether they were
innocent or not? The Indian was an impoverished, half-starved
campesino and the other man a fool with a loose tongue. But there
was no plea for clemency for them, no court of appeal; no lawyers
in cloaks and fancy wigs, no divine intervention.

Pedro Gomtz, Billy Susan, Thripp and Harry Morgan. They
were no better than each other. Mallory recognised the type.
Almost without exception the gringos in Morgan's outfit were
from deprived or broken homes. They'd grown up in the thuggish
yob culture of the British underclass. Ill-educated and with


228

little or no moral guidance they had faced a bleak furore with a
choice of menial labour, the social or crime - or all three.

As a way out, each of these men had joined the armed forces.
The system had reinforced and encouraged their swank and their
violent ways - Mallory noticed how many were former Paras. But
before the military could remould them to include a few balancing
virtues, like a little humility, almost all had left of their own
accord or had been cashiered.

And at was what else Morgan's men had in common. They
were all failures and they knew it and hid their lack of self-esteem
and self-respect behind a wall of swaggering brutality. In this
domain they were gods in a godless world. Strutting with arrogance
and in the knowledge that they were safely beyond any law,
any retribution.

It was to destroy people like them that Mallory had first agreed
to work for the organlsation. Of course, Goldie and Mario understood;
it was in their blood too. And if any others of his few friends
had known what he did, they would probably-applaud his sense of
justice. But not if they knew the methods he sometimes used.

Amongst outsiders, only Savage had ever known and, he
thought, understood. Partially at least. But he realised it was
something she could never accept.

But then she had never known how he'd felt as a boy in
Paraguay. When Brother Hermann had been his mentor and tormentor.

However,
apart from those chilling incidents, the first week
passed quietly enough. Other than discovering as much as he
could about the details of the gang's operation, his most urgent
task was to decide how best to establish communications with
Goldie and Mario. He had not dared walk into the camp with any
incriminating kit that didn't fit with his cover story. And, sure
enough, on the second day he found that his rucksack had been
disturbed while he was out. The single hair he'd wetted and
placed across the fastenings was missing and inside he could see
that the contents weren't quite as he'd left them. Any item of
communications equipment, however well disguised, might have
been found.


229

The only concession to the decision he'd made to go in 'clean'
was his private false passport under the name of Jim Tate. This
he kept in a concealed pocket stitched to the inside of his baseball
cap - the most likely item to be overlooked in a cursory body
search. Even if it had been found, he had a perfectly reasonable
explanation for it, one that fellow criminals would fully understand.

In
the pre-ops planning stage in London, it had been decided
that either Goldie or Mario would probably need to hide a
portable radio relay booster within a few hundred metres of the
camp compound. Unbeknown to him, Goldie had positioned it
during his fourth night with the narcos. They had been filming
five kilometres away the previous day and that night had pitched
their two tents beside the Fourtrak. At midnight, when deput
Gilberto was in a deep alcoholic slumber, Goldie had stealthily
approached the camp and put the unit in position.

The other decision which had been made during the journey to
the Tafur ranch was the means of contact to be used in
Adoraci6n. That, Mallory realised, could be provided by the puta
called Lucila who would by then be resident at the whorehouse
there.

By the time Saturday arrived he was more than ready for some
female company at El Tigre and a respite from the constant need
to be on his guard at the camp.

He hitched a lift into the settlement at sundown in one of the
Rocstas. It was driven by the camp's vehicle engineer, Doug
Tallboys. His somewhat taciturn manner hid a dry humour
which began to surface only after a couple of Club-Colombias at
the bar.

'While you're working here for Harry Morgan, just shut your

eyes and think of Scotland,' he advised. 'That's what I do.'
'That bad, eh?'

Tallboys drained another bottle. "Well maybe it doesn't bother
you. I mean, I heard how you stuck Pedro's driver the other day.
Well, so what? He was just a murderin' shite anyway. But those
"police patrols", as Billy Susan likes to call them - you know,
keeping the locals in line. I don't have the stomach for that.'


230

Mallory wondered if the man was testing him. 'Maybe it's necessary?'

The Scotsman regarded him with frosty grey eyes. 'Yeah, in
this business it probably is. Trouble is you can't complain to anyone.
Not Harry, Guy or Billy or the rest. They won't tolerate it.
Means they're treating us no better than the locals.'

Tallboys's companion was a wan-faced ex-Para in his late
twenties. His name was Pete Stafford. 'I wish to hell I hadn't got
involved.' The fear was showing in his eyes.

'Now, now,' Tallboys warned. 'Careless talk costs lives. Yours,
if you're not careful.'

Mallory regarded both men carefully. 'So you didn't know
what you were getting into?'

Tallboys said: 'Not until we arrived and then it was too late.
They conned us into it - now we're on one-year renewable contracts.'

'I'll drink to that,' Stafford said, making a sudden and determined
effort to be cheerful. 'Just over eleven months to go!'

The Scotsman looked at Mallory. 'That's what Pete's predecessor
thought. Made the mistake of mouthing off to Billy Susan
and now he's dead. When these guys say renewable yearly contracts,
that's what they expect us to do. Renew. How else can
they ensure no one blabs to the authorities back home?' He
turned back to Stafford. 'A word of advice, sonny. If you ever
plan to abandon ship, don't tell me, or Kurt or anyone. Just do it
and run like the devil's after you. Because, believe me, he will be.'
Mallory said: 'Still, it's a job.'

Tallboys used the table edge to remove the cap from another
bottle. 'Sure. It pays the mortgage and feeds the wife and kids.
But I tell you something, Kurt. I used to be proud to be a soldier
- if you allow a REME grease monkey to call himself a soldier.
Northern Ireland, Germany, Hong Kong.and the Falklands bash.
Even met some great blokes in the mercenary side of things in
Africa. Felt I was contributing something to make the world a better
place. Helping get rid of the bad guys, I suppose. But here?'
He belched lightly. 'I feel like I'm wallowing in sewage and I'm
never going to get clean again. Sorry! Stupid that, just the drink


231

talking.' He lifted his glass. 'To good o1' Harry Morgan and his
merry men! God bless 'em!'

'And may they rot in hell,' Pete Stafford added darkly.
Mallory waited until gone midnight before he made his way to
El Tigre. By that time most members of the Viper gang had
already indulged themselves or were too drunk to do more than
think about womanising.

He entered the adjoining bar and glanced around. Only a few
of Pedro's crew were around, talking morosely in corners, sparing
him a cursory wave of acknowledgement. Passing into the
bordello's reception area, he saw that the girls were sitting around
gossiping, smoking and drinking cups of t/nto. Heavy eyelids fluttered
alluringly in his direction, but without much enthusiasm; it
had been a busy evening. With disappointment Mallory realised
that Lucila was not among them.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder. 'Sefior Pike.'

His heart froze in horror the second he heard the name. Then
his pulse seemed to kick-start with a thud, racing as he turned.

The short peroxide hair, the bulging eyes and scarlet cupid's
bow were unmistakable. 'Fanny Lacera?'

She was smiling. 'I never forget a face.'

Mallory found himself sweating. 'But you forget names,
Fanny. It's Kurt Hulse.'

Understanding flickered in her eyes. 'Of course it is. Are you

looking for a particular girl?'

'Lucila.'

'Ah, sweet Lucila. From Santa Maria, but then you probably
know that. She's busy at the moment. Would you like a drink
while you wait? Come with me.'

He followed the enormous backside hidden by drifts of chiffon
as she waddled through to her office.

She opened the drawer of her desk and produced a bottle of
five-star brandy as she said: 'I hope we're not going to have a
repeat of last time. My neck was sore for days after.'

'Not if you tell me what you're doing here? Why did you leave
Venezuela?'

She poured shots into two balloon glasses and handed him


232

� one. 'Expansion, sefior. My backers thought I did so well at
Arabian Nights that we should buy out this place.'.

'Backers?' he queried, then realised what she meant. Her
backer was Ruiz Edilberto Jaramillo, suspected but unproven
head of a Cali family. And this was part of his intelligence operation
against their mutual enemy.

'They have an eye for profit. And my clients like a familiar face,
someone they can trust. I've even brought a couple of my girls
from Casuarito. And tell me - er- Sefior Kurt, did you ever manage
to contact the lawyer lady in Call? Maria Palechor?'

Mallory swallowed the brandy. As if she didn't know. 'Forget
it, Dofia. And remember we have never met before.'

There was an intense gleam in her eye. 'I thought as much.' At
hearing footsteps on the stairs, she turned. 'Ah, here is Lucila

now.'

He stepped outside the office to be confronted by the girl and,
standing behind her, Guy Thripp and Billy Susan.

'Kurt!' she cried, her expression lightening the instant she
recognised him. 'You come here like you promise.' Quickly she
leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

Thripp didn't like that; it showed in his eyes. 'Watch this one,

Kurt, I think she's got crabs.'

Billy Susan tittered.

'That's okay,' Mallory replied easily, slipping his arm around
the girl's waist. 'I expect she got them from me.'

After a brief and silent glare, Thripp strode away with Susan at
his heels.

'What is the matter with him?' Lucila asked as they climbed the
stairs.

'Just jealous,' Mallory answered. But he guessed Thripp didn't
like the reminder that down-and-outs like him were using the
same woman.

As she opened the door to her room, she said: 'I must not forget,
one of my gentlemen leaves a package for you. His name is
Mario, a marvellous man who makes nature films. He says you
left these things behind when you work for him. He said you told
him you will come to me tonight. I am so happy to hear it! And


233

here you are!'

She peeled off the skimpy pink dress and immediately he saw
the bruises. 'Those men, they did this to you?'

'Seflor Cruy and Seflor Billy, sure. But don't worry, it is just my
job. You want to make love now?'

Back in Santa Maria she'd used the expression 'Make sex'.
Things were looking up. 'Best offer I've had all week.'


It was strange, he thought later as he rode in the colltivo that had
been sent to bring the Saturday night stragglers back to the camp,
how men buried their fears and their anger in a woman's body.
When she was riding the wave, oblivious to everything but her
own ecstasy, how she didn't feel the pain or the relentless pounding
of her inner flesh. How focused you could become, not on
pleasure but on ridding yourself of frustration, hatreds and even
anger that had nothing to do with love or passion. Or even the
woman herself.

Somehow he had felt cleansed when it was over and they'd
shared a cigarette and a couple of silly jokes. It was as though
she'd happily absorbed all the filth and guilt of his life within herself.
Absolved him.

On his return to the camp, he took the package and a flashlight
to the latrines which were situated a good distance from the nearest
building. There were three cubicles like sentry boxes made
from corrugated tin which were placed over deep cesspits with a
eucalyptus frame to squat over. Once inside he opened up the
brown-paper package. The miniature microphone and speaker
were concealed in a yellow plastic biro and the aerial was provided
by a coil of wire with a tiny female plug fitting that snapped
onto the point of the pen. He ran the aerial wire around the roof
of the latrine, then clipped a second lead onto the reverse end of
the pen. He attached this to his flashlight battery. All being well,
there would be suicient power for the signal to reach the relay
booster hidden a few hundred metres beyond the camp fence.

He spoke in German: 'Lancelot to Galahad, are you receiving?
Lancelot to Galahad, are you receiving?'
Five more times he tried before he picked up the hiss and


234

crackle, a disembodied voice breaking up. Goldie Goldstein.
Thank God for that, he thought. This contraption had been provided
by Dale Forster. No doubt it had worked well enough in
trials at some signals laboratory at Langley. But the speaker was
too tiny to provide much more than an indication that someone
was on the receiving end. It was virtually a one-way system.
'Lancelot to Galahad. Message follows.'


It was the following morning when Goldie forwarded his taped
and encrypted signal from the disguised radio in the Fourtrak by
burst transmission. The message contained details of Mallory's
call the previous night and an update of his and Mario's own situation.

A
hidden radio in the UN Cherokee picked it up, the tape
spool switching on automatically. There were now two signals
waiting on the tape; the first had come in overnight from the
American Embassy in Bogotfi.

On his way back to the hotel in Santa Maria following breakfast
with Savage at the Cosmopolita, Dale Forster went to the
parking lot to check the Cherokee. He sat in the back and drew
the curtains before opening the disguised radio and running the
messages back at normal speed. He wrote for several minutes in
his notebook, then closed everything up and returned to the
hotel.

Savage was waiting in her room; this time he knocked before
entering.

'I've got those name checks off the DEA computer,' he
announced. 'It doesn't do to have an unusual Christian name in
this business.'

'You mean Guy showed up?'

He nodded. 'Only one Englishman called Guy on the list. Guy
Thripp.'

She stared at him as though he'd used a dirty word.

"What is it, Georgle?'

'Are you winding me up?' she demanded.

Forster glanced down at his notebook. 'No. Guy Thripp.' He
spelt it out. 'Do you know him?'


235

But she wasn't hearing him.

She was sitting in the car in San Sebastian, northeast Spain,

over two years earlier. Sitting alone, knuckles white with tension,
observing the meet at the little cafe on the plaza. The transparent
earpiece and hidden throat mike her only communication with
their backup. The heat in the car stifling, the sun on the white
buildings dazzling all around, her heart thudding.

Seeing Mallory sauntering along with two known members of

the Provisional IRA towards the car6.

Three men from the Basque separatist movement ETA already
there, drinking coffee. Seeming relaxed, but not. Watchful and
alert. Jumpy, but hiding it well.

The work nearly done, the meeting made and the links established.
Names and faces to complete the jigsaw. And the misgion
almost complete.

Then she saw him. A man reading a newspaper, leaning against

a lamppost. But not reading. His head at that odd angle that suggested
he was talking into a microphone on his lapel.

She knew who he was and her heart sank. It took just a quick
glance around the plaza now to pick out the rest of his team. The
street cleaner; the man under the bonnet of his car searching for
a fault; the woman looking at the postcard rack. Suddenly she
could identify them all, zoom in like a telephoto lens. A second
ago they had all appeared so innocent. How could she have been
such a fool as to have missed them?

The Spanish anti-terrorist unit was mounting an operation.
Wires were crossed, their people and hers not talking, not con
tiding. Now something was going down and her man with it.

That's when she had called for backup. To get in and get her

man out. Fast. Screaming into the mike.

But her backup was a cockup. In the wrong place and its guard
down. A four-man SAS team in plain clothes, badly positioned.
Stuck in traffic and unable to close.

So she'd done the only thing she could do, broke cover. Started

the engine of her car, cut across the line of moving vehicles until
she was alongside Mallory, then threw open the door. The IRA
men startled, starting to run.


236

Then hell had broken loose, Spanish undercover men moving
in, shots being fired and terrified pedestrians diving for shelter.

That had been when Mallory had taken a round in the lung,
staggered and thrown himself into the car as she hit the gas, driving
away with the door still flapping.

Guy Thripp had been the man commanding the backup.
'Georgie, are you okay?' Forster asked.

She shook herself free of the memory. 'What? Oh, yes. It's just
that I know Thripp. He used to be with the SAS. Well, I met him
once - no, twice on an op that went wrong. He screwed up and
they kicked him out soon afterwards, I heard.' She stared at the
American. 'More to the point, Dale, he knows Kurt.'

It was Forster's turn to stare. 'Christ!' His voice low and
hoarse.

Savage tried hard to think, to remember the details. 'No, wait.
Thripp and his team had only just been assigned. They'd been

shown a photograph of Kurt before the operation.'

'So did he actually meet Kurt?' -4
'Yes. But only when he was coughing up his lungs. Blood all
over his face. In fact Thripp's first aid probably saved his life.'

'Are you saying Thripp wouldn't necessarily recognise Kurt
now?'

She nodded. 'Possibly not. Thripp's team had to get out fast
before the whole thing blew up into an international incident.'

Forster glanced down at his notebook. 'Well, I think we might
have gotten lucky. We've had a signal from him via Goldie. He
hasn't mentioned any problem, but he has given us a list of
names.'

'Including Guy Thripp?;

The American nodded. 'And the man we couldn't trace. Billy
Susan. If Kurt's right, they've all or mostly been professional soldiers
at one time or another.'

'I'll go through our embassy here and get them to check MOD
records.'

Forster added: 'Apparently they were all recruited through
small ads in Soldier of Fortune magazine. I know a number of
agencies monitor those ads to get wind of anything suspect brew237


ing. I'll see if I can find someone who can pinpoint the ad and
maybe who's behind it. Your boy's done good, Georgie.'

She allowed herself a faint smile. 'Did you doubt it, Dale?'

'Not if I listened to you.'

There was no mistaking the inference in his words. Somewhere

he'd picked up the vibes, sensed how she felt about him. She
found his smug perception irritating. 'Was there anything else
from Kurt?'

He told her that Fanny Lacera was now running the brothel in
Adoraci6n.

'What do you make of that?' she asked.

Forster shrugged. 'I don't have a problem with it. Fanny's part

of the Cali cartel's intelligence operation, a successful part. So we
shouldn't be surprised that they've taken advantage of it and
moved her closer in to the Viper operation. After all, according to
Jaramillo, the last agent they sent to snoop around here disappeared
without trace. If this woman's got good cover, he's going
to use her. We would, given a similar situation.'

'But Jaramillo didn't tell us he was doing it, Dale. That worries

me.'

'Why should it? Relax, babe. After all, this is his tuff. It stands

to reason Jaramillo would want his own eyes and ears in the

rgion. '

She still wasn't happy. 'But we've agreed with him that we'll
take care of it. That's what he's paying for.'

'Then maybe he wants those eyes and ears to be sure we do a
proper job of it. Maybe he doesn't trust us completely. I mean he
trusted Vic West in the past, but West is dead. He might not be
sure that Portcullis without West is as sound as it was. He'll be
aware that some people in the company have high-level links with
the British Government, and that your government has links with
ours. There's got to be a danger, however remote, that he's being
set up for some sort of sting operation by the DEA or some intelligence
agency. If I were him I'd want to keep a pretty close eye on thin too.'

Savage smiled ruefully. 'Well, I guess that's not a million miles
from the truth. We're getting Cali to pay for an operation we'd


238

mount anyway.' She thought for a moment. 'We can't prevent
Jaramillo being a little cautious of Portcullis, but .at least we can
counter that by feeding him an intelligence update.' She indicated
Forster's notebook. 'And that list of names would make an

impressive start. It's important we earn his trust.'

'When will you go to see him?'

'There's a flight to Bucaramanga this afternoon and I can get
an inter-connecting flight to Cali. So probably some time tomorrow.'


It was a bad dream. He was standing in a brilliantly lit room.
White floor, white ceiling, white walls. His hands were tied
behind his back. And all around white snakes slithered. White on
white. Hard to see except for their darting little forked tongues.
Just a few, he thought at first. Then, squinting against the brightness,
he saw that there were hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.
There was no door in the room. No way out.

	' LEVINTA TE, GRINGO!'


	Mallory was awake with a jolt. Pedro Gom6z stood at the foot

	of the cot, hands on hips and his sombrero askew.

	Christ, the bastard's come for me. I knew he would eventually,

	and I'm not ready for him. 'Get up, gringo!' Pedro repeated in

	Spanish.

	'What d'you want?'

	'You come with me this morning.'

	'Why?'

	'We have an important person to collect.'

	'Why do you want me?'

	A gold tooth glittered in the smile. 'I do not want you, gringo.

	It is orders from Sefior Billy. He wants you to interpret. We leave

	in five minutes.'

	They travelled in two Rocstas tO Adoraci6n, Pedro driving the

	first with Mallory and Billy Susan riding passenger. Four heavies,

	laden with sub-machine guns, followed in the second. As they

	passed the chapel at Cruz de Oro the bells were ringing boister
	ously,
calling the faithful to mass.

	'You know what I hear, gringo?' Pedro asked Mallory, who was

		239

in the rear. 'I hear that young bastard Ricardo marries the Tafur
girl last week at the hacienda while I and my friends wait at the

church. What do you think of that?'

'Doesn't bother me.'

'Perhaps it should, gringo, because I also hear it is your suggestion.
You enjoy trying to make a fool of me?'

Mallory half-smiled. 'I don't have to try, Pedro. You do it all

by yourself.'

Come on, you bastard, try it now, and I'll have your liver slit

and on the icep floor before you can draw brcar.h, let alone that
bloody great machete of yours.

But Pedro was cautious now, had not forgotten the speed at
which his driver had died. 'Don't push your luck, gringo.'

'Listen, when I suggested that idea to Ricardo, it was before I

knew we'd be working on the same side. So let's forget it, ch?'

The Colombian grunted. 'The boy still has to pay the price. It

has to be understood around here that what I say goes. If people

get away with disobeying our orders there will be chaos.'

Billy Susan was becoming impatient at not understanding the

heated argument in Spanish. 'What's he moaning about, Kurt?' Mallory told him.

'The man's got a point. Violence is the only language some
people understand. If one little icrk is allowed to disobey us,
they'll think they can do what they like. Anyway, the time's come
to stop pussyfooting with the Tafurs. They've turned down a fair
offer for their land and now they've cocked a snook by going

ahead with the wedding. There's a principle at stake here.'

'Meaning what, Billy?'

But the Englishman just grinned and said: 'Meaning that the
Tafurs will find there's a price to pay for defying us. You'll see.'

The conversation lapsed then, discouraged by the constant
rocking and iolting as the road deteriorated.

When they finally crossed the Serdta river bridge and entered
Adoraci6n the big black Landcruiser was already waiting. It was
surrounded by four enormous bodyguards in flapping silk suits
baggy enough to conceal an arsenal of weapons. The arrival of
the Medellin chief was hardly low profile.


240

Mallory had anticipated. He emerged from the a.-conditioned
cool of the Landcrniser with the practised air of a Spanish aristocrat
while managing to look like a B-movie version orAl Capone.
That included a white panama worn at a deliberately rakish
angle, a cream cotton suit and silk tie with a gold pin. But the
walking cane and white kid gloves were way over the top, Mallory
thought. Only the spats were missing.

'Mucho gusto, Seor Bastidas,' Billy Susan said, offering his
hand.

There was an arrogance in the Colombian's full chiselled lips
and thick brows that didn't really go with his baby face. Bastidas
removed one glove with deliberate slowness leaving Susan to

wait, with his arm stretched out like a tailor's dummy.
'Encantado. Cfmo le va?'

'What's he say?' Susan hissed.

'You've got lovely eyes.'

'What?'

'He says how are things?'

'Tell him fine. Tell him welcome to Adoraci6n. We've all been
looking forward to this important meeting with our respected
Colombian partners.'

Felix Bastidas transfdrred to the Rocsta, sitting rather disdainfully
in the back with Billy Susan while Mallory took the front
passenger seat beside Pedro. When the other Rocsta pulled away
with the four Viper heavies on board, they followed in its wake.

Mallory noticed that Bastidas looked tired after his long drive,
so he was hardly surprised when the Colombian demanded to
know how long it was goingto be before he could ly direct to the
mine and avoid the hours of bone-shaking travel on the unpaved
roads?

Very soon, Susan had assured, btt then wearied of the threeway
translated conversation, leaving Mallory to talk to their
guest. It left him free to ask a few questions of his own. Bastidas
appeared to appreciate some light and intelligent conversation
and, once he'd overcome his natural aversion to the stranger's
filthy clothes and body odour, he began visibly to relax.


241

Felix Bastidas, Mallory learned, was a distant cousin of the
infamous Pablo Escobar. The man had been his hero while he
was at university, combining business studies with an extracurricular
interest in left-wing activism. He had thoroughly approved
of Escobar's anarchic stance against the Colombian government
and especially the Americans' meddling in his country's affairs.
Likewise he applauded Escobar's flirtation with the revolutionary
guerrilla movements.

'After all, Seflor Hulse, I have studied revolutionary history in
Latin America. We have given birth to the longest-living group of
revolutionaries in the world. Since La Violencia in the forties and
fifties we have fought against successive bourgeois governments.
Nearly half a century - and yet, although the first, we have
achieved the least!'

That was going to change, or so Bastidas had thought. Yet
when he left university to play his part in the Medellin cartel and
to encourage political upheaval, he was just in time to witness the
meltdown of Pablo Escobar's empire.

'Those middle-class rats from Call were swarming all over the
corpse of my cousin's business even before it was dead. Pointing
fingers and helping the DEA finish the job. Then picking the
bones clean, grabbing the whole cocaine trade for themselves.
Smug that they are safe now with their friends in the government
to protect them. The Medellin has fragmented into small gangs
doing the best they can to survive.'

'And you're the leader of one of them, sir?' Mallory asked
politely.

'I have brought several factions together under my leadership.
Mostly these gangs comprise younger men who are hungry for
power and change. And I mean POlitical change. Our revived narco business is already bringing in vast rewards. But as the old
saying goes, money cannot bring happiness. Certainly it did not
for my cousin. And look at those bastards in Cali. They have big
houses, big cars, big yachts. They have so much money they
don't know what to do with it. What is the point of so much
money that it will take years for it all to be safely laundered. That
is no incentive. Now some of them even turn down new deals 242


they are too much trouble even to bother.'

'But you have a different plan?' Mallory prompted. It was all
beginning to take shape, to make sense.

'Oh, yes, SeiIor Kurt. I do not intend to amass a fortune just
to let the Colombian government or the Americans seize it and
imprison me or hunt me down like a common dog. My success
will be to avenge my cousin and finish what he began. But
whereas he did not have the political vision, I have. I am forging
close links with as many guerrilla movements as I am able, trying
to bring them together. Unknown to most, I am largely the architect
of the Co-ordinadora Nacional Simon Bolivar, the new pan
guerrilla front. Money from this operation will be used to fuel the
movement, to buy arms and run operations to bring about a
people's revolution at long, long last. Not just here, but also in
Venezuela. Later, maybe Bolivia, Peru and Paraguay. Simon
Bolivar's dream will yet come true.'

Mallory lapsed into deep thought. This man was dangerous. A
fanatic and a dreamer, but a powerful one who was already on the
road to success. What he was too blind to see was where that road
led. To years of violent upheaval and innocent deaths. Even if he
were eventually victorious in freeing the country of corrupt and
self-interested government, the people would still be peasants in
a nation financed by and almost totally reliant on the self-consuming
narcotics industry. And however well-intenti0ned
Bastidas's aims, there would always be others more interested in
their own wealth, power and domination to challenge his leadership.

When they arrived back at the camp compound there was a
welcoming committee awaiting Felix Bastidas. Harry Morgan
and Guy Thripp shook the Colombian's hand with polite enthusiasm
and showed him to his temporary quarters. The hut was
spartan but had at least been thoroughly swept and cleaned.

Morgan ambled across to Mallory. 'So what do you think of
our Colombian partner?'

'Interesting. Pleasant enough.'

Morgan chuckled. 'Don't let that gentlemanly act fool you. He
can be a right bastard - gave us a real hard time in the beginning.


243

Screwed us rotten until we came up with a new deal that meant

more to him than it did to us.'

'Meaning?'

The ex-Para tapped the side of his nose. 'Need to know, Kurt,
need to know. His enemies call him the Great Pretender - pretensions
to succeed where Escobar failed and restore the dignity
of the Medellin families. And all that crap! Wears that fancy gear
and cane when he's playing the part, but then just vanishes when
it suits. There's a popular legend around that he's a master of disguise.
Reckon he must be, because he wouldn't last five minutes
if he was always poncing about like that. Just a word of warning,

keep your back to the wall when he's around.'

'Bent?'

'As a corkscrew.' Morgan grinned. 'How'd you get on vcith
Pedro?'

'He was behaving himself.'

'Well, don't lower your guard. The whispers are he's out to get
you. Did he say anything to Bastidas I ought to know about?'

Mallory shook his head. 'No. Just let Bastidas see he didn't like
having me around. But as we got on well together, it rather fell
on stony ground.'

'Good. Now if you can shave and get cleaned up, you can join
us for lunch. You'll find some old clothes of mine in the laundry
shack. They should fit where they touch, if nothing else.'

The cook, house had excelled themselves. Mostly the food they
had served since Mallory's arrival had been a fatty broth of pork
and unfresh vegetables. Under serious threat of death or mutilation,
the chefs had achieved a remarkable turnaround, serving up
an excellent sobrebarriga for the camp's exalted guest. Mallory
tucked into the belly of beef, rice, plantains, red beans and yucca
with relish. His enthusiasm earned Dares and pointed comments
from Morgan and Thripp who were anxious for him to start
interpreting. Clearly Mallory hadn't been invited for his social
graces.

'Sefior Bastidas would like to know if you can step up the military
training of the guerrillas?' he translated. This was news to
him and was a part of the operation of which he had been totally


244

unaware. 'There have been complaints from the Wolf, the local
guerrilla leader.'

Perhaps the wary look on Thripp's face explained why. They
hadn't been doing much training. 'Tell him we'll do our best, but
our resources are limited.'

Mallory passed the words on and gave the response. 'He says
he wants to launch a renewed and sustained campaign against the
oil pipelines in the next few months. He wants the first units to
be fully trained in the next couple of weeks. And he's asking
about the first arms shipment.' He hid the interest from his voice.

'Tell Se/lor Bastidas he'll get his men trained quicker if he can
supply us with some interpreters, as I've said before. Regarding
the arms, the first consignment was shipped into Venezuela yesterday.
Over the next two weeks they're being moved discreetly
by road and air to Puerto Ayacucho. Delivery from there will be
by mule train overland or flown tO Santa Maria.'

As the Colombian listened to Mallory's words he showed
increasing signs of agitation. 'Please inform Sefior Morgan that is
not good enough - or fast enough. This location was chosen not
only because it is remote and in guerrilla-held territory, but
because the river canyon provides the only cross section over the
Andes for low-flying aircraft. What is the use of that if we do not
have the airstrip I was promised?'

Morgan listened grimly. 'I think I got the gist of that, Kurt.
And you know what the problem is. The owner of the site isn't
accepting our money offer or bowing to threats.'

As Mallory passed back the message, he had already anticipated
Bastidas's angry reaction. Typically South American, he
saw a simple solution. 'If these people have refused our silver,
then there is only one alternative. No one can be allowed to jeopardise
my mission. It is too important for that. I want aeroplanes
flying in the arms from Puerto Ayacucho by the end of the week.
And I want to double our output of the product over the next
month or six weeks. The market in Europe and the former Soviet
states is wide open. Not to capitalise now is foolhardy. It leaves a
vacuum that others will fill if we don't. And meanwhile my
people are anxiously awaiting their freedom.'


245

Morgan was noticeably unmoved by Felix Bastidas's political
fervour, but he politely made the right noises. It was finally
agreed that the Medellin chief would return in two weeks' time.
By air. Then there would be a major progress meeting with Harry
Morgan's boss.

That was the first time Mallory heard mention of Stan
Summers.

Is that Miss or Mrs Hayes?' Ruiz
Edilberto Jaramillo asked as he took
her hand and pressed it tO his lips.

Savage said: 'Mizz.'

The Cali chief chuckled. 'Ah, very enigmatica. Is she or isn't
she?'

'It's irrelevant, Sefior Jaramillo, because I'm not available.'

'A mysterious lady who is not available. What a combination to
get male pulses racing!'

Maria Palechor stood patiently waiting for her client to tire of
the chase; he was always the same when introduced to a pretty
woman for the first time. The shadows were lengthening across
the terrace by the pool; it had been a long hot day. She busied
herself pouring fi-uit juice into three tumblers and carried them

on a tray to the table where Jaramillo and Savage sat.

'I met Sefiora Hayes in London,' she reminded.

'Of course,' Jaramillo said. 'Your people were recommended
by Portcullis.'

Savage took the offered glass of lemon. 'We deal with their let's
say, trickier assignments. Like this one.'

'And how is it going?' The question was pitched so, so casually.

'That's why I'm here. You're paying a lot of money. I thought

you should have a progress report.

'And?'

We've got our man in. The Vipers have taken him on.' She
opened her shoulder bag and handed him a neat little plastic
folder. 'That's a list of the entire membership. All the British
nationals are ex-military - our experts in London will get more


247

background eventually. The list of Colombian members is less
complete - many use nicknames or first names and it'll take
time for our man to get all the full names without rousing
suspicions.'

Jaramillo ran his eye over the typewritten sheets. 'Very good.'
'They are also co-operating with the local ELN guerrillas. I
believe their leader is called E1 Lobo. The British appear to be
helping with some training.'

The Colombian grunted. 'That is not so good.' He stroked his
heavy moustache. 'Mr Pike has done well.'

If he'd been expecting a startled response, he was to be disappointed.
'So has Fanny Lacera,' Savage replied evenly. Touchd. 'Your eyes and ears on the ground?'

A soft laugh. 'Ah, dear Fanny. Such a trustworthy soul.'

'I hope so, Sefior Jaramillo. We're not too happy to find her on
the scene. She knows Harry and that could ieopardise our operation.'
Her eyes hardened. 'You should have told us.'

'Of course,' he said, but didn't sound as though he meant it.
'You must realise, however, that we need to be able to observe
what's happening down there for ourselves. An insurance if you
like. Don't worry, Fanny won't compromise your operation. In
fact you might find it useful to have a friendly face in the area.'

Maria Palechor interrupted. 'If she can be of help to you, don't
hesitate to use her.'

TII remember that.' Savage glanced at her wristwatch. 'There

is one more thing.'

'Yes?'

'We are due for an interim payment, now that we have successfully
infiltrated.'

Jaramillo glanced at Maria Palechor who nodded in conftrmation.
Savage added: 'We wish to make a change and have the
amount paid to our account in a different bank.'

"Why is that?' the lawyer asked. 'If it isn't an impertinence to
ask.'

'Not at all. As you will be aware it is absolutely essential that
Portcullis runs no risk of association with this operation and their


248

well-placed sources advise that this particular Caribbean bank is
safer and more impenetrable than any other they. have known.'

As she gave Maria Palechor the details, she noticed the flicker
of interest in the lawyer's eyes.

Then it was time for Savage to depart and make her way back
to Santa Maria, Jaramillo providing one of his chauffeured cars to
run her to the airport.

She sank back into the plush leather and lit a cigarette, feeling
not a little smug. A small seed had been planted. Unknown to
Mallory, Forster or any of the others. A secret she shared only
with Sidney Monckton, her deputy chief at riverside. Not only
the Medellin cartel, but also the Cali operation itself was firmly
in their sights.

And only time would tell if the seed would grow and bear fruit.

Back at Jaramillo's villa, the capo was saying: 'It would seem,
Maria, that all is going to plan.'

'In every respect, Ruiz, better than we'd dared hope.'

'Sometimes it pays to be audacious.' He sounded very confident.
'And the bank the lady mentioned?'

'I've heard of it. Good reports by all accounts.'

'Then perhaps we ought to take a closer look.'


'Only ever seen Stan Summers twice since I've been here,' Doug
Tallboys said that night. Mallory had casually brought up the
name while having a beer with the engineer and Pete Stafford in
the bar at Cruz de Oro. 'Came around to see each of us. See if
we had any complaints and give us a pep talk.'

'Didn't tell him what you really thought, I bet,' Stafford said.
'Only about rotten mattresses and lousy grub. Nothing more
serious than that. Stan Summers was all jokey and smiles. Sort of
Essex boy made good. Flash git. But underneath he was just a
gangland thug. He knows what Harry Morgan and Guy Thripp
are up to. That's why he hired them. I mean, after all, he is a
bloody drug smuggler or distributor or something.'

But to Mallory something didn't quite add up. This had been
the best day so far. He'd learned more than he even dreamed
there was to know. Drugs funding for an aspiring political revo

249

lutionary to pay for arms. But that and the use of hardened professional
mercenaries somehow didn't quite square with a typical
villain from London's East End.

Perhaps Georgina Savage and Dale Forster between them
would be able to make more sense of it, find the link in the jigsaw
he felt certain was missing. They would have the resources,
the necessary data. One thing was certain. Both the US and
British intelligence services would be seriously alarmed by the
news he now had.

Again he waited until after midnight before visiting the latrines.
He rigged the communications device and spent five minutes
transmitting everything he had uncovered. In two weeks' time it
was likely he'd get to see Stan Summers and hopefully learn more
of where the drugs were destined and, with any luck, the sourde
of the arms supply. Then, God willing, he could leave this world
behind for the last time. Again.

He smiled grimly as he dismantled the aerial. His croft in
Ireland, old Mattie, his horses and his bees. They all seemed a
lifetime ago. Another era. And Kelly O'More. Another story.
He'd barely allowed himself to think of her since he'd landed at
Bogota. Fear of discovery and inevitable torture or death concentrated
the mind, left no room for reminiscences and dreams.
They blunted the edge. Even now, just the thought of Kelly
warmed him, distracted him. When he returned to Ireland, he
decided, it would be different. She was his last chance of salvation
- the one that this time he would not allow to get away.

He edged open the door of he latrine and peered into the compound.
Darkened buildings without lights, a row of trucks and
four-wheel drives, a cloudy moon casting dappled shadows. The
low but distinct noise of men snoring and the background
mumble of a generator. An Indian's dog yapping somewhere jn
the hills. All clear, and the weight of fear was lifted from him.

He closed the wobbling door and sauntered back towards the
bunkhouse; finding himself humming a tune. The last song he
and Kelly had sung together that night at the croft.

A figure took shape in the indigo shadow between the two
buildings ahead of him. He recognised the heavy body and the


250

defiant stance.

'Your midnight ablutions go well?' a voice as.ked in Spanish.
The beam from Mallory's torch lit the fat and gleaming face. 'We
are such creatures of habit. That is always a mistake. It is how
hunters hunt animals when they go to water at twilight - without
fail.'

Mallory took a backward step. His free hand crept under his
jacket and around his back towards the two reversed scabbards of
his Chinese fighting knives.

Then they sprang. The two men had been lurking in a doorway,
deliberately waiting for him to pass. Now they both had
hold of his arms, twisting them up into the small of his back,
struggling against his resistance. Pedro Gom6z stepped forward,
a huge grin of satisfaction on his face, and swung his fist. It
caught Mallory off guard, smashing into his solar plexus with the
power of a hammer on an anvil. The Colombian had given vent
to all his suppressed anger in one tremendous blow. His victim
doubled over, crippled, the air forced from his one remaining
lung and the vomit splattering on the ground. The torch and the
fighting knife fell from his hands. His muscles gave out and he
felt the ligaments begin to tear as his arms were pushed high up
behind his back.

Pedro reached down and picked up the knife. 'Ever seen a man
eat his own balls, gringo? Not a pretty sight.'

Mallory tried to regain his breath, fought to ignore the pain in
his arms. 'Don't be stupid, they'll know it was you. Everyone
knows you want to get even.'

'There you go again. Calling me names. Well, I don't think
your gringo friends will 10se any sleep over you. We managed
okay before you turned up.'

The Colombian ran the blade lightly over his own tongue, then
tasted the blood drop it left behind. He looked approving as a
small red trickle rolled down his chin.

Again Mallory tried reason. If only Pedro's two accomplices
would relax their grip, if only he could kick his boot up into the
Colombian's crotch without breaking his own arms in the
process. 'Harry Morgan will know it's you. Him and Guy - and


251

Billy - we're all English. We stick together. Christ, you'll be sorry

if you harm me!'

Mallory had almost convinced himself, but not the man in

front of him. 'That may be true if they found a body. But you will
just disappear - we have the truck waiting. You are a bum. One
day you appear, the next day you are gone. That is the trouble
with burns. It is expected.'

Without warning Pedro's hand shot out and grabbed Mallory's
genitals through the material of his denims, squeezing hard. His
other hand fumbled for the zipper. An involuntary scream

escaped Mallory's lips.

'Kurt? Is that you?'

Mallory gasped as he heard the familiar voice.

'What the hell's going on?'

Pedro released his hold, the pain now surging into Mallory's

groin. He ignored it and tore his arms free from the grip of his
anonymous attackers. Suddenly they panicked and pushed him
aside as they ran off after their leader. Mallory collapsed against

the wall of the bunkhouse and slid to the ground.

'Kurt! You okay?'

He opened his eyes to find himself staring into Doug Tallboys's

face. Pete Stafford stood behind him, watching the running figures
as they were swallowed up into the night.
'Sure, Doug, just a bit sore.'
'Wasn't that Pedro?' Stafford asked.

'Yes. I think he wanted my balls for breakfast - literally. It was

my own fault, I was expecting it some time. I just got careless.'

'Then I'm glad we came along,' Tallboys said. 'I know Billy

Susan warned him not to try anything on. Said what the consequences
would be. He'll be mad when I tell him what happened
tomorrow.'

'Thanks for your help,' Mallory replied, climbing unsteadily to

his feet, 'but do me a favour and don't mention it. I'd prefer to
handle this my own way.'

Tallboys frowned. 'If you're sure?'

''m sure.'


252

Mallory returned to the bunkhouse. It was in darkness as he
made his way to the cot, removed his jacket and lay on top of the
mattress. He knew exactly what he was going to do. Three hours,
he decided, that should be enough.

He drifted through the drowsy twilight world between sleep
and wakefulness, checking his watch from time to time. When the
hands reached three, he slid his legs from the bed and reached for
his rucksack. What he wanted was in a small plastic bag, one of
the items Goldie had sent via Lucila in Adoracitn. He pulled on
his jacket and stuffed the bag into one of its pockets, then moved
to the window beside his bed. Easing back the hinged mosquito
net frame, he lifted himself over the sill and dropped to the
ground.

He rolled each foot as he moved, spreading the weight gently
from heel to toe. It was a stalking technique he'd learned as a boy
and it guaranteed absolute silence.

The uneven snoring reached his ears before Pedro's hut
emerged from the darkness. Mallory circled-.it once until he
found an open window. Then he extracted the bag and from it
two flat rectangular Old Holborn tobacco tins. The first, in which
nail holes had been made around the sides, contained two stubby
nightlight candles. He lit these before opening the second tin
which had a perforated base and held a sachet of powder.

After spreading the yellow sulphur to a quarter-inch depth over
the bottom of the tin, he placed it on top of the flickering candles
before lifting the entire contraption carefully onto the sill.
Already the fumes were snatching at his lungs as he gently eased
the window closed. It creaked, but the rhythm of Pedro's snoring
remained undisturbed.

Satisfied, he returned to the bunkhouse and waited until five
before making his way to the latrines which took him past Pedro's
hut again. He heard no snoring. Agrey dawn mist had settled
over the compound and he could see no one about. Only the
cookhouse showed a light. He quickly opened the window of
Pedro's hut and extracted the coil, gagging at the wafting stench
of sulphur, Iaving the window wide, he continued on to the
fat:dries where he disposed of the is ia the cesspit.


253

The success of his action was not confirmed until after breakfast
when he was drinking nto with Tallboys and Stafford.

Billy Susan entered to make the pronouncement. 'Thought
you ought to know, lads. Pedro Gomz has just been found dead.
Looks like a heart attack.'

There was a moment of surprised silence. No one cared much
about the Colombian, but the news was nonetheless disquieting.
The man had only been in his forties; it was a sobering thought.

'Keep it to yourselves, of course,' Susan continued. 'We'll get
rid of the body discreetly. We don't want gossip spreading and
any outside authorities taking an interest in us.'

A slow ripple of conversation resumed and some decidedly
black humour accompanied by irreverent laughter.

Tallboys stared across the table at Mallory. 'Seems your
guardian angel is looking after you, Kurt. Perhaps you could put
in a good word for me.'

'That's incredible,' Pete Stafford said.

Billy Susan appeared at Mallory's side. 'Don't suppose you
know anything about this? There was a strong rumour Gomz "
had it in for you, was going to sort you out last night.'

There was a flicker of a smile on Mallory's face. 'Vengeance is
mine ... saith the Lord.' He looked up. 'Sorry, Billy, my juju
doesn't extend to heart attacks.'

'I said it looked like a heart attack.'

'So?'

'There was this strange smell.'

Stafford laughed nervously. 'Probably the bastard's socks.'
Billy Susan glared. 'Just you understand, all of you, that I
won't tolerate personal feuds or vendettas. If you have problems,
talk to me about them and I'll dispense any justice.' Stafford
looked suitably chastened as the man turned back to Mallory. 'In
view of my sad bit of news - I know you will miss that little shire
- you'd better take command of Pedro's gang for the time being.
We might even get some work out of them for a change. Collect
as many of them as you can find, arm them with picks, saws and
shovels, and get as many trucks as you need. I don't care if you
beg, borrow or steal them from the locals. Just have everyone


254

ready by ten thirty.'

�hat's happening?' Mallory asked.

'We're going to build ourselves an airstrip.'


The terrain ran like a natural shelf along the canyon wall.
Although studded with occasional trees and a general covering of
scrub, the ground itself was remarkably level despite a gentle
incline running from north to south.

From his position beside the driver of the truck, Mallory could
see right down through the wooded slope to the Servita valley and
the Tafurs' hacienda in the far distance.

The Colombian gang had reacted grudgingly at first to his taking
over from Pedro Gom6z. Sullen, suspicious eyes followed him
wherever he went; all would have known of their leader's failed
attempt to abduct and murder Mallory the night before. And no
doubt many believed the whispers that the Englishman was
somehow responsible for Gom6z's unexpected and premature
death. Yet none could know for certain. There. was no evidence,
just hearsay. That suited Mallory. It earned him a reluctant
respect and strengthened his authority and position in the primitive
pecking order while ensuring that gang members kept their
distance. After all, they would reason, they knew he had knifed
the driver to death. So what did it matter whether he had or
hadn't also killed Pedro Gom6z? This strange Englishman who
was so uncannily like them, was clearly capable of anything and
best avoided.

Billy Susan hadn't mentioned the incident again; he had other
things on his mind. Working from a sketchmap, he and Guy
Thripp issued instructions for Mallory's Colombians to follow.
Armed with machetes they began hacking away at the undergrowth
and sawing trees flush to ground level. Several smaller
shrubs were dug up with the roots intact, and replanted in used
chemical containers that had been transported from the cocaine
laboratory. It was Morgan's smart idea apparently that these
should be dragged out from the tree line and positioned on the
strip when it wasn't in use, making accidental discovery from the
air highly unlikely.


2

The work progressed steadily throughout the day, the scrubby
dead wood and chopped tree trunks loaded onto an assortment
of beat-up lorries for disposal or burning at another location.
Over a hundred square metres had been cleared by noon when
the firsttruck arrived with a delivery of soil to fill up holes and
generally level out the surface.

Mallory stopped for a break, removing his baseball cap and
wiping the sweat from his brow. The sun was high and it was a
windless day.

Thripp came to his side and lit a cigarette.

'Can you spare one?' Mallory asked.

The packet was tossed in his direction 'Keep them. And do

me a favour - buy your own.' He surveyed the work gangs. 'If the
rain holds off, I reckon we should make Bastidas's deadline: We

should be able to get his first plane down at the weekend.'

'The arms shipment?'

'Yeah.' Thripp glanced at him. 'But just forget all that stuffyou
interpreted at the meeting, right?'

Mallory forced a grin. 'What meeting?'

'That's better. Anyway Bastidas was right, it's about time we
stepped up the operation. We've had a lot of teething problems
and I guess we've got slack.'

Mallory looked sympathetic. 'South America's a difficult place

to work in. Especially for gringos.'

'Tell me about it!' Thripp snorted. 'We got ripped off and
messed about a lot at the start - till we got the hang of things and
started breaking a few heads. Now it's going like clockwork, so
it's time to move up a gear.'

Thripp's head turned suddenly as they both heard the sound of
horses being ridden hard. Afterwards Mallory would curse himself
for not having foreseen what was inevitably going to happen
sooner or later, although, rationally, he was forced to admit there
was precious little he, Goldie or Mario could have done to prevent
it. Victor Tafur, his daughter Juanita or her hot-headed new
husband just wouldn't have listened. And Mallory could hardly
have blamed them for that.

The two horses broke from the tree line that dropped away to


256

the valley. A magnificent chestnut mare was ridden by Ricardo;
close behind was Juanita on a smaller piebald whi,ch reared skittishly
as the two of them came to a thundering halt in a cloud of
dust. Ricardo glanced around at the scene of devastation for several
seconds before he noticed Mallory and the other Englishmen
standing together. Sunlight flashed on the young man's spurs as
he urged his horse into a trot. He held the reins in one hand and
a shotgun in the other.

Mallory's heart sank.

Ricardo stopped thirty paces short, Juanita by his side in
leather chaps and waistcoat. 'What the hell do you think you're
doing?' he shouted across to Thripp in Spanish. 'This is private
land - now get off this instant!'

It hardly needed Mallory's translation. 'That fuckin' upstart

again,' Billy Susan muttered darkly. 'Some people never learn.'
'Let me speak to him,' Mallory offered.
Thripp nodded.

Mallory crossed the rough terrain where the scrub had been
cleared. 'Hello, Ricardo, Juanita. Congratulations to you both.'
He glanced at the nervous piebald. 'And how is your new horse?'

A quick smile flashed on the girl's lips. 'He has a sweet nature
but is still a baby.'

But her new husband ignored the pleasantries. 'So now you are
one of them, Sefior Kurt.' It was an accusation, not a question.

'It's just a job. These men are very dangerous. Please forget
about this and just go home.'

Ricardo shook his head in disbelief. 'Your friends Goldie and
Mario say you are a good man. That is also what I thought when
you stood up to these bastards at our ranch. But they are wrong.
You are just as bad as these people.'

'Ricardo, please!' Juanita protes.ted. 'Do not insult Sefior
Kurt.'

Mallory waved it aside. 'It's okay. I'd be angry too in your position.
I'm just warning you as a Mend that no good can come of
this. You cannot win against these men.'

Ricardo was contemptuous. 'Because they murder and torture?
�ell, I refuse to be intimidated by them or by you.' He turned


257

towards Thripp and Billy Susan. "We don't want your blood
money. We are just honest farmers who only ask to be left alone.
Now you try to help yourselves to our land.' He lifted his shotgun
and fired into the air. Juanita struggled to rein in the agitated
piebald. All work had stopped now and all eyes were on them. 'I
will not tell you again! GET OFF OUR LAND!' He glared deft
antly at the Colombians standing around with their machetes and
spades.

Billy Susan exchanged a brief word with Thripp then detached
himself from the group of gringos and strode purposefully
towards the two riders.

Mallory turned to Ricardo. 'Listen to what Sefior Billy has to
say,' he advised quietly.

Susan stopped in front of the big chestnut and looked up fr6m
under the brim of his straw stetson. 'Listen, boy, we've had
enough of you. And don't say you haven't been warned.'

The gunmetal glinted as his hand moved swiftly up from his
side. Mallory stared. He wasn't seeing this, just didn't believe it
would happen this way. The single sharp report was as deafening
as it was shocking, the sound reverberating along the canyon side.

Juanlta's piebald reared, its eyes white and startled. The chestnut
shifted its stance as its rider stiffened in the saddle. Ricardo's
face was waxy and staring, a frozen mask, the man already dead
from the .38 dum-dum slug that had smashed through his
breastbone and gouged out a fist-sized cavity where his heart had
been. Slowly he toppled, sliding sideways to the ground, one boot
still caught in a stirrup.

Mallory lunged at the piebald and yelled, slapping it hard
across the rump. Juanita snatched at the reins as the horse bolted

and the second gunshot from Billy Susan scorched past her.
'Shit!' he swore. 'Christ, Kurt, what are you playing at?'
They all watched as the piebald raced in a circle around the
clearing, Juanita gradually regaining control and spurring the
creature on. Colombians scattered as she charged them, screaming
at them in fear and hatred, and headed back towards the tree
line and the valley.

'Sorry, Billy,' Mallory. said. 'I just couldn't let you kill the girl.


258

It was just instinctive. I didn't think.'

Susan's face was red with rage. He pushed the barrel of the .38
hard under Mallory's chin, the metal still warm. 'Don't you ever - ever- do anything like that again, you fuckin' Kraut.
Understand?'

Thripp came over. 'Okay, Billy, give it a rest. You got the one
that mattered. Let her tell her old man what happened - it'll have
more effect.' He kicked the shotgun out of Ricardo's stiffened

grip, knelt down and checked for a pulse. 'He's gone.'
'I'll have him dumped in the Servita,' Susan said.
'Okay.'

Mallory intervened. He wanted to stop anyone else at the
ranch getting ideas about revenge. 'That's hardly hearts-and
minds. At least let them bury their dead.'

'A bit late for hearts-and-minds,' Thripp replied.

'I'll take the body back. Try and persuade them to let you get
on with building the strip.'

'You hardly managed to persuade the new hlasband, did you?'
'No, but this might make a difference.'

'I hope so,' Thripp replied easily. 'Because I've had enough of
them. I want them out of this valley - the whole bloody family.
Tell them that when you deliver the corpse.'

One of the Colombians helped Mallory lift Ricardo's body into
the back of a Toyota pick-up and cover it in sheeting. He then
took the vehicle alone back down to the main road and turned
right for Cruz de Oro.

There was no one in sight as he pulled up outside the chapel.
Still no wind, he noticed, and the afternoon had become hot and dusty. High above, a hawk swooped and cawed in a powder-blue
sky.

He climbed out and walked slowly across the dirt forecourt.
The sun-dried timber door creaked open at his touch. It was blessedly cool in the empty nave and considerably larger than it
appeared from the outside. Eucalyptus beams crisscrossed
between the stone walls in support of the vaulted ceiling rafters
and shafts of dusty light from the high-set windows illuminated
the roughly hewn pews. A row of white plaster saints stood like


259

sentries at intervals along the right-hand wall, the left dominated
by a garishly painted, life-sized carving of the Crucifixion.

Mallory crossed himself and was about to leave when the priest
emerged from the small vestry door beside the altar. 'Setior Kurt - this is a surprise! In fact, although I cannot condone killing, I
was hoping to thank you for at least saving young Ricardo's life
the other week.'

'Your thanks are premature, Father.' There was no easy way to
put this. 'I'm afraid Ricardo was murdered about an hour ago. I
have his body outside.'

Father Le6n stared in disbelief, the colour draining from his
face. 'Murdered?' He let the word hang, his question echoing in
the hallowed silence. 'I hardly need to ask who did this thing, do
I?'

Mallory shook his head. 'I'm on my way to the ranch now. I'm
sure Victor and Juanita will need all the comfort you can offer,
Father.'

He nodded weakly. 'Of course. That is very thoughtful of you.'
'I'm only sorry it happened. If I could have prevented it, I
would have. Ricardo pushed his luck too far. He was very courageous.
'

'But foolish?' Father Le6n searched Mallory's eyes, trying to
understand the man. 'And you, Sefior Kurt, you are still working
for them?'

'I need the money.'

'Enough to do the devil's work?'

'We all have a cross to bear, Father. That is mine. Shall we go?'
They walked to the pick-up where the priest looked at the
body, crossed himself and spoke a few words in Latin. Then they
climbed aboard and headed out towards the hacienda.

'You know,' Father Le6n said, "I have never known hatred
until recently. Oh, I've disapproved and despaired on occasions.
Even loathed someone or something. But never actually hated. It
is a loathsome feeling. Like bile in the gut, but all-consuming. It
can take over your brain and your common sense, distort logic
and destroy one's we soul. Since those people came to Cruz de
Oro have actually been given to blaspheming. Can you believe


260

that? And me a priest. I have been tempted - maybe late at night,
alone with my innermost thoughts - to call on the sword of the
Dark Angel to destroy these people. Maybe, I think, that will be
the only answer.'

Then perhaps, Mallory thought savagely, your prayers have
been answered. 'God can move in mysterious ways.'

'Indeed.' But the priest had no idea what he meant. 'In the past
eighteen months twelve people have disappeared, plus, if rumour
is to be believed, one of the Europeans from the mine. At
Confession numerous members of my flock have confided that
they have assisted the gringos after acts of gross intimidation. I
know some have been savagely beaten and others tortured. I
wonder how long a priest can rely on prayer alone?'

Mallory didn't answer. He'd long ago given up on prayer as an
answer to the injustices of the world. Sometimes only evil could
ever destroy evil.

When they reached the hacienda they found Juanita's piebald
tied to the hitching post; it had been ridden hard, its flanks
flecked with foam. The film crew's Fourtrak was also parked outside.

Tafur
met them at the door, a pitchfork in his hands.

'You won't be needing that, Victor,' Father Le6n said. 'Sefior
Kurt comes as a friend. We have Ricardo's body with us.'

There were tears in the farmer's eyes. 'Some friend he turned
out to be.'

'I'm sorry,' Mallory said. 'I'd have stopped it if I could.'
'Shall we bring the body in?' Father Le6n asked.
Tafur nodded. Tll clear the parlour table.'

Inside the gathered figures formed a tragic tableau: Juanita
weeping in her mother's arms; Goldie and Mario standing to one
side, offering consolation by their very presence. Both knew that
no words would help.

After the body was laid out, a clean white sheet was drawn up,
hiding the savage wound, until just the head showed. Two bright
coins had been placed over Ricardo's eyes.

Juanita kissed her husband goodbye then turned sniff'rag back
her tears. 'Tlank you for bringing my Rico back to me, Sefior


261

Kurt. I honestly think I will never see him again...' Emotion
was threatening to choke her. 'I am sorry. Rico would not want
me to cry. I must be brave. Like him.'

Mallory said: 'lie was very brave. You should be very proud of him.'

Her eyes were misty. 'But where did it get him? He should have
listened to you.' She swallowed hard. 'And I must thank you for
saving my life. You acted so fast, striking my horse like that. It
was only afterwards I realised what you had done.'

Later, as Mallory was about to leave, Mario came with him to
the door. 'Which one killed Ricardo?'

'Billy Susan. A short guy with sort of girlish features. Usually
goes around with the tall one called Thripp, the one who thinks
he's a cowboy. Why?'

'Maybe this Billy Susan is the one with the three nines tattoo.
The one who killed my Luz and my son.' "

'We don't know that.' Mallory didn't want to lie to his friend,
but he wasn't yet ready to tell him the man with the three nines
tattoo was Guy Thripp. Mario was a good man in a crisis but he
could also be impetuous. The time would come - in due course.

Mario Dubois watched his friend climb into the pickup.
Juanita joined him by the door. Her voice was low and hoarse,
her eyes still moist with tears. 'He is a strange man. I like him,
but there is something about him...'

Mario nodded. 'He is a lion amongst jackals.'

She looked at him curiously, not understanding exactly what
he meant. 'You have been very kind to me since you came here.
And today-- I don't know, I feel you share my loss of Ricardo,
yet you hardly knew him.'

He pulled a tight smile. 'I lost my wife and child to people like
these.'

'Yes?'

'In Venezuela. So I think I understand your grief and your
anger.'

Father Le6n overheard. 'I am sure it would help the pain if
only we could do something about it. But then, of course, Our
Lord tells us to turn the other cheek.'


262

'I prefer an eye for an eye,' Mario growled.

The priest looked thoughtful. 'Perhaps it is indeed time that we
stood up to these people.'

It was then that Mario remembered something about one of
Mallory's signals. About an arms shipment destined for the local
guerrillas. Due at the weekend.

That was a thought, but one, he decided, he would not share
with Goldie. Or even with Mallory.


The single-engined Cessna Stationair made its first pass over the
strip at just gone noon.

Mallory watched from the tree line with Harry Morgan and
Guy Thripp as the brightly coloured six-seater banked away
steeply, gaining height to sweep in a long slow turn over the
Servita valley. Then it came in again, straighter and slower this
time, the pilot feeling his way down, anxious about the close
proximity of the canyon wall. Mallory found himself holding his
breath until the fixed wheels finally kissed the-shorn grass. There
were just a couple of moderate bounces before the undercarriage
settled and the aircraft began slowing rapidly as it ran out of strip.
Then the machine was taxiing around and driving back towards
the welcoming committee.

But it was to be later that evening before Mallory was introduced
to the man who stepped out of the aircraft in an expensive,
fawn-coloured tropical suit, striped open-necked shirt and
enough gold chains and bracelets to supply a jewellery shop.

Stan Summers was almost a clich6 of himself. Bad boy from
Essex made good in the only ways he knew how and all of them
illegal. Of medium height and stocky build he had the jaunty
manner of a stand-up comedian. The thinning hair was close
shaven and the chunky face was all smiles and twinkling eyes. His
jokes and quips were constant and mostly unfunny, but the gang
members laughed obligingly as necessary.

When Felix Bastidas arrived in a second aircraft just before last
light, Mallory was instructed to join them all for a light supper
and drinks at a corner table in the camp bar.

"Card good reports about you,' Summers said as they shook


263

hands. 'Guy says you can handle yourself and the Colombians .
have been working better since Pedro's - er - little accident. Says
you've got the lazy little sods working like demons. Quite right
too.' He took a heavy swig of whisky from his tumbler. 'Even
Felix here thinks highly of you.'

Mallory shrugged. 'I'm doing my best, that's all.'

'Well, you can do your best again now and act as interpreter
for these little business hiccups Felix and I have to sort out.' His
smile suddenly became fixed and a little too sweet. 'Then you'll
forget everything you hear. Don't want to do what the old
pharaohs of Egypt used to do to their tomb-builders and pluck
out your tongue, do we?' He chortled and Thripp and Billy Susan
shared his amusement.

The discussion that followed was protracted, detailed ahd
sometimes heated. On occasion both men showed signs of strain
and dropped their polite veneer. More than once the foppish
young Bastidas from Medellin gave way to only slightly veiled
threats of pulling out of the partnership.

'Look,' Stan Summers explained, 'this is a new route we're
opening up for you. There are bound to be problems. It's dog eat
dog in Russia nowadays and Moscow is no longer a safe place.
You've got to have the right contacts, to know the right mafia.
We deal mostly with ex-KGB; they're best positioned, know the
system inside out. But there's always some rival mafia trying to
muscle in.'

Mallory translated liberally, referring to similar problems faced
by the Medellin cartel from its rivals in Cali, and Bastidas smiled.
'I know the feeling all too well.'

'We're winding down the old Dutch Antilles route through the
Caribbean,' Summers said. 'It's too well known now and we've
had a couple of consignments intercepted at Rotterdam in the
past six months. And Spain is getting more difficult too. Let's
leave those routes to your chums from Cali while we take the stuff
direct to St Petersburg. Everyone there can be had for a price - it
makes life a lot easier. You've seen how it works and, believe me,
it'll get better.'

It confirmed what Mallory had already begun to piece together


264

from snatches of overheard conversation around the camp. Once
the White Viper cocaine was processed and fmishe.d at the camp
laboratory, it had, until now, been taken by road to Santa Maria
and then flown out. Now the product could leave by air directly
from Cruz de Oro.

Small single-engined aircraft would fly certain quantities at low
level through the mountain corridor, avoiding radar, and down to
Buenaventura for both the traditional US destinations and in
country consumption. But these were highly competitive markets
which kept prices low and attracted animosity from the Call factions.

By far the biggest proportion of White Viper coke would continue
to be destined for Europe. It would be flown east by a motley
collection of private pilots and aircraft, passing over the
remote jungle valleys that made up the upper reaches of the
Orinoco basin.

To avoid antagonising Venezuelan authorities, the aircraft
landed at strips cut in the El Tuparro National Park. It was an
ideal location, still just within Colombia's borders, but completely
isolated and unreachable by road. The handful of
unarmed wardens presented no problem, happy to look the other
way and mind their own business. The silver or the lead policy.
worked as well .as always. Meanwhile the cocaine was manhandled
to the Tomo river where local fishing canoes took it to
the confluence with the mighty Orinoco which marked the border
with Venezuela.

Once landed at Puerto Ayacucho under cover of darkness, the
loads were divided according to their final destinations, some by
air but most by road. A variety of ingenious smuggling methods
were used, consignments being delivered to warehouses and factories
in out-of-the-way towns and villages. Packages were concealed
in hollowed-out planks of topica! hardwood supposedly
destined for the European timber markets, or in concrete fence
posts, hidden in fresh fruit like yams and coconuts or canned
meat or even chocolate bars.

Stan Summers's preferred method was to conceal the coke in
steel drums of toxic chemicals as a deterrent to Customs rum265


mage crews. Until recently the goods had been shipped from the
Venezuelan port of Coro to Curagao in the Dutch Antilles. There
the goods would be temporarily warehoused before onward shipping
to Rotterdam. The beauty and simplicity of this route was
that all goods entering from the Dutch possession in the
Caribbean were legally considered by Customs officers to have
originated from the European Community country itself. Blind
bureaucracy from Brussels might be a nightmare for most honest
businessmen; for Start Summers it was a godsend.

Another earlier route was by sea to Galicia, the traditional
smuggling area of a thousand caves and rocky inlets in northwest
Spain. Through family contacts of Felix Bastidas, arrangements
were made for fishermen to meet a freighter offshore in international
waters and cross-deck the cargo. But in recent months the
Spanish authorities had been tightening the screws; consignments
of White Viper had escaped, but other smugglers had not
been so lucky.

So now it was all change again. This time freighting was direct
from Venezuela to St Petersburg, the Baltic Russian port of
Leningrad that had now reverted to its original name. What
Mallory did not know yet was where the cocaine went from there.

At least he now had the answers to two other questions that
had been puzzling him. The source of the arms in this two-way
traffic was Russia with its endless supply of weapons of all types.
And there were plenty of greedy mafiosi eager for foreign currency
and with no scruples about whom they supplied. That
answered the second question: why Colombians with well-established
family connections in Europe should even consider a partnership
with an English gang. Stan Summers obviously had
contacts that Bastidas didn't, and the Colombians' priority for
guns was even higher than that for money from drug trafficking.

It was interesting, Mallory mused, that Bastidas had ditched
old Medellin distribution methods for .the longer, slower and
more costly approach of using maritime freight as favoured by the
gentlemen of Cali. In the old days Pablo Escobar had adopted
gung-ho direct distribution techniques, using dozens of private
aircraft or high-powered motor launches to reach the United


266

States. A world of high drama and bloody shoot-outs with the US
Coastguard and the DEA. Inevitably such methods had contributed
to the man's downfall.

'So I have your absolute assurance that the arms will be in my
hands by the weekend?' Bastidas asked.

It was not a problem for Summers. 'And after that at fairly regular
intervals. If you can imagine it, even as we speak there is a
succession of ships strung out across the Atlantic.'

That appeared to satisfy the Colombian, but there was something
else on his mind. 'You know I want to step up production?
Double or even treble it in the next six months. This is necessary
to pay for our other requirements.'

Mallory translated and saw the concern in Summers's eyes.
'Tell our friend I am having to consult with my masters on this
one. It's not just the practicalities of supplying the cocaine, but
rifles and small arms are a different ball game to what he wants.
Anti-aircraft missiles and anti-tank rockets move it into the big
boys' league.' The man considered for a moment. 'Tell him I'm
due to have a meeting here with our mutual friend. It'll be up to
him to put it to my masters.'

Bastidas clearly wasn't happy with the reply, but it was the best
he was going to get. Although the conversation continued for a
while longer, Mallory found himself preoccupied with what he
had discovered - that the Colombian's revolutionary talk was far
from empty rhetoric. Obviously he saw himself as heir apparent
to Simon Bolivar with every intention of taking on the governments
of Colombia, Venezuela and.., it had all the makings of
a civil war that could engulf the entire continent.

The other surprise had been Stan Summers's reference to 'his
masters'. So the trail didn't stop at the Essex gangster. Fleas
upon fleas upon fleas. So who was the real narco kingpin of this
setup, he wondered?

At last Bastidas stood and shook hands with Summers before
turning to Mallory. 'Thank you for your patience and hard work,
sefior. It is appreciated.'

When the man had gone, Summers relaxed visibly. 'Can't say
I like these Latinos, Kurt. Too fond of getting everything their


267

own way. Used to buying up everything and everyone - either

that or using violence to achieve their ends.'

Learning those tricks pretty quickly yourself, Mallory thought.

But he said: 'Like upping the coke production?'

Summers waved a dismissive hand: 'That's not the problem well,
actually it could be. What I meant was his demand for heavy
support weapons.'

'Difficult to get hold of, I suppose.'

Summers laughed. 'Not these days, Kurt. You can buy anything
you want in Moscow. It's just that if we start supplying that
stuff, before we know it this place will turn into a bloody war
zone. And that's not good for the coke business. Discretion,
that's what we like. Still as I told him that's not my decision.'
He poured more whisky. 'But on the production side, that's a different
matter. Only trouble is our friends down in Bolivia want to
sever their connections with us. Well, I'm sure they can be persuaded
to continue at present levels - for a price, of course - but
they're hardly likely to want to get in deeper.'

Mallory was intrigued. 'Why do your Bolivian suppliers want

out?'

'Quite simple, Kurt, they want to paddle their own canoe. For

years the Colombians have dominated the scene down there. The
cartels in Medellin and Cali had all the markets and distribution
sewn up. Bolivians were reduced to first-stage suppliers, growing
the crop then stomping the leaves into paste. Bottom of the shit
pile. And the Colombians knew it, liked to throw their weight
around, kick ass. That's not the Bolivians' way. In recent years
several of their own kingpins have emerged, setting up their own
laboratories and their own export routes. Mostly out through
Brazil, but some through Chile and Argentina. That way, of
course, they keep all the profits for themselves and get rid of the
Colombian middlemen and their heavies.'

Mallory was well aware of the antagonism between the two
nationalities and the growth in Bolivia's self-contained trade, but
he adopted an expression that suggested it was all a revelation to
him. 'And your suppliers want to go the same way?'

Summers nodded. 'Inevitable really; I just hoped we'd have a


268

year or two longer before it happened. The trouble is our partnership
with Felix Bastidas. He insists his men, deal with the
Bolivians in case we try to muscle in. He doesn't say so, but it's
pretty clear. You can imagine how the late Pedro's heavies get on
with the laid-back Bolivians. Chalk and fuckin' cheese! I've sent
down Brian Beavis and Clan Crabtree to try and sweet-talk the
Bolies round, but apparently they're not having much luck. So
my plan's to fly down the day after tomorrow and see what I can
do. Thought you might come along, seeing as you appear to
know the old Latino psyche. Translate with a certain gloss, so to
speak.'

Mallory could hardly believe his luck; this was an opportunity
he couldn't have dared hope for. But he just gave a nonchalant
shrug. 'Whatever you say. But I tell you one thing, Mr Summers,

and you can take it or leave it.'

'What's that?'

'The Colombians know their business. They grab the Bolivian
suppliers by the balls and don't let go. That's why they're hated
so much but it's also why they're so successful. You make the
mistake of treating them like businessmen in Chingford and
Bastidas, believe it or not, is more of a gentleman than Escobar
ever was. I've no doubt he makes Pedro's men behave more
reserved than is. their natural inclination. If you want the Bolies
to sing to your tune, I suggest less carrot and more stick.
Definitely more stick.'

Summers considered that for a long moment. 'Well, come
along and see what you think. Maybe I'll let you put your theory
to the test.'


The prospect of going to Bolivia both excited and terrified
Mallory. He was getting in deeper and deeper, which was exactly
what was wanted. But the deeper he got the more dangerous it
became, the risks multiplying with every day that passed. And
there was no way out now without blowing his cover.

His midnight message was longer than usual that night as there
was so much information to pass on. And when he returned to
the bunkhouse he found it difficult to sleep. When he did even269


tually, he dreamed that he was drowning. The sea was the colour

of blood.

He felt haggard and tired the next morning when he went for

his breakfast in the cookhouse canteen.

'You heard about our turbulent priest?' Doug Tallboys asked

between mouthfuls of potato soup.

'No. '

'Bastard's asking to get his balls cut off,' Derek Rutter said.
Mallory had only met Rutter, a short and thoroughly unpleasant
Geordie, a couple of days earlier. The man had just returned
from Viper business in Venezuela with his sidekick, a pasty-faced

man with cropped blond hair called Mick Pye.

'What's happened?' Mallory asked.

'Inciting the locals to mutiny,' Pye laughed. But then the mah
seemed to find everything amusing, particularly the misfortunes
of others.

'I tell you,' Rutter warned, 'Guy Thripp and Billy Susan won't

put up with it. They know they'll get it in the neck from Harry
Morgan if things get out of hand - especially while the big white
chief's visiting.'

Tallboys poured some coffee from the jug on the table.
'Apparently the priest told his congregation last night we were a
bunch of murderers and fornicators.'

'Not far off the mark!' Mick Pye chortled.

But the Scotsman clearly wasn't pleased with being included in

such a general description. 'He had that girl Juanita stand up and
tell everyone how Ricardo was killed. Then Victor Tafur does his
party piece and tells everyone what's going on at the strip.'

'That's totally out of order,' Derek Rutter growled. 'As I say,

the priest and the farmer are asking to. have their balls cut off and

served to Harry Morgan on a plate.'

'I think he'd prefer to have the girl served up on a plate,'
laughed Pye. 'Tasty little cow; wouldn't mind giving her one
myself.'

Tallboys ignored him. 'Anyway, at the end of it all, the priest

said the time had come for all good Christians to start defying us,

saying he personally was going to raise the matter with the church


270

hierarchy in Bogota.'

'I'm sure Harry'll be quaking if he gets a ticking off from the
Pope,' Pye said with a grin.

Mallory put him right. 'Don't underestimate the power of the
Catholic Church in this country. If they complain, the government
will listen - very carefully.'

'Then I reckon we ought to do the rounds today,' Rutter
decided. 'Break a few legs and light some fires. Stamp our
authority and remind them what happens to people who refuse to
co-operate and start blabbing amongst themselves or to anyone
else. We've got nothing much else on today. I'll put it to Billy,
I'm sure he'll approve.' He turned to Mallory. 'You game, Kurt?'

'Sure, but not today.' He really did not want to spend the day
watching acts of violent intimidation or even torture when he was
helpless to prevent it. 'I've probably got to do some interpreta"
tion. Some Spanish guy's flying in this morning.'

Rutter shook his head. 'You won't have to interpret for him.
Bloody spick talks better English than I do. So what about it?'

It was then that Tallboys intervened. 'Actually I was hoping
Kurt could give me a hand today. I've got three vehicles need
urgent servicing and Pete's down with dysentery.'

Mallory glanced at the Scotsman and wondered if the man
realised that he too, had no taste for the Vipers' 'policing' work.

As they walked together across to the workshop, the compound
gates opened to admit one of the Rocstas returning from the strip
where a plane from Bucaramanga had just landed. Billy Susan
was driving, Harry Morgan beside him. In the rear sat Stan
Summers alongside the new arrival.

He was tall and tanned, casually but expensively dressed.
Maybe late thirties, maybe younger with the hair fashionably
long, curling at the collar. As the vehicle passed, the man turned

to say something to Summers and Mallory saw the face.

Sweet Jesus Christ!

Quickly Mallory turned away in a cold sweat, his heart racing.
He simply could not believe whom he had just seen.

The Spanish visitor was none other than E1 torro rabioso, Kelly
O'More's toyboy lover from Madrid. Miguel Castafio.

12
Mallory worked on the engine service
like a zombie, his mind reeling with
the implications of Miguel Castafio's
unexpected presence.

His immediate fear was for his own preservation. He knew the
lawyer and the lawyer knew him. Somehow Castafio was aware
he was here and had come to identify him. It had been an elaborate
trap from the start, someone getting to him through Kelly.
An old enemy with a score to settle. God only knew there were
enough of them in different places around the world. And was
Kelly a willing or an unwitting accomplice? Were George Savage
and SIS somehow involved?

As soon as he and Doug Tallboys had reached the workshop
he had made a point of rubbing grease on his face. Though that
had been fairly pointless, he realised later, if Castafio had come
with the idea of unmasking him.

If anyone knew he was at Cruz de Oro it would hardly need
Castafio's personal presence to unearth him. After all, Kurt
Hulse was the only gang member the Vipers hadn't actually
recruited, the only one who had just drifted onto the scene.

Gradually Mallory's pulse rate subsided and he began to rationalise,
his mind slowly clearing, although panic still fluttered in his
chest. His imagination had been playing tricks, feeding on the
natural paranoia of every undercover operator.

No, Miguel Castafio's presence was remarkable. A remarkable
coincidence, but nothing more sinister than that. In fact, when he
thought about it, such a coincidence wasn't that remarkable after
all. Castafio, if he remembered rightly, was Argentinian-born but
had his practice in Madrid. Naturally his clients would be


272

Spanish and the people they did business with would be mostly
of Spanish descent - that went with the old colonial ties. Like
South America. Language was the common denominator, especially
in the world of narcotics. The Italian Mafia liked dealing
with Italian immigrant families in America. Likewise Greeks with
Greeks. Turks with Turks. They felt safer with their own, more
secure. Mallory had no doubt that Castafio liked life's rich trappings
and there was no richer vein to tap into than narcotics. And
his company was bound to have many South American clients.
So it was not so surprising that Castafio should be here.

More surprising, on reflection, was that he had ever been in
Ireland. Desperately Mallory tried to recall what Kelly had told
him about the man? That's right. She'd met him at her Dublin
office when her law firm had been acting on her father's account.
And amiable old Joe O'More ran an import-export business.
Mainly foodstuffs. Old Joe?

Mallory shook his head at the thought. There you go again, he
chided himself, leaping to conclusions. Joe O'More was the least
likely narco kingpin imaginable. And Castafio would be a strange
lawyer of international reputation if he didn't have more than one
client in more than one country. So, he had a client who sold
oranges to Dublin and another who imported quality Irish beef.
Or something like that. What could be more normal? Nevertheless,
as soon as possible he would warn Kelly to sever all contacts
with Castafio maybe go through Savage.

And then, possibly for the first time ever, he felt the painful and
self-destructive stabs of sexual jealousy. Not that just any man
had been making love to her, entwined in those long, lissom
limbs and enjoying her soft laughter. But this man. Lawyers were
bad enough, any lawyers. But lawyers who manipulated the law
for the narcotraficantes were the scum of the earth. Probably
worse than the untouchable narco kingpins themselves. After all,
it was often they who actually made them so untouchable.

He remained in a heightened state of tension all morning, mak
hag several clumsy mistakes on routine servicing which brought a
complaint from Tallboys who was usually the most forbearing of
bosses.


273

'You forgot to change the oil filter, Kurt. What is it with you
today? You got girlfriend problems or something? Keep your
mind on the job, eh?'

Mallory had made some quip, but still could not relax until he

saw Billy Susan drive Miguel Castafio back out of the camp. Only
then did Mallory's fear recede sufficiently to enable him to concentrate
again. Later he learned that Castafio had spent the entire
night at E1 Tigre in Adoraci6n, with Summers picking up the tab
for Fanny Lacera's girls. He flew out from the strip the next
morning.

Meanwhile, that night Mallory made another transmission,
telling of the lawyer's unexpected arrival and informing his control
that he himself would be travelling to Bolivia the next day

with Stan Summers, Morgan and Thripp.

Again that night he found sleep elusive.

The call from Billy Susan came at dawn. Dressing hastily and
throwing his few possessions into his rucksack, Mallory made his
way to the coolthouse where he found Summers demolishing a
full English fried breakfast in ebullient mood.

'The food here is crap, Kurt, but at least they do a decent fry
up.
More bacon?' Then he confessed: 'Lookin' forward to this
trip, Kurt, I really am. I like Bolivia, especially Santa Cruz. Not
so much hassle down there, more tranquilo. Treat the coke business
like it's the most natural thing in the world. Even with the
DEA pokin' around and causing upsets, you don't feel you're
goin' to get gunned down at any time like here.'

Mallory knew what he meant. 'Different culture, Mr Summers,

but still don't relax your guard...' He paused, considering how
to put the question. 'But I thought you were concerned that the
Bolivians aren't going to play ball. Yet you seem happy enough
now. '

'Oh, the Bolivians are still a worry, Kurt, but then I've been
thinking about what you were saying. Less carrot and more stick.
Well, maybe it should be more of both, but with the stick first.
Anyway, I'm relying on you to sort them out. No, it's the other
problem that had been worrying me more - beefing up the quality
of armaments we're supplying to Bastidas. Our lawyer reckons


274

it might shorten the life of our involvement here, but we'd clean
up in the process. And he thinks our masters will. probably go
along with it. Anyway we'd be in control of the supply pipeline. I
hadn't thought of it that way. If there's something we don't want
to deliver, we don't. Just say it was intercepted at the warehouse
in Russia or somesuch. Bastidas might not like it, might complain,
but he can do luck all about it until he finds a way to get
an alternative supply. And he won't find that easy. So, always
think positive, Kurt, that's what I've learned.' He finished the last
of his fried bread and dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin.
'Think positive.'


A light aircraft flew them off the strip, taking just thirty minutes
to reach the regional capital of Bucaramanga where they transferred
to a Twin Otter for the scheduled run to Bogota. After an
hour's wait at the international airport they boarded a Lufthansa
through-flight to La Paz.

Two hours later the cabin staff were distributing mat to
counter the effect of altitude sickness on their pending arrival at
the highest capital in the world, perched on the Andean Ahiplano
some twelve thousand feet above sea level. Mallory watched fascinated
through the window as the aircraft eased down between
the volcanic peaks of two cordillera ranges to the windswept and
treeless plain which stretched to the horizon in every direction.
Once landed, they spent a couple of hours kicking their heels and
drinking coffee before the delayed connection to Santa Cruz was
announced.

It was a journey of startling contrasts. Just two hours and a distance
of a little over four hundred kilometres after leaving the
dizzying heights of the Andes, they were in the swampy, humid
lowlands of the Amazon basin. Midway they had touched down
briefly at Cochabamba in the Chapae region. Apart from Peru,
this and the Beni area to the north were the only places in the
entire world where the climate was truly suitable to sustain a
profitable crop of coca leaf. It was a fhct not readily appreciated
that only these fertile slopes halfway down the Andean flanks
offered the unique combination of well-drained soil and humidity


275

necessary to cultivate the notoriously fickle plant.

Mallory fully understood why the peasants in this hard and unforgiving climate had no hesitation in capitalising on the only
good fortune with which God seemed to have blessed them. No
other crop offered such wealth, albeit meagre by Western standards.
Was it any wonder that when the Americans offered them
money to burn their coca plantations they obliged, took the
money and set off deeper into the jungle to replant all over again?
It was no surprise to Mallory; in their position he was sure he'd
have done the same himself. Nevertheless, the Western world
seemed surprised when the bribes didn't work.

Moreover it was difficult to explain to a people who quite legally

and historically had grown and chewed, smoked and used coca
leaf in cooking since before the time of the Incas. Did it make any
sense to them that the crop could only be grown in the Yunga
region for home consumption while everywhere else it was burnt
or sprayed by herbicide after bullying from a foreign nation state?

The short onward hop took them to Santa Cruz. Bolivia's second
largest city, it had an air of tranquillity in the dusty afternoon
sunlight. In the late seventies it had been a moderately thriving
agricultural and cattle centre. Then, at the start of the cocaine
boom, the small jungle city burgeoned into a sophisticated
metropolis, expanding with lush residential avenues and palatial
villas hiding discreetly behind high walls. On the streets every
other car appeared to be a BMW or Merc, or luxury Mitsubishi
jeep: all the tell-tale hallmarks of narco superwealth.

This was in stark contrast to the shabby campesinos of the city
centre and the urban plazas, eking a living as street traders or
shoe-shine boys or hiring out the hammocks they slung between
roadside palms for fifty pesos' worth of afternoon snooze.

Los Tajibos was a five-star luxury hotel complex of low-level
rooms and apartments that spread itself over several acres of
tropical gardens and palm-edged swimming pools. White garden
furniture and candy-striped stm umbrellas dotted the manicured
lawns on islands linked by little Japanese water bridges. The male
guests tended to be plump, tanned and content in designer swim
shorts, positively jingling with gold chains, bracelets and Rolex


276

Oyster Perpetuals. Their womenfolk, whether wives or girlfriends,
were inevitably long-limbed and honeybrown in minuscule
bikinis. E1 xotro nombre del paralso, the hotel sign proudly
proclaimed. The other name for paradise.

Mallory could think of another name for it. Hell on earth. Such
ostentatious and wasteful luxury was anathema to him. A playground
for the filthy rich in Bolivia's cocaine capital. With the
white stuff making up eighty per cent of the country's exports, the
place had inevitably been built, however innocently, on narco profits and had only one purpose: to cater for visitors who came
only to trade in the stuff or to benefit from some other aspect of
the city's drugs-generated wealth.

As the obsequious receptionist allocated rooms and bellboys
eagerly swooped to take their luggage, Mallory thought briefly of
the Tafurs on their farm, scratching a subsistence living under
constant intimidation from the Vipers. Of Lucila whoring her
body to keep alive. Of Mario's young family butchered in
Venezuela for petty vengeance. Of the millions.upon millions of campesinos throughout the continent who saw no benefit but only
suffered under the all-pervading corruption and self-interest of
politicians and businessmen. And all for what? For people like
these in their carefully reserved paradise and their neighbours in
the anonymous villas in the surrounding avenues.

If only the drugs wealth were shared to some extent, he considered,
there might, almost, be some justice in it all. Like some
fairer redistribution of international wealth. But then things never
did work out like that. Mankind would never change.

Tiled terraces led to their rooms, large with triple-sized beds,
minibars and space for a coffee table, sofa and chairs.

Mallory had brought with him the clean clothes Harry Morgan
had supplied a few days earlier. After showering, shaving and
gelling back his hair, he put them On. The transformation was
considerable and now he looked the part as one of Stan
Summers's henchmen.

He met his boss, Harry Morgan and Guy Thripp at the bar and
joined them for drinks. Brian Beavis and Clan Crabtree had also
arrived. They were clearly enjoying the change from primitive


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camp life, sipping fancy, cocktails and happy to pose in slacks and
celourful short-sleeved shirts while they eyed up every passing
beauty. And there was no shortage of them.

'What's the name of the man we're meeting?' Mallory asked.
'Ra6l de Quilindo,' Summers replied. He looked very much at
home in this place, Mallory thought. 'At least that's who I know
him as. An old Santa Cruz family - he used to be a cattle rancher
until he got into the white stuff. He should be here any time,'

Mallory looked out across the restaurant floor to the open-air
swimming pool, now dth elaborate floral candleboats floating
across the surface. The cages of exotic tropical birds had been
covered over for the night but the occupants still made occasional
loud squawks of protest.

Christ, he thought, for all its opulence, this place is depressing.

I feel just like those birds. Caged, trapped. And I can't even complain.

The restaurant was filled with families and small groups of
businessmen. It all seemed so innocent, no visible indications
that anyone was in the narco game.

Then he saw them. Three men, swarthy and heavily built,
sweeping through from the reception area, wary eyes checking
the identity of each guest, seeking out familiar and unfamiliar
faces, sniffing the air for the smell of a stakeout or for sight of one
of the DEA agents they knew. Leisure time in the capital of coke
was like that sometimes, the hunted and the off-duty hunters
sharing the same watering holes, on nodding acquaintance,
mutual standoff by agreement.

Mallory and the rest of Summers's group were rapidly clocked

by the first of de Quilindo's men. He had on slacks and a floral
shirt which he wore outside his trousers to conceal the handgun
on his belt. The alert eyes moved over them; a quick count. Five.
Then he scanned on, looking for any armed backup, any nasty
surprises. He nodded to his two colleagues now stationed at
strategic points around the bar. His signal was acknowledged. All
clear. A fourth man spoke rapidly into his mobile.

A few minutes later Rat]l de Quilindo appeared, his sour-faced

wife and teenage son by his side amid an entourage of more hear278


ies. The man was stocky and casually dressed: chino trousers and
a cashmere sweater in canary yellow. Dark crinkled.waves rippled
back off the forehead of a perspiring gargoyle face complete with
flat nose and disagreeable mouth. Two of his minders accelerated
ahead and commandeered a cluster of tables and chairs in a quiet corner . Another minder broke away towards the bar, gesturing
for Summers's group to follow. As at a sheepdog trial they found
themselves manoeuvred into the charmed circle; guests at nearby
tables were politely but firmly told to find somewhere else to sit.

De Quilindo was amenable enough in a taciturn sort of way,
although the humour of his reluctant smile never reached his
lacklustre eyes. His English was good but heavily accented. 'You
haven't met my dear wife and my eldest son who will soon inherit
his papa's business interests,' a raw, throaty laugh, 'and allow me
to retire in peace to enjoy the fruit of my years of labour.'

The small talk continued for some time until Stan Summers
could stand the chitchat no longer. 'Much as I enjoy your company,
I really have no great wish to be here,' he said. 'Mr Beavis
and Mr Crabtree came down to negotiate an expansion of our
business arrangement and they now tell me you are not interested.
And that nothing will persuade you otherwise. In fact, they
say you would actually prefer to cancel our existing contract as
well. Is this correct?'

The Bolivian pulled a tight smile that verged on the sympathetic. 'Verdad, seor. It is unfortunate, but just one of those
things.'

'A contract is a contract,' Mallory said suddenly in rapid
Spanish, then translated for Summers's benefit.

The Englishman nodded his agreement. 'A gentleman's word
is his bond.'

A shadow passed over de Quilindo's eyes. He turned to his
wife and muttered something in he ear. She made her excuses
and left for the powder room. Now the Bolivian returned his
attention to Summers. 'Look, sefior, I do not mind doing business
with you, but the truth is you are not needed. We are setting
up our own supply routes which means we can avoid cooperation
with Colombians like your partners. I do not want my


279

son here to take over my business knowing that one day he may
be blown up in a car because he does something they do not like.'

'My partners do not behave in this fashion, I trust?' Summers
asked.

'Not as much as others, that is true. But they are still an intimidating
presence.' A wan smile broke on the creased face. 'I realise
it is difficult for you with Colombian parmers from Medellin.'

Mallory made a suggestion. 'I think our parmers could be persuaded
to take more of a back seat. Leave you to deal with Brian
and Clan here?'

De Quilindo considered for a moment. 'That would be an
improvement and much welcomed. But it doesn't alter the fact
that we don't need you.'

'We can improve on your percentage per kilo. Make it well
worth your while,' Summers replied.

'Alas, senior, it is not just up to me. I admit you and I have
always got on well and your plans have brought my family a welcome
upturn in profits. But here it is not like in Colombia. We
do not operate in what the DEA calls cartels with just one, or
three or four capos. Here, there are many families who cooperate
on one project, then on another. Alliances are made and break up
as it suits everyone. So it is not me you have to convince. In particular,
it is two of our main suppliers in the Chapare.'

'Could we meet them?' Mallory asked. 'Give us the chance to
reason with them.'

De Quilindo shrugged. 'Sure, if they are willing to meet with
you. But I warn you, I know these men well, they will just tell you
to go get your coca leaf from Peru.'

Summers was furious, his face reddening, but he caught
Mallory's glance which told him to play it cool. The Bolivian's
wife returned and they all tramped ceremoniously into the restaurant
to eat, de Quilindo's heavies standing sentry at key points
around the room. But the conversation was strained, the excellent
food somehow failing to appeal, although the Bolivian and
his family made the most of it at Summers's expense.

'Bloody cheek,' he growled when the de Quilindos finally left
and he retired to the bar to vent his anger. 'Go to Peru indeed!'


280

Harry Morgan said: 'We could talk to Bastidas, ask him to put
out feelers.'

'It would take a year or more to get a satisfactory new operation
going even if we could find suitable suppliers.'

'Maybe we can talk de Quilindo's friends round,' Crabtree
suggested.

Stan Summers shook his head. 'You heard him. He's not at all
hopeful.'

Mallory realised this was his opportunity to become fully
accepted by Summers and the rest of the gang's hierarchy, to
break down the final barrier - if only he could pull it off. He said
quietly: 'I'll make sure you get the co-operation you want. And
that's a promise.'


After two days of enforced luxury at Los Tajibos, sunning themselves
at the poolside and eating lavish meals, they finally received
the call from de Quilindo. He had spoken to the leaders of several
supply gangs in the Chapari coca-growing.heartland and persuaded
them to attend a meeting with the Viper representatives.

They should fly back upcountry to Cochabamba the next
morning when he would meet them with two four-wheel-drive
vehicles for the journey into the interior. Stan Summers was
pleased that they had actually achieved agreement for a meeting,
but he was clearly nervous. His concern seemed to be more at the
prospect of snakes, soldier ants and bird-eating spiders than the
tough hombres of the Amazon rain forest he was due to meet.

In accordance with Mallory's plan, Felix Bastidas was telephoned
in Medellin and requested to send a backup team of his
Colombians. They were to go ahead and wait discreetly at the
rendezvous. Bastidas also promised that one of his contacts in
Bolivia would supply them with small arms.

The following morning the five members of Summers's party,
including Mallory, caught an early flight to Cochabamba. They
arrived in mid-morning to find de Quilindo and two of his
heavies waiting with the promised vehicles. They were driven to
the Hotel Portales, a smaller version of the sumptuous Los
Tajibos, where they changed into more suitable casual clothes


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and collected the package of handguns which had been lef for
them. The 9mm Berettas were hidden discreetly under jackets
before the men rejoined the Bolivians and their transport.

De Quilindo had assured them the journey by road into the
interior would take no more than four hours. In the event the
nightmare lasted over six. Soon after leaving the paved streets of
the city the road north became a wide ribbon of deeply rutted laterite
track. Speed was impossible as the drivers snaked to miss
the worst of the potholes and avoid the superbuses and lorries
smilarly wandering all over the road. At times they would be
engulfed in red dust clouds that completely obliterated the route.
It was thicker than fog, making eyes itch and throats sore as it was
sucked in through the air conditioning. At least they were spared
the soaring humidity as they descended slowly from the mis
-shrouded mountains into the subtropical jungles of the
Amazonas.

As they entered the Chapare region there was a fixed checkpoint
manned by the anti-drugs police. Ahead of them lorries
were being searched for drugs consignments or for chemicals
used in the coke labs. Superbuses and colourful chivas alike were
disgorging lines of resigned campesino travellers. The bowler-hatted
Indian women were paid particular attention by the sullen,
green-uniformed officers; the multilayered silk skirts were notoriously
effective for hiding money and packets of cocaine.
Passengers milled around, making the most of the opportunity to
stretch their legs, snatch a few drags on cigarettes or buy some
dried fish or jelly beans from the child vendors.

Despite the air conditioning, Stan Summers was clearly in a
sweat. De Quilindo noticed and his amusement showed. 'My
people have telephoned ahead. Just wait a moment.' Another
police officer emerged from the wayside office and scanned the
long queue of vehicles. 'Our man, I think.'

De Quilindo opened his door and sauntered across to the
policeman, indicating his unlit cigarette. They exchanged words
and a lighter was produced. For a moment they huddled against
the sultry breeze, long enough for a puff of blue smoke to emerge
and the dollars to be passed. The Bolivian returned to the car and


282

the officer waved them on to the head of the queue, signalling to
a colleague to let them through.

As always, Mallory thought, it is the peasants Who are stopped
and stripped of their penny packets of coke, so often given in
part-payment by the gangs who employed them to work in the
stomping pits, the peasants who were forced to hand over a few
precious bolivianos in bribes or go to jail. As always it was the
kingpins who escaped.

De Quilindo's two-vehicle convoy pressed on.

The settlement of Villa Tunari was a mile-long strip of primitive
housing, some concrete and tin, some bamboo and wattle,
that ran along both sides of the laterite road. It was littered with
the skeletal wrecks of abandoned vehicles that had come this far
and no farther. The place boasted some open-fronted shops, a
petrol station and a motel where de Quilindo's driver pulled in.

'This has got to be the fuckin' arsehole of the world,' Summers
muttered as he climbed out.

The reception and covered bar area of Las, Palmas was set off
the main road behind a low hedge. Behind it, a path weaved
between stunted palms to chalet-style bedroom blocks. It was the
most popular watering hole in the area. At night the bar would fill
with coca workers anxious to slake their thirsts after a day's
sweaty toil in the jungle and to sample the locally caught suribi river fish. Only the incongruous sight of maroon rayon quilts and
heart-shaped pillows in the spartan bedrooms gave a clue to its
other function. A love hotel for the local putas and their desperately
lonely clients destined to spend months away from wives
and families.

By nine o'clock the bar was in boisterous full swing and
Summers and his colleagues were getting quietly tanked on endless
bottles of chilled lager. Even de Quilindo and his henchmen
were relaxing, the language barrier breaking down. Mallory said
he'd drunk too much and felt sick. He made his excuses and
returned to his room. There he changed into his old clothes,
ruffled his nearly combed hair and slipped out of a side entrance
to the main thoroughfare. Hulking great lorries and buses were
still thundering back and forth in the darkness as he slipped


283

through the shadows to the caf6-bar where the taxi drivers
gathered.

After a few minutes' hard bargaining he found a man willing to
take him the ten miles to Puerto Rosa, a muddy riverside village
off the beaten track. It comprised just a few dozen tumbledown
hovels of timber and rattan weave and a rotting jetty. There was
no glass at any of the windows and inside men were drinking and
talking or playing cards or craps by the light of paraffin lamps.
Only men, no women here.

Mallory slapped at his cheek, killing a mosquito. The moist,
fetid air was thick with them, their low and pervasive buzzing
audible despite the din of cicadas and croaking bullfrogs.

There was only one hotel, the Rotonda; a rattan-walled
dosshouse with camp beds and rooms the size of toilet cubicles.
Bastidas's ten Colombians had the run of the place and were
drinking beer in the open-sided bar when he approached. He
found the group's leader, a man called Jesus Ortega, and went
over his plan in minute detail. The man was on Felix Bastidas's
regular enforcing team in the area. Their job was to ensure that
the Bolivian supply gangs delivered the promised quantities on
time and to resolve any problems that might arise.

Jesus knew de Quilindo's operation and all his suppliers well.
That included the two larger local supply gangs who wanted to
sever their connections with the Vipers. 'Can you identify the
vehicles the two top men drive?' Mallory asked.

Jesus nodded. 'Ortiz is easy. Always a Suzuki Samurai, white
with a blue lightning flash on the side. The other man is called
Ramirez. He's not so showy - maybe because he was once run in
by the DEA Yankies. He always travels in different vehicles and
always stays overnight in different places.'

'Then at the meeting tomorrow, I Want you to come to me and
quietly tell me which vehicle he is using.'

The Colombian grinned. He liked this stranger, liked his plan.
'No problem.'


De Quilindo had arranged for the meeting to be held in the covered
open-air bar of Las Palmas motel at eleven. By that time all


284

overnight guests would have left and it would be too early for the
lunchtime crowd. They would have the place to .themselves.

Stan Summers glanced at his watch. He was perspiring already
as the temperature and humidity began to crank up remorselessly.
Beavis and Crabtree were content to wait, sipping their
coffee. Harry Morgan and Guy Thripp were calm but impatient.

Mallory leaned against a column, eyeing the road. 'Here comes
the first of them.'

A battered pick-up pulled into the dusty, weed-ridden parking
lot and two men climbed out. Other vehicles followed at short
intervals, each local capo with a driver and at least one minder.
Ortiz was the last to arrive in his white Suzuki Samurai with the
blue lightning flash.

'They're all here,' de Quilindo told Summers.

Mallory took his cue and addressed the gathering. There were
about nineteen men representing seven supply gangs, including
drivers, bodyguards and hangers-on. 'This is strictly confidential,
my friends, so if you'd like to send your staff-to one of the rooms,
beer will be supplied at our expense.' That met with the approval
of the workers who followed one of de Quilindo's men towards
the motel rooms. Mallory didn't mention that two local putas had
been hired to serve the drinks and flirt outrageously to provide an
effective distraction.

When only the capos remained, Summers rose to address them, this time with de Quilindo to translate his words. 'I want to thank
you all for coming here at such short notice and for cooperating
with us during the past year or so. My friend, Rafil de Quilindo
tells me some of you wish to quit your association with us. Well,
before reaching any decision, I would like you to listen to what
we propose.' And he began to detail his plans for increased production
and a hefty fifteen per cent on the offer price to the supply
gangs.

While he talked, Mallory slipped away to the front of the motel
where Jesus Ortega waited by the line of parked vehicles. 'That
old Chewy is the car belonging to Ramirez.'

Mallory nodded and strolled in its direction. When he reached
it he dropped down by the rear and slid under on his back. He


285

took the two clear plastic throwaway cigarette lighters from his
pocket and strapped them to the still warm exhaust box with a
strip of insulating tape. He climbed back to his feet and walked
quickly to Ortiz's Samurai where he repeated the process.

Then he returned to Jesus Ortega and handed him a package

of used dollar notes. 'Right, that's a thousand dollar loyalty
bonus for each driver and minder. Tell them they now work for
us and take their orders from you. If there are any dissenters,
shoot them.'

The Colombian smiled. 'They will be the men who work for

Ortiz and Ramirez. It will be a pleasure to feed their corpses to

the piranhas.'

'Is everything else in place?'

Jesus Ortega nodded. His men, armed with Ingram submachine
guns, now had the motel surrounded and were poised to
enter the chalet room where the Bolivians' staff were raising cans
of beer in appreciation of an erotic and apparently impromptu
dance routine.

Mallory moved back to the bar area to see how Stan Summers's

appeal was going. But, as he had anticipated, it wasn't.

Ortiz, a fat Bolivian with heavy jowls and thinning black hair,

was on his feet, waving a fist in the air. 'Listen, we are not interested!
We have our own plans, our own way of doing business.
Okay, we listen to you. Now we tell you, get out of our country.'
As he turned round to see what support he had from his fellow
capos, everybody heard the muted but unmistakable crackle of
gunfire from nearby. Fear showed briefly in Ortiz's face. 'What
was that? What is going on?'

Mallory stepped in front of Summers; as he did so, Morgan,
Thripp, Beavis and Crabtree drew their concealed automatics.
'My best guess, Senior Ortiz, is that you've just lost your driver
and bodyguard.'

The Bolivian glared, nervous, not sure whether this was some

sort of joke at his expense. But then he decided not to wait to find
out. 'I'm getting out of here!' He turned and began pushing aside
chairs that cluttered his path to the exit.

'What the hell are you doing?' de Quilindo demanded. 'This


286

was not agreed!'

'Shut up,' Summers shaded, 'unless you want a second navel
in your forehead!'

Meanwhile, Mallory had focused on Ramirez, a tall distinguished-looking
man with silver hair. 'And you? Are you cooperating?
If not, I suggest you go now. I am afraid I don't think you
driver will be joining you.'

The man rose angrily to his feet, eyes blazing, but in the face
of the pointing automatics he thought better of what he wa.,
about to say. Turning on his heel, he stomped out after Ortiz.

'The rest of you will now wait to hear what I have to tell you,'
Mallory ordered. Then he paused as he heard the engines of the
two vehicles start up outside. 'Now, you can do exactly the same
and walk out. But before you do, I should warn you of a few facts
of life. We've always acted fair with you and you've made a nice
profit out of our arrangement. Now you stand to make even
more. So we don't like it when anyone throws that back in ou
face - like those two.' The engine noise was now receding as each
of the two angry and humiliated capos took out their frustration
on their accelerator pedals. 'While we've been talking your drivers
and bodyguards have switched allegiance to us. Those who
refused have now been shot. You all face that same choice...'

He let the words hang for effect and the timing was even better
than he'd anticipated. The heat from Ortiz's exhaust had
melted the thin plastic of the throwaway lighters. As the petrol
tank above it was only a quarter full, the result was a violent and
shattering explosion. The shock wave shook the entire town.

Mallory smiled. 'Which one of your friends do you think that
was saying adios?'

Bloodless, confused and nervous faces stared back at him, then
winced as the second mini-car bomb blew. Not so loud, the tank
of Ramirez's pick-up was filled With petrol, so while not fully
exploding it became an instant and massive fireball. Out on the
street the sleepy settlement had become suddenly alive, the
inhabitants emerging from their houses and running towards the
wrecked vehicles.

The coke suppliers began to shift uneasily in their seats,


287

exchanging glances and anxious low whispers. No one was willing
to be the first to challenge these malicious gringos and their
Colombian thugs. Mallory picked up snatches of conversation and
caught the mood of these men. The fish was hooked. Maybe they'd
been hasty. Things hadn't been so bad before, had they? And the
profits had been good and demand regular. So why change now
and risk bloodshed? After all, who wanted to end up like Ortiz and
Ramirez? They all had wives and families to think of.

Mallory called out again. 'Sefior de Quilindo's English friends
want us all to get on well together from now on, especially as you
all know what is at stake. We'll serve refreshments, some beer
and tapas, and we'll talk to each of you individually to discuss any
problems and how they can be overcome.' His tone was icily reasonable as he raised a glass. 'I give you a toast, my friends 'to
another successful year working together! And more profits than
ever before from White Viper.'

Slowly, reluctantly, glasses and bottles were lifted. Conversation
quickly gathered pace in the excited and elated tones
of men who had just escaped what had seemed like certain
execution.

Mallory's gaze shifted towards Summers and caught his eye.
The Englishman winked. 'Well done, old son.'


Juanita Tafur raised the matter on the evening of the day they
buried her husband.

Her mother was clearing the plates from the wooden table, the
parlour dark and hazy with smoke from the open fire. Her father
sat at the head, grieving but feeling obliged to utter trivial sentences
about the meal, the weather and the harvest prospects
which were never good. Anything to re-create some air of nor- reality, some sanity and sense that life had to go on, that young
Ricardo's death was a predestined will of God, pretending that
somehow it was an unfortunate accident devoid of intention or
malice. Otherwise his family would tear itself apart in its sorrow
and its anger.

Father Le6n, seated at the other end of the table, understood
what his friend was going through. In recent months he had seen


288

it all too many times when he had buried other members of his
congregation or had gone with them in the ambulartce to the hospital
in Santa Maria. How often could he say 'Put your trust in
God' or 'You must learn to turn the other cheek and to forgive'
or 'It is His will' for it still to have any meaning? He had said all
he could tonight. Best now for silence and for time to do the healing.

Strangely
it helped that the wildlife film crew were staying
there. Rather than proving intrusive at this time of private and

� personal anguish, the presence of the two men was a comfort.
These strangers had been so kind and understanding that it
revived the family's faith in humanity, the little Israeli called
Goldie listening patiently as Victor Tafur repeated the same sentences
over and over again, Mario talking quietly to Juanita, holding
her hand and sharing with her the emotions he had felt after
the death of Luz and his son. The sharing of the grief was an
unburdening as they wept together and even, sometimes, managed
to laugh between the tears at some amusing incident
remembered. She liked this big, bluff man with his coarse ways
and rough good humour.

And it had been he who had told her what she now repeated at
the table, addressing herself to the priest. 'At the church, Father,
you told us all that we should stand up to these people. I agree,
as my Rico would have agreed, but we cannot stand with
machetes and pitchforks against machine guns.'

Father Le6n smiled awkwardly, wondering what was coming
next.

'At the weekend there is a consignment of arms being flown in
to the new airstrip. It is to be taken to the mining camp and I
wonder if it would be a sin if some of us farmers intercepted
them, took them for our own protection?'

The priest stared at this slight girl with her wide and earnest
eyes. He was momentarily speechless. Goldie and Mario were
seated near the fire, smoking their cigarillos and taking turns at
wrestling a length of rope with the farm dog. Mario appeared not
to hear the conversation, but Goldie did. He felt the chill hand of
fear; this was not good news.


289

"Where did you hear this?' Victor Tafur asked, recovering frou.
the shock of his daughter's suggestion.

'In Adoraci6n,' she lied. 'I was talking to one of the nenna in
the hardware store. She used to be at school with me. We went
for a coffee together and she said one of the men from the mine
mentioned it.'

The priest was troubled, not knowing how to decide between
what felt right and what he thought he knew to be wrong. 'You
would have to know the time, the route, and have friends willing
to help.'

'I know the time,' Juanita replied, 'and there is only one route.'
'And there will be no shortage of people with a score to settle,'
Victor Tafur thought aloud, suddenly warming to the idea of
doing something - anything to make a stand.

Father Le6n reached a decision. 'No, there should be no setfling
of scores. Murder is a heinous sin and other acts of revenge
are little better in the eyes of God.'

'But if it could be done?' Juanita pressed.

'Without death or injury?'

'I think so,' she replied, remembering what Mario had told her
when they had sat alone by the fire the previous night.

'It would be no sin to use those weapons to protect yourselves,
I am sure of that.'

And he started with surprise when she suddenly leaned forward
and kissed him on the cheek. 'Oh, thank you, Father. I knew I
could count on you.'

Later when the priest had gone, Goldie went to the front door
and beckoned Mario to follow. It was a tranquil night with a waning
lemon moon and not a breath to stir the warm air.
Somewhere out in the cuchillas they heard the cavernous roar of
a jaguar.

'You know about this?' Goldie asked. It was more an accusation
than a question.

'What?' Mario tried to play dumb, but he was a lousy actor.
'Don't mess with me. This is your idea, isn't it?'

A shrug. 'Well, maybe I let slip something to Juanita. Maybe
not, I forget.'


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'You lying bastard. That's why she made up that cock-and-bull
story about the puta in Adoraci6n. To protect you. For God's
sake, Mario, what d'you think you're playing at?'

The big man tugged a cigarillo from his shirt pocket and stuck
it in the corner of his mouth. 'Maybe I think it is time something
was done.'

'That is not your decision to make,' Goldie snapped. 'There
are lives at risk here, not least your own. And mine. And especially
Kurt's. Had you thought about that?'

'Of course.' He put a flame to his cigarillo. 'I am not stupid
and Kurt is a dear friend. But he will not be here, he will still be
in Bolivia.'

Goldie shook his head. 'Any trouble can be dangerous for
Kurt. Anything that makes them wonder where the tip-off came
from.'

'Why should they assume it is Kurt? That doesn't make sense.
It could as easily be the other gringos or one of the Colombians.'

'I still don't like it. Don't you think these people have suffered
enough without inviting trouble?'

Mario smiled that roguish smile of his. 'And maybe they just
feel a little better if they can shoot back.'

'That's not the point. It puts our mission in jeopardy - that is
all that matters. That is what Kurt would say, you know that. The
time for revenge will come.'

'Listen, Goldie, Kurt is a dear friend to us both. Maybe the
three of us are the only ones in the world we can trust. But he is

not always honest with us.'

'Meaning?'

'I think he knows which man killed my Luz and my boy, but

he does not say. He is afraid I'll do something rash.'

Goldie stared back hard. 'I can see he was right.'

Mario ignored the barb. 'But we do know who killed Ricardo.
The man called Billy Susan. It is time to settle at least one score.'

Goldie shook his head. 'I tell you, Mario, I want no part of this.'


That had been two days earlier and Mario Dubois found himself
going over the conversation in his head as he lay hidden in the


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rocky outcrop above the road, waiting for the dawn.

Juanita was beside him, waking with a start. She glanced

around, remembering where she was, and gave a little shiver.

'So typical of a woman to fall asleep,' he goaded.

She laughed lightly and huddled deeper into the warmth of her

woollen poncho. 'I sleep like a cat, always with one eye open.'

'If you say so.'

A small fist struck him on the bicep before she struggled to sit

up and peer over the cluster of boulders. 'It will soon be light. Is
everyone ready?'

He nodded. There were some thirty campesinos in position,
hidden beside the track. They had all volunteered, had all suffered
at the hands of the Vipers one way or another. Many more
had wanted to take part, but on Mario's advice only the youngest
and fittest were selected. Most were armed with machetes and
butchers' knives, but there were also three double-barrelled shotguns
and two antique rifles that hadn't seen action since the days
of La Violencia, the political unrest of the forties and fifties.
Father Le6n was unhappy about this, no doubt envisaging some
massacre of revenge. He impressed on all concerned that the
weapons should be used only as deterrence, to be fired only in
extreme circumstances of self-defence.

'It is a clever plan of yours, Mario,' Juanita said. 'But are you

sure it will work?'

He pulled the lopsided grin that she liked so much. 'No, my
lit-de one, there are no such certainties in life. Its success will
depend much on the courage and determination of these people
and how fast they move. Surprise is everything. But these are
South Americans with heas like lions, the sons of Simon
Bolivar.'

Her white teeth glistened in the gloom. 'And daughters,
Mario.' She pulled out the silver-plated revolver from beneath
her poncho. 'I for one shall fight like a tigre!'

For one dread moment he thought she was going to shoot him

and she laughed as she read it in his eyes. 'Boom! Boom! Do not
worry, I will not shoot my hero.'

'Where did you get that from?'


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'It is my grandfather's. From when he was an officer in the
army. We keep it in the family chest. I first discov.ered it when I
was a little girl.'

'Does Victor know you have this with you?'

The long black hair tossed free of the poncho as she shook her
head. 'No. I am old enough to make my own decisions.'

'Is it safe?' He took it gently from her and checked it over.

'I am not a fool, Mario. It has been well looked after and oiled.'
Reluctantly he handed it back. He was glad she was up here
with him, removed from where the action would take place. This
girl had touched his heart -. or more truthfully stolen it, he thought
ruefully. Such fresh-faced youth, such natural sweetness and generosity,
such good humour and vitality. The thought of anything
happening to her was just too awful for him to contemplate.

Even now he was beginning to regret that he had ever suggested
this idea. He hadn't really thought it through. Hadn't
really expected Victor Tafur and the priest to take to the idea
with such enthusiasm. If he'd got it wrong - and there were many
things that could go wrong - these simple peasants could be decimated.
He certainly had no doubt as to the capabilities of those
Viper gangsters and their Colombian cohorts if they were given
the chance.

What these local people really needed to be sure of success
were some of the specialist weapons he and Goldie had secreted
in their Fourtrak. But that was out of the question without breaking
their cover. As it was, he had to tell Juanita that he'd once
seen the idea in a movie to explain away expertise more appropriate
to a military commander than a wildlife sound-man.

It was to be another hour before the sun was fully up and the
first blush of platinum light touched the canyon wall. The
ambushers tensed as the sound of vehicles drifted up from the
valley, engines straining against the sharp.incline that led towards
the airstrip. An open-topped Rocsta jeep came first, Billy Susan
beside the driver and two armed Colombians in the back. More
Colombians were smoking and laughing in the battered truck
that followed it, commandeered from one of the farmers who
now lay in wait.


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The two vehicles grumbled past, swaying drunkenly as they
negotiated the ruts and potholes in the trail and leaving acrid
plumes of exhaust hanging in their wake. Another sharp rum and
they disappeared from view, the clatter of their engines receding
until the quiet of the countryside settled in again.

Only then did the ambush party emerge with their picks and
spades. Organised into teams they worked furiously to hack and
clear six shallow channels at intervals across the full width of the
track.

Had they had more time in which to work and had the ground
been less rocky, Mario would have gone for a matar burro or
killing donkey. A disguised trench one foot deep and one foot
wide, it worked equally well against aircraft, vehicles and horses.

This was a compromise. When the channels were completed
men appeared carrying lengths of timber planking. Two rows of
six-inch nails had been hammered into each. One was positioned
in the fLrst channel, points uppermost, and anchored with steel
pegs. Once all six were fitted, the topsoil was redistributed and a
dusting of dry earth was sprinkled to hide the signs of disturbance
and to disguise the protruding spikes.

The work was barely complete when they heard the distant
buzz of twin aero engines. As they scurried for cover, the aircraft
began its first pass of the strip, then circled before coming back
on its final approach.

Twenty minutes later, the machine took off again, soaring over
the track and banking hard round before setting course back
towards Venezuela. It was a further half an hour before the sound
of the returning vehicles reached them. Mario wriggled forward
for a better view, Juanlta at his side.

The Rocsta nosed around the high bend just where the trail
started to plunge down the steep straight where the vehicle trap
was buried. It ran for some forty metres into a cutting before
kinking sharply to the left at the bottom, following the contour of
the canyon spur. Close behind the jeep came the truck, now
loaded down with wooden packing cases.

With a carefree spin of the wheel the driver of the Rocsta
entered the steep straight, hitting maybe thirty or thirty-five miles


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an hour. The truck followed more slowly, negotiating the bend
and cresting the start of the downhill straight.

Halfway down the Rocsta driver began to slow, ready for the
sharp left-hander at the bottom. Mario winced as he sensed the
man's foot stab at the brake. Then the front wheels hit the first
row of embedded nails. There must have been an actual
sequence, but all four tyres appeared to blow together. With a
dull popping of compressed air, the vehicle lurched and toppled,
dropping several inches, frayed rubber spinning like demented
Catherine wheels, rims scraping on the nails. It kept on moving
like an uncontrollable bobsleigh, bumping and sliding towards
the bend. Recovering his senses, the driver threw the wheel hard
over. But the rims were gyrating like bacon slicers, churning up
the soft earth and unable to gain a grip. In panic the driver
stamped on the brakes and the rims stopped fast. The combined
effect was to send the vehicle skiing into a left-hand slide on the
bend, but far too wide. It left the track at some fifteen miles an
hour, airborne for a moment before it plummeted into the deep
trackside ditch and rolled over. Someone screamed.

Coming fast behind was the truck. Its driver had no time to
react. He didn't even know what had happened, probably assuming
in the split second available to him that the Rocsta had struck
a land mine.

He, too, jammed on the brakes, felt the spikes biting into the
heavy-duty rubber. In a cloud of dust the truck swerved and
careered madly over the trap. Two tyres shredded, then a third.
But the fourth wheel remained intact, instead ripping out one of
the nailed planks and sending it flying skyward.

Finally the entire suspension collapsed, the last wheel
wrenched free and sent bouncing into the trackside undergrowth.
The body pan hit the ground with a tremendous thud, throwing
the Colombians around like skittlesin an alley before it slewed in
a wide semicircle, finally coming to rest in a whirlwind of choking
ochre dust.

'Come on,' Mario urged beneath his breath, fearing that
Father Le6n, Victor Tafur and their peasant army would hesitate
and miss their chance. But he needn't have worried. With a series


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of whooping yells and war cries they emerged from the shrub�
bery. Still shouting and waving machetes they swarmed towards
the two wrecks, grabbed the dazed occupants and snatched away
their weapons.

Under the priest's direction the campesinos were pushing the
gang members back onto the track where the farmers waited with
shotguns. The iniured were dragged unceremoniously into the
circle.

On the outcrop, ]uanita looked down in wonder and delight.
She turned to Mario, her eyes shining and threw her arms around
his neck. 'This is wonderful! You are wonderful!'

Never usually one to be shy with women, this time Mario felt
distinctly awkward. He wanted to seize the moment and crush
her to him. But something held him back. She was so young, too
young. Too pretty and too innocent. A delight. And he didn't
want to blow his chances by misiudging how she felt.

When she released him, he acted as though he'd hardly noticed
and moved back to the edge of the outcrop. A half-smile on his
face, he surveyed the scene below. 'We have been very lucky. But
your people must watch them like hawks, be sure they find any
hidden weapons. I think your Ricardo would be proud of his
people this day, don't you think?' There was no reply. 'Don't
you think, ]uanita?'

He turned his head; she was gone.

Scrambling to his feet he began following her down over the
maze of strewn boulders to the track.

There Father Le6n stood facing the group of prisoners, Victor
Tafur by his side. Two campesinos had hold of Billy Susan and
dragged him to the front. His forehead was grazed and a trickle
of blood had congealed around his left eyebrow and cheek.

'These weapons are being colffiscated,' the priest announced.
'They will be distributed to the local population for their protection
against any further acts of intimidation. Go back and tell
your boss that. We have had enough. The worm has turned. In
future, fire shall be met with fire.'

Billy Susan glared. 'You're making a big mistake, priest. Half
your congregation are earning a good living thanks to us. All you


296

have to do is co-operate and mind your own business and there'll
be no trouble from us.'

Father Lefn stiffened his back. 'You're engaged in the devil's
work. We don't want you here, do you understand? In fact if you
do not dismande your camp and leave the territory in the next
few weeks I will take up the matter with the police chief in Santa
Maria.'

The Englishman gave a snort of derisive laughter. 'That will
not get you far.'

'On your payroll too?' Father Le6n suggested. 'Then I will
raise the question with the Cardinal in Bogota.'

'You are making big mistake,' Susan repeated.

Juanita stepped out from behind the priest. 'No, Sefior Susan,
it is you who are making the big mistake. In fact you made it
when you murdered my husband and thought you would get
away with it.' She pulled the silver-plated revolver from beneath
her poncho and pointed it at his forehead. A two-handed grip,

unwavering. 'This is for my Ricardo.' "

'NO!' Father Le6n shouted.

The gun blasted a single shot. A neat round hole appeared in
Billy Susan's head as the impact blew him offhis feet. He landed
on his back, his empty eyes staring at the sky. His legs twitched
once, twice. Then he lay still. No one else moved, neither campesinos nor gangsters; all just gaped in stunned disbelief.

In an instant Juanita recovered from her moment of madness.
Her mouth opened in a scream of horror and she dropped the
gun as though it had scalded her. She stared at the corpse, not
believing what she had done. Then the hysteria swept over her.
She began yelling and shouting, begging God and the priest for
forgiveness, turning on Mario and beating her small fists against
his chest. Blaming him, herself the .world, as the shock of it hit
her.

Mario reached for her then and hugged her to him. 'Justice is
done,' he whispered.

She was shaking uncontrollably as he led her away. He was
aware of her breathless sobbing, the warmth of her tears against
his cheek.

'Victory from the jaws of defeat,' Start
Summers declared happily on the long
car drive back to Cochabamba. 'Now
we're virtually m control of the whole supply network as well as
distribution. You was right, Kurt, there's only one language these
Latinos understand.'

Brian Beavis and Clan Crabtree had been left behind to sew up
loose ends with Jesus Ortega and his Colombian enforcers. They
were likely to have an easy time of it. With Ortiz and Ramirez out
of the way and Ra61 de Quilindo and the other suppliers suddenly
becoming co-operative, Mallory was hailed as the hero of the
hour.

He was reasonably satisfied himself, but for different reasons.
His trip to Bolivia had provided him with invaluable information
on the supply network he would not otherwise have had. Jesus
Ortega knew the system backwards and during their meeting at
Puerto Rosa had given him chapter and verse on the local supply
gangs: names, routes and locations of many secret coca fields,
stomping pits and laboratories.

Moreover he had successfully eliminated two local narco bosses
who had so far evaded both the Bolivian authorities and the
DEA. And he felt not the slightest pang of guilt or remorse for his
actions. This was what he believed in. Rough justice. Reaching
where legitimate law enforcement couldn't. Another small act of
vengeance for the millions who suffered or even died as a result
of this filthy business. A balancing of the scales of justice. On
behalf of Sophie, Mario's Luz and their son and Ricardo. One to
chalk up for the organisation.

When they finally returned to the luxury of the Portales hotel,


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Summers and the others were keen to celebrate with a meal and
a piss-up in the bar. But Mallory complained of a headache and
left them to it. He had no desire to stay longer in their company.
Soon it would be time to finish the job and every assassin knew
the golden rule through bitter experience.

Never get to know your victim too well. For even villains and
cut-throats like these were human. They had their good points
and few were intrinsically evil. Most had their excuses or reasons,
tales of misfortune or circumstances that led them to what they
had become. No doubt every mother loved her wayward son.
Every murderer, deviant or drug-dealer loved his mother, his wife
and his children. And those who waited at home would never
believe their sons, or husbands or fathers were capable of preying
on the misery of others for a living. And probably they would not
want to know.

And neither did Mallory. He didn't want to know that Start
Summers had a pretty blonde wife and three gorgeous kids who
lived in a half-million-pound detached house in Chelmsford with
a swimming pool and tennis court; that with his third marriage
Guy Thripp had at last found happiness and they both adored
their little boy who had Down's syndrome and wasn't expected
to live beyond the age of twenty; that Thripp felt rejected and
abused by the army he had served loyally for all his adult life, or
that bossman Harry Morgan intended to spend his ill-gotten
gains on private nursing care for his senile mother.

He didn't want to know these things; already he knew too
much. It would make everything more difficult when the time
came.

It was with these thoughts that he strolled through the linking
covered walkways to his room in one of the terraced accommodation
blocks. A huge floodlit statue of Christ stood on a nearby
hilltop. It was an awesome spectacle, appearing to be unsupported
in the night sky, the arms outstretched. Blessing the
inhabitants of this city of narcotraficantes, Mallory wondered
absently, or forgiving them their sins?

He inserted the key in the door of his room and eased it open.
Then he froze.


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Something wasn't right. He sensed it. The room was in darkness,
silent. But something wasn't right and his pulse quickened. .
His hand slipped to his jacket, easing up the flap to reach the
Beretta automatic he still carried. He drew the weapon and
dropped to one knee.

Then he caught it, his nostrils flaring. That perfume.

'Kurt?'

'Christ, George?'

She sounded tense, nervous. 'Quick. Come in and close the
door.'

He pulled it in behind him and reached for the light switch.

The sudden brightness stung his eyes. She was standing by the
window, wearing chino slacks and a bush shirt, the pageboy haircut
dark and glistening. 'How d'you get in here?' He felt the relief
ebb through him and found himself grinning. 'Sorry, stupid question.'

'I had to see you.' She indicated the Beretta. 'Would you mind

not pointing that at me.'

'You shouldn't be here. Not just for my sake, for your own.'
Her smile was strained. 'You gave us a fright, just saying you
were coming here, giving us barely a day's notice. It wasn't in the
plan.'

'I didn't know myself, but it was too good to miss.'

She shook her head. 'But with no time to arrange backup. I
couldn't pull out Mario or Goldie and send them, they're too
well known now. And Dale wasn't keen to enlist the help of the
local DEA.'

'Thank God for small mercies.' He gave a wry smile. 'So you

came yourseltg. I'm flattered.'

'Don't be. I'm your control; I just couldn't leave you out on a

limb. Not after last time.'

'Ah, a guilty conscience?'

'Maybe. I had to find out what was going on, whether you were
heading for trouble. Guy Thripp might have recognised you and

have a surprise planned. I freaked out when I realised it was him.'
'It's been no problem, he hasn't tumbled.'
'I still needed to be sure where you were.'


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'Down in the Chapare.'

'I know. Our Customs DLO in La Paz has his ear to the
ground and the jungle telegraph travels fast.' She saw the concern
in his eyes. 'Don't worry, I was discreet.'

'I'm sure.' He removed his jacket and sat on the edge of the
bed. 'Haven't got a cigarette, I suppose?'

For the first time she smiled naturally, her shoulders relaxing.
'I see nothing has changed.'

He accepted the cigarette and the light. 'Maybe not. But then
maybe it has. At least I know now I was right to quit this game
after last time. This has been a nightmare.'

'You look exhausted. And you've lost weight.' Concern
showed in her eyes.

'Fear is the best diet.'

She attempted to lighten the mood. 'I must try it.'
'You wouldn't like it.' He grinned, pleased to see her again
despite knowing her presence was unwise and against all the
rules. She could just have used the phone. But then she was control
and she was running him. 'We're flying back tomorrow, so all
this sneaky-beaky stuff is a bit unnecessary.'

'It is necessary, Kurt. Something's happened back at Cruz de
Oro. The locals have staged some sort of uprising against the
Vipers. They seized that arms shipment yesterday and have
warned the gang they're going to use the weapons for self
defence.'

Mallory stared at her for a moment. 'Good for them,' he said.

'But not for our operation, Kurt. This is no time for anyone to
go rocking the boat. Has Stan Summers mentioned it?'

Mallory shook his head while he savoured the tobacco smoke.
'No, but if it happened yesterday he wouldn't know. We've been
virtually out of contact down there and it'll be a week or two
before the Vipers can establish their own communications system.'

Savage looked thoughtful. 'I can't believe he won't get a message
soon. He'll probably go ballistic when he hears. I'm sorry,
you wouldn't know either. They killed Billy Susan.'

Mallory was stunned. After a long pause he said: 'Then there


301

will be hell to pay.'

'That's what Dale and I think. They're bound to get paranoid

over who spilled the beans about the arms shipment. Aren't you
going to be a prime suspect?'

He considered for a second. 'I might have been, except now

my star's in the ascendant. After my showing down here,

Summers thinks the sun shines out of my backside.'

'Just as well.'

'So who did put the locals up to it?'

'Goldie contacted me. Said Mario dropped them the nod, told

that Juanita gil he's hot on.'

Mallory could hardly believe it. But then, he thought, his
friend hadn't been the same man since Luz and his son were
butchered. Clearly his grief and his thirst for revenge had affected
his judgement. 'Who knows about Mario's involvement in this? If
he's blown his cover, he could be in more danger than me.'

'I realise that, Kurt. So does Dale and he's furious about it.
Goldie seems to think Mario told Juanita not to implicate him

and she's been playing along. But it would just take one slip-up.'
'I guess there's not much we can do about it, except hope.'
She looked at him candidly. 'There is one thing we could do.
Close the operation down now. You could walk out of here with
me tonight and catch the first flight to Miami. One phone call to
Dale, and Goldie and Mario can be on their way to Santa Maria.'

Mallory shook his head. 'And blow the whole operation? Then
Summers really would smell a rat.'

'It's not ideal. But we've got all the data you've accumulated

so far, plus all the new information on their supply network here.
True, there'd be no time for a co-ordinated swoop in three countries
and we still know precious little about the European end--'

'So it would have been a complete waste of time,' Mallory
retorted. 'The cartels are expert at this sort of thing and Summers
is no fool. At the first whiff of serious trouble with the police or
the DEA, they'll scatter. The laboratory might shut down, but
it'll just be months before the whole thing is up and running
again somewhere else. It's too big a money spinner for them to
let go.' He stubbed out his cigarette in the bedside ashtray. 'And


302

I can't see your American friend being too happy about the idea.'

Savage pulled a fight smile. 'He isn't, especially now he knows
the extent of Felix Bastidas's plans for destabilising the major
drug-supplying states. But then Dale's not got much say in the
matter if you decide to pull out. Your safety must come first, and
Mario's and Goldie's.'

'It's nice to know you care.'

'I do care, Kurt. I think you know that.' Her face was very close
to his, her eyes dark and moist. 'I always have.'

Slowly, very slowly, his mouth descended on hers. As his arms
encircled her, he felt her stiffen momentarily. Then she melted a
little, giving in, and her lips and teeth began working against his
own, her tongue gently prising its way in. The kiss lingered for a
full minute, maybe longer, before she drew back. Her voice was
hoarse. 'Christ, Kurt, I miss you.'

'I thought it was over. What about your husband?'

She smiled nervously, embarrassed as she fumbled in her
handbag for a cigarette. He noticed her hands were trembling as
she lit up. 'Do you want me to admit it? That it's been a mistake?
Wouldn't that make you feel better?'

'No,' he said truthfully. 'I hoped you might be happy.'

She exhaled a long coil of smoke. 'I should be, Kurt, I really
should. But Giles is not you and you're a pretty hard act to follow.
'

'Forget about me, George, I'm no good for you. We decided
once it was over. Let's leave it that way.'

'Trouble is, Kurt, I can't live with you and I can't live without
yOU.'

It was his turn to smilel 'Give your husband an even break,
George, and yourself.'

'That sounds pretty much like a rejection.' She sniffed heavily,
trying to regain some composure. 'I'm sorry, it's been a tense few
weeks. My nerves are playing up. God knows what it must have
been like for you.'

'Not good, George, I admit that. But I still don't want to pull
out - not if it means Summers and Harry Morgan and the others
are going to get away. How long does Forster reckon he'd need


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to set up a co-ordinated swoop?' He pulled off one of his trainers
and handed her two sheets of paper he'd folded tightly and concealed
beneath the insole. They were damp with sweat. 'That's a
complete breakdown of the supply network here, running from
the Chapare to Santa Cruz.'

She studied it for a moment, her eyebrows lifting. 'That's
incredible, Kurt.'

'How long?' he repeated. 'How long for a co-ordinated swoop?'
'To include all this - sensibly, a month of arranging and planning,
but I don't feel we can wait that long. Dale will have to pull
in some favours - let's say seven days.'

Mallory nodded. 'In the meantime I'll find out what I can
about the European end.'

Savage nodded. 'It was a shock to hear about Miguel Castafio's

visit. You realise he's Kelly's latest boyfriend?'

'Yes.' Terse. 'I met him just before I left.'

'God.' A look of abject horror was on her face. 'He didn't
recognise you?'

He shook his head. 'I don't think I'd be here if he had.'
'What do you know about him?'

'Not a lot. Just that he runs an international practice from
Madrid.'

'That's right, and fairly high-powered by all accounts. We've
run checks on him and his company. All above board and highly
respectable. Most of his business is commercial with contacts and
clients in most South American countries, most of Europe and
more recently the old Eastern Bloc states. Obviously I checked on
his links with Kelly's father. That all appears kosher. One of
Castaflo's clients, a fish products manufacturer, wanted access to
the Irish Sea which is restricted under EC regulations. With Joe
O'More's help, Castafto's client has bought a controlling share in
a Cork fishing fleet. Castafio's firm also runs a criminal division
and that's one area where Miguel came in for some stick a few
years back. His firm defended some Basque separatist terrorists and
lost. But some of his influential friends in government and
industry were unhappy to see him assisting the ETA movement
even if, as he claimed, he was just doing his job. Anyway, after


304

that case, he kept strictly to defending more conventional criminals.'

'Like Stan Summers.'

'He's an interesting character. Born and brought up in
Billericay, son of a bookmaker. Got into a spot of trouble as a kid - shoplifting, joyriding and some GBH - but he settled down in his
early twenties once he had his first wife and their child. Worked on
building sites, then set up renovating old houses. Then he moved
on to more ambitious things, becoming quite a big property speculator
in the eighties and made a killing, mostly investing other

people's money and taking a good cut of the profits.' "
'Anything criminal?'

'Well, there's an open file at New Scotland Yard, but nothing
proven. Some complaints of intimidation of sitting tenants and
suspected violence between him and a rival firm. For a while he
dabbled in the pore import game. Mostly the nasty stuff, heavy SIN and animals. But he dropped all that when the law was tightened
in the late eighties. He's also got interests-in used cars and

fruit machines, so it's a fair bet he has plenty of low-life contacts.'
'How did he get involved with Castafio?'

Savage shrugged. 'At this stage the best we can establish is that
they appeared to meet first at some party on the Costas about
three years ago. A.London villain, a friend of Summers, was celebrating
because he'd just defeated an extradition request from
London in the Spanish courts. Castafio's firm had handled the
case.'

'And how did he get involved with Harry Morgan and that lot?'
'That's easier. Summers used to have a nightclub and he hired
his bouncers from Morgan's firm. Thripp and Billy Susan were
on the staff at one time or another. The rest, I imagine, were
friends of friends.'

'And Summers has had no obvioug connection with drugs?'
'None that's known about.'

Mallory scratched at the rough stubble on his chin.
'Something doesn't quite fit. Like there's a part of the iigsaw
missing.' He smiled at her. 'Don't worry, I'll find out what it is
before I'm finished.'


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'I'm sure you will.' She glanced at her Watch. 'It's nearly ten.
Time I wasn't here.'

He looked at her. 'You don't have to go. Summers won't
expect to see me till the morning.'

Her eyes narrowed and a ghost of a smile touched her lips. 'Is
this a record? Kurt Mallory actually asking a woman to stay?'

He laughed, self-mocking. 'I must be mellowing in my old
age. '

'It's over between us.'

'I know.'

'It would be breaking all the rules.'

'That's what rules are for.'

'Then you'd better pour me a drink.'


The next morning Mallory was woken by the urgent ring of the
bedside phone. As he reached to answer it, he saw that there was
no one on the rumpled sheet beside him; Savag9 had gone.

Guy Thripp was in no mood for pleasantries. 'Get your arse
down to reception in ten minutes, Kurt. We're catching an earlier
flight.'

'What's wrong?'

'What/sn't,' Thripp snapped back and hung up.

Mallory took a quick shower. The room was heavy with
George's perfume and he could still smell her on his skin. Her
perspiration, her juices; his head was full of her, his mind floating
with images of the previous night. Somehow he had
unleashed something in her, a wild animal that had been caged
for too long.

He threw on his clothes, grabbed his rucksack and left the
room. In reception Summers was settling the bill. He was a
changed man, his face like thunder. Harry Morgan and Thripp
were in equally mean mood.

During the taxi ride to the airport, Summers told Mallory he'd
received a message relayed from the Viper camp at Cruz de Oro in Colombia. 'The fuckin' peasants are in revolt and Billy's dead.
What the sod was he playing at? Serves 'im bloody well right for
being so careless.' He turned and stared out of the window, see306


ing nothing but his own rage. 'And wait till Bastidas hears about
this! Jesus Christ, he'll go mad when he learns his precious arms
have been stolen by a load of fuckin' peasants['

The flight back to La Paz to pick up the connecting airline to
Bogota was spent in sullen silence. By the time they switched
again for the internal flight from Bogota to Bucaramanga, Stan
Summers had obviously arrived at some decisions. He spent the
journey huddled together with Morgan and Thripp. Mallory was
excluded.

A private Piper Apache was waiting for them on the tarmac, its
engines running, ready to fly them to the strip at Cruz de Oro.

As soon as they arrived, Mallory could sense the tension. Even
before the props had come to a standstill the aircraft was surrounded
by armed members of the late Pedro Gom6z's
Colombian thugs. They were wary and excitable, seemingly
expecting trouble at any second as they fanned out in a defensive
circle.

Derek Rutter, the Geordie, had assumed-command after
Susan's death and now waited for Summers to emerge. 'Am I
pleased to see you, boss.'

'Wish I could say the same,' Summers retorted. 'What other
disasters have happened while I've been away?'

'Nothing since. Billy was shot. That was bad enough. They
took all the boots from the Colombian escort and made them
walk back to camp. They took the weapons they wanted from the
truck and set fire to the rest.'

Summers shook his head, still not able to come to terms with
it all. 'How many have you retrieved?'

'None, boss. The burnt-out ones were unusable.'

'What about those that were stolen, have you hunted them
down?'

'No, boss. I didn't want to go inflaming the situation while
feelings are running high. Not without your say-so.'

Summers jabbed a thumb angrily at his own chest. 'Well, my feelings are running high, Rutter. My feelings are in bloody
ORBIT!'

Harry Morgan stepped forward. 'Look, we'd better get


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properly organised on this. Do we know who's got the weapons?'
Derek Rutter shook his head.

'Well, who took part in the ambush?' Summers demanded.
'They must have been local, so our Colombians must have recognised
some of them, for God's sake. Have you asked them?'

The man looked sheepish. 'I don't speak the lingo too good.'
'For Christ's sake, man, it's simple enough. Names! Nombres!
Even I know that. That's all you have to ask the Colombians and
they'll realise what you mean. Use bloody sign language.' He
turned, exasperated, to Mallory. 'Go with him, Kurt, will you? You
ask the questions. Just get me a fuckin' list. Pronto!' He thought for

a moment. 'Does Felix Bastidas know what's happened?'

'Well, he hasn't radioed in, boss. So I guess not.'

'Thank God for that. At least he doesn't know how many
weapons were due in. If we can retrieve some, we can fob him off
for a few days. But we must find them, understand?'

That evening Mallory spent with Rutter in the bunkhouse,
talking to the Colombians and compiling a list of those who had
been involved. His heart sank when he was told that Father Le6n
and Victor Tafur had been leading them. And he felt a creeping
horror when he learned that it was Juanita who had actually killed
Billy Susan and even worse that Mario, the film sound-man, was
seen leading her away afterwards.

'I should think he just happened to be around,' he said
absently. 'No point putting his name down.'

'Bugger that,' Rutter snorted. 'His fault for being in the wrong
place at the wrong time. Anyway, I never have trusted that film
crew. Harry should never have let them stay in the area. If he was
there, then he's in the frame with all the rest.'

'Tomorrow we'll decide exactly .how to teach these people a
lesson and get the arms back,' Summers said later. 'I'm too
knackered to think. In fact, I'll just have a nightcap and turn in.'

Mallory suddenly saw his opportunity. 'Shall I put some coffee

on?'

'Good man,' Summers replied. 'And don't spare the brandy.
Bring it to my quarters, will you?'

Making his way to the kitchen area, Mallory put a kettle on the


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Gaz ring-burner and prepared some mugs. While the water
boiled he prised the false heel from his boot and extracted a small
plastic sachet of powder from the recess. Burundanga. The plant
extract that thieves used throughout Colombia to drug their
unwitting victims. He sprinkled it into Summers's personal mug
as he poured the coffees.

After handing out mugs to Rutter and Morgan, he crossed the
yard to the hut that Summers was using. 'Excellent. Ta.'

'You'd better try it, boss. I'm a bit heavy-handed on the coffee.'
Summers sipped. 'On the strong side. Strange taste.'
'Best Colombian.'

Mallory made an effort at small talk for a few minutes, just long
enough for Summers to take three more mouthfuls of the stuff.

'God, didn't realise I was so tired.' The man staggered to his
feet and took a tentative step towards his bunk. 'Christ, I feel
giddy. How much brandy did you put in that?' His legs collapsed
under him and he began to fall. Mallory caught him under the
armpits and dragged him onto his bed.

He then moved back into the office area and began rummaging
through the drawers of the desk. The European network. He
wanted anything on the European network. Nothing.

Summers's leather briefcase lay on the desktop. Shit, a combination
lock! He moved his thumbs across the brass fittings and
pressed. The clasps sprang free. Summers must have just opened
it ready to do some work before he turned in.

But Mallory's rising sense of anticipation was short-lived. An
electric razor, a solar-operated calculator, an international airlines
timetable, air tickets and travel documents. Ah, a loose-leaf
notebook. Full of calculations that meant nothing to him.
Quantities and prices? Probably, but it was difficult to tell.
Delivery times and routes were recorded purely as A, B, C and so
on. And codewords that quite obviously referred to suppliers as
well as customers. There was no doubt about it, Summers was a
total professional, committing nothing of importance to paper. At
least nothing that Mallory could comprehend.

Disappointed he closed the briefcase and left for the
bunkhouse. It had been an exhausting few days and for once he


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fell instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep. He was totally
unaware of the events that were about to begin even before he
awoke. If he had known the orders that Stan Summers had
secretly given Harry Morgan and Guy Thripp, Mallory would
have killed him in his bed that night.


They struck before the first dawn light. Five targets. And six
people whom the Colombians had identified as being part of the
arms ambush.

Thripp personally took command of the raid on the Tafur family's
hacienda. They parked the Rocsta half a mile from the building
so as not to alert the occupants. Leaving the Colombian
driver, Thripp led the approach with Derek Rutter and Mick Pye
and the Swinyard twins from Leicester who were nicknamed
Tom and Jerry. One loud and opinionated, the other quiet and
darkly introspective, they were the most uncomical duo imaginable.
Both had trained as Paras and both had been dismissed for
violent off-duty behaviour before turning to a career of armed
robbery.

Only the farm dog sensed their silent approach, suddenly alert
with tail stiff and ears pricked. It gave a low growl, but the bark
that followed was cut short by a single round from Rutter's
silenced Ingram. The animal was slammed into the ground, its cry of alarm reduced to a pitiful whimper.

There was no sign of the film crew's Fourtrak, but the
Swinyard brothers were nevertheless detailed to check the barn
where they were known to be staying. Inside there were just personal
possessions of little interest, but no sign of the men themselves.
Tom cursed and Jerry just shrugged and spoke on the
radio to Thripp, confirming that they were moving into position
outside the rear kitchen door of the hacienda.

Thripp was at the front with Pye and Rutter, guns drawn.
Victor Tafur was in his bed, unsettled, turning over beside his
wife, unaware that he had been disturbed by the dying whimper
ings of his dog. When the glass of the kitchen window shattered
he was instantly awake, sitting bolt upright.

'What was that?' he asked.


310

His wife murmured sleepily.

Victor Tafur, clad only in his nightshirt, swung his legs from
the bed and padded towards the corridor. The building was silent
now. Had he imagined it?

The sound of the two rapid gunshots terrified him. His heart
skipped and he began to tremble, frozen to the spot as the front

door lock shattered and dark figures appeared in the entrance.
'Papal'

He turned quickly at hearing Juanita's voice. She was standing
in her white cotton nightdress at the doorway to her bedroom.
She was gesturing to him with her left hand; in her right she held
one of the Kalashnikov rifles taken from the ambush.

'Papa, quick! Don't just stand there! Get back behind the wall!'
Suddenly his brain crashed into gear. He was standing in the
hallway, a ready target for the shadows walking towards him.
Quickly he stepped back into his bedroom. As he did, Juanita
raised the assault rifle at the intruders, leaning against the door
jamb to provide some cover and to steady her aim. Her finger
closed around the trigger.

Then she heard the metallic click of the hammer behind her as
Mick Pye thumbed it back and pressed the barrel of his revolver
into the soft flesh beneath her chin. 'Tut-tut, what a naughty
girl.' He jabbed the gun hard so she winced in pain. 'Put it down.
Nice and easy. Ah, not with the safety catch off.' She bent at the
knees, obediently lowering the weapon to the floor. 'Now put
your hands in the air and walk slowly towards my friends.' He
glanced at Victor Tafur, who stood, pale and still shaking, his
eyes wide with terror. 'You too, old man. We've just about had
enough of your family.'

Once outside, the Swinyards bound the girl and her father with
lengths of rope before bundling them into the Rocsta which
Thripp had called up on the radio. Tafur's wife watched from the
doorway, clutching her youngest daughter to her chest, as tears
streamed down her face. She was blubbering, pleading, but her
confused words went unheeded.

Thripp turned to the rancher. 'Where are those filmmakers
tonight?' he demanded.


311

With difficulty the old man found his voice. 'Out on location
somewhere,' he croaked. 'Filming the wild cats.'
'Then they don't know how lucky they are,' Mick Pye said,
then added ominously. 'For now.'

Juanita, who had kept her head bowed and facing away from
them, turned abruptly and spat in his face. 'You wouldn't do this
if Mario was here! He will make you pay for this!'

Pye's hand swiped across her face, his knuckles cracking
against her nose. 'Shut up, cow! You're the only one who'll be
doing any paying around here!'

Just then Derek Rutter returned from the hacienda; he was
grinning and cradling a bundle of five assault rifles in his arms.
'Look what I've found.'

Thripp wasn't impressed. 'That's hardly going to bring a smile
to Summers's face. He'll need a lot more than those to give
Bastidas.'

'I promise you one thing, Guy,' Tom Swinyard said. 'By this
time tomorrow the locals will be beggin' to hand 'em back.'


Mallory only heard about the dawn raids twhen he arrived at the
cookhouse for breakfast. Everyone appeared in jubilant mood,
laughing and joking as they recounted the events of earlier that
morning.

Only Doug Tallhoys and Pete Stafford looked less than pleased
as they sat nursing coffees at their table. 'What's going on?'
Mallory asked as he joined them.

'Vengeance of the Vipers,' Tallboys murmured. 'This morning
they rounded up the ringleaders behind that arms ambush including
the priest and the girl who killed Billy Susan. Stan
Summers's orders. He wants an example made of them. To persuade
the locals to toe the line and bring back the stolen guns.' He
glared at his coffee mug as though he'd just spotted something
nasty in it. 'I really don't have the stomach for this sort of thing.'

'You big, soft Scotch git!' It was Guy Thripp who'd overheard.
'I've gotta tell you, Doug, you're a right sanctimonious prick.
Some of us are getting a little tired of you. Never mixing in, looking
at us with your air of self-righteous disapproval, like we were


312

something unpleasant you just stepped in.'

Tallboys's knuckles tightened on the table. 'I didn't ask to be
part of this.'

A thin smile appeared on Thripp's face. 'No? Well, you didn't
ask too many questions either, as I recall. You're not an idiot, are
you? All that money you were being paid for a secret contract in
Colombia - you must have smelled a rat. Colombia, big money,
drugs - every fuckin' idiot knows the connection. You can't have
it both ways, sunshine.'

The Scotsman glared back, the anger he'd felt for.so long coming
rapidly to the boil. 'I didn't sign up for murder and intimidation!'

Thripp
laughed. 'All a necessary part of the job. And if you
take the devil's money, you dance to his tune.'

'Piss offl.' Tallboys snapped, and Pete Stafford placed a
restraining hand on his friend's arm.

Mallory was annoyed he hadn't known about the roundup;
now it was too late to warn anyone. He said: -You didn't tell me
what you were going to do this morning.'

Thripp snorted. 'Why should we? Summers thought you might
be tempted to tip them off.'

'What? That's stupid. I could have translated--'

'What we had to say needed no translation. They're getting the
message. And I agree with Summers. For my lilng you're too
close to that bastard Tafur and his daughter. I haven't forgotten
how you went running back to them with Ricardo's body. And
you were very chummy with that film crew - and one of there's
had a hand in all this. Start Summers might still think the sun
shines out your arse, but some of us don't. And I think he has his
doubts. Look at you, sitting here with these two fuckin' pacifists.
I'll be honest, I don't trust you, never have. The way you just
turned up here--'

Mallory's eyes hardened. 'But Summers is the boss,' he
reminded icily.

Thripp swallowed and slowly ran the tip of his tongue over his
lips. 'But Harry Morgan and me have the executive powers to do
whatever we see fit, Kurt. Remember that. If we don't like you,


313

don't count on Start to protect you. He won't.'

Any further development of the antagonism was curtailed as

Harry Morgan swept into the cookhouse. 'Right, lads, time to
avenge poor old Billy's death!' he announced. 'Our Colombian
friends have been busy rounding up the rest of those known to be
involved in the ambush. They've been taken to Cruz de Oro and
you're all ordered to join the party by our illustrious leader, Mr
Summers.' He smiled. 'Did I say ordered? Slip of the tongue. I
mean invited. And bring a bottle.'

Mick Pye gave a whoop of approval, waving the bottle of beer

in his hand. 'Right on, boss! We'll teach the bastards.' All around
the gang members began laughing and speculating over the sport
to come.

Thripp leaned across Mallory's table. 'That includes you three.

What is it governments insist on. Collective responsibility? That

way no one can point a finger later.'

Mallory smelled death in the air. Someone was going to die,

and the whole White Viper gang was going to be present. Like a
bizarre ritual. No one could later claim they were not involved. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Collective responsibility,
Thripp had called it. Mutual guilt he meant. It was the best way
to ensure no one ever talked.

With rising apprehension, Mallory followed the exodus to the
four-wheel drives and trucks waiting outside, engines running.

'I'm getting out of this,' Tallboys hissed as he walked alongside.
'How?' Pete Stafford asked earnestly. 'You told me yourself

what they did to Hal.'

'Shit. I don't know how,' the Scot returned testily. 'I'll think of
something, make a break. Somehow get clean away - even if it
means going into hiding.'

'It will,' Mallory warned.

'What about you?' Stafford asked.

'Life's too short. I'll stay on while the money's good. But don't
worry, I'm no grass. Just don't tell me your plans. What I don't
know, I can't say. Right?'

Tallboys stared at him as he halted beside a truck, waiting for

the others to climb aboard. 'I can't make you out, Kurt. You're


314

not an animal like these. Yet you killed Pedro and you blew up
those Bolivians in the Chapare. It doesn't make snse.'

'You're starting to sound like Thripp,' Mallory replied tartly.
Stafford said: 'Whatever you're planning, Doug, count me in.'
It was their turn to scramble aboard the truck.


Armed Colombians encircled the little chapel on the rocky outcrop
at Cruz de Oro. They stood around in small groups, chatting
and laughing and smoking, weapons slung carelessly over
their shoulders. They had about them the air of victors after some
great battle, yet Mallory sensed it had been a grossly unequal
struggle with defenceless peasants snatched from their beds. Half
a dozen women watched, weeping, babies clutched in their arms
and young children tugging at their skirts.

Harry Morgan climbed out of the lead Rocsta and marched
purposefully towards the shut doors of the chapel, his motley
band of gringos trailing behind. The line of Colombians respectfully
parted to allow them through. 4.

As he reached the entrance, one of the village women broke
through the cordon, wriggling and twisting to avoid the grasping
hands of the Colombian guards. She fell to her knees at Morgan's
feet, clutching at his knees, half beseeching, half praying.

'For Christ's sake,' he growled. 'What's she ranting about?'
Mallory said: 'Her husband is inside. She's begging you to
release him. Says she'll do anything you want if you let him go.
She means you can have her.'

Morgan's nose wrinkled in disgust. 'God, she must be ioking.
Get rid of her. Tell her there's a price to be paid for defying us.'

As the Colombians grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled
her away, Morgan angrily pushed open the ancient timber doors.

Mallory hadn't been at all certain what to expect, but it really
wasn't this. Not in his most troubled dreams could he have envisaged
such a macabre sight.

Shafts of sulphur-yellow light poured in from the windows on
the east side; it created a suffused and unearthly glow with dust
motes swirling like flecks of powdered gold, blurring shape and
form and deepening the shadows.


315

He narrowed his eyes for better definition, picking out the life
sized carving of the Crucifixion on the left and on the right the
row of plaster saints along the rough stone wall. His gaze was
drawn between the timber pews and down the aisle to the chancel
steps.

There stood Victor Tafur and his daughter Juanita, still in their
nightclothes. Both had their hands bound with rope behind their
backs; both were gagged and blindfolded so that they were staring
sightlessly at the young men who sat in the first of the pews the
same stoic young men who had found the courage and taken
the risk of joining the priest and the farmer in the arms ambush
but now regretting their action as they sat with hands clenched
nervously under the smug gaze of two armed Colombian thugs.

Most stared at their feet, not wanting to see what stood before
their eyes, not daring to admit to themselves that this was the
result of their folly. But others had to look, were mesmerised in
shock at the sight of Father Letn in his black cassock standing on
the altar with his arms tied, a rope noose running from his neck
up and over the rough eucalyptus crossbeam above his head.

A lump formed like a fist in Mallory's throat as he followed
Morgan and the others down the aisle. His heart began to thud,
the rush of blood loud in his ears. He gripped his fists until his
knuckle bones showed white through the skin. He wanted to turn
round and run, run far away from this place, but there was
nowhere to run to and nowhere to hide.

At the chancel he joined Tallboys and Pete Stafford with
others on the left, Thripp, Mick Pye and Derek Rutter grouping
on the fight.

Harry Morgan turned to face his captive audience in the front
pews. 'Right, you lot, you've had your fun. Now it's our turn.' He
looked at Mallory. 'Okay, Kurt, translate if you please.'

Mallory was hardly aware of what he was hearing or what he
was saying. That it was they who were responsible for what was
about to happen to them. This was the result of their betrayal and
non-co-operation. Blah, blab.

Morgan laughed. 'Here begirmeth the first and last lesson.
Thou shalt obey the White Viper.'


316

Mick Pye gave a frenzied little cry of glee at his boss's crude
witticism.

They must have planned what happened next, discussed it in
considerable detail; probably while drinking late into the previous
night. Because without an order being given every one of
Morgan's closest colleagues appeared to know what to do. It was
that which made the whole thing doubly horrendous. The premeditated
malice of it all.

Zhripp stepped up to Victor Tafur and stripped the blindfold
from his face. The old man blinked at the sudden exposure to
light, his cheeks bulging against the gag that cut into the corners
of his mouth. Wide eyes appealed to his captor but were ignored.
It was then that the Swinyard brothers came forward, one on
each side of Juanita, roughly grabbing hold of her arms so that
she couldn't struggle as Mick Pye stepped in front of her. He
removed her blindfold and loosened the cloth gag, letting it fall
around her throat.

'So you are the little cow who killed Billy Susan,' he sneered,
his face inches from hers. 'Just a skinny, smelly farmer's daughter.'

A
frown fractured the smooth olive skin of her brow as she
tried to follow his words. She moved her parched mouth and
sought to soften her palate with some saliva so she could speak.
'Your friend, he was a bad man. He killed my husband and
Comisario Pulgarin would do nothing. Your friend deserved to
die.'

That appeared to amuse Mick Pye like everything did.
'Deserved to die, did he? Well, God knows what I deserve, you
little cow, because I'm a far worse man than Billy Susan ever
was!'

A howl of approval went up from Pye's closest friends. He
turned and grinned at them, clearly pleased with himself and his
wit. He wasn't expecting the pellet of spittle that hit him square
in the centre of his cheek. The low howl of mirth from the captured
audience was spontaneous and quickly petered out as the
livid bloom of rage spread across Pye's face.

'Bitch!' he snapped, wiping the stuff from his skin. 'That's the


317

second time you've done that today. And it'll be the last!'

He reached out and grabbed the neck of her long cotton nightdress.
With one mighty stroke his hand ripped down through the
vertical line of buttons. Little white discs of mother-of-pearl spun
like stars, scattering over the cold terracotta tiles. The Swinyards
grabbed the sleeves of the material and jerked them down over
her bare shoulders.

'BAJERO.t BAJER(O.t' she screamed before Pye's fist landed

hard in her solar plexus and she doubled over in pain.

The men in front of her were agog, not at her nakedness, but

with sheer terror at what was taking place.

'Put that gag back on her,' Pye ordered and Tom Swinyard
obliged, pulling it so tight that it forced her lips into a distorted
grinning sneer like a horse with a bit between its teeth. 'Open
your legs.'

She didn't obey, probably didn't understand in her frozen terror,
but it didn't matter because the Swinyards reached down and
pulled her knees wide apart so that she was standing in a humiliating
half-crouch with her long hair falling over her face.

Above them on the altar Father Le6n tried to speak, his words
muffled by the gag, until Rutter gave the free end of the noose a
gentle tug so that it tightened around his throat. Juanita's father
turned his head away, blinded by his tears.

For a moment the silence was stunning and absolute; those

who could look were transfixed with horror. Rutter began the
slow handclap and then the others started to applaud and laugh
with approval.

Mallory turned his head away. God, it was never meant to be

like this! If only Mario could have foreseen where his impetuous
suggestion would lead!

Derek Rutter was next, then the Swinyards. Others followed,
including Guy Thripp.

Mallory glared down at his arched back and all he could think

was: this was the bastard who saved my life. His ineptitude got
me shot, but then the bastard's first aid saved me! The thought
rattled round and round inside his skull, trying to make sense of
it all


318

Why did that somehow make it worse? Make him. hate the man
all the more? Of all the people in the world he had to owe this
man his life.

Again he weighed up the chances and the odds, the permutations
of trying to stop what was happening. And again the answer
was the same. It would be suicidal. Some twenty-five of Harry
Morgan's gringos, armed, drunk and spoiling for a fight. Then a
few Colombian thugs guarding the reluctant audience and a
score more ringing the chapel outside. Even if he used his gun,
how many could he kill before he himself was taken out? Three
or four at best - and he'd blow his cover and the entire operation
in the process.

He felt the phantom pain in his chest where his lung had been
tingling sharply like electricity, reminding him what it was like to
believe you were kneeling at death's door.

No, play it cool, a voice whispered urgently in his head. Juanita
will survive this and they're just playing silly games with the
priest, putting the frighteners on him and his followers. Make the
wrong move for the right motives now and you'll get half of them
killed in some ultimately pointless ftrefight.

God, he felt so helpless, so empty. Cowed and intimidated like
only Brother Hermann had ever made him feel.

Thripp laughed as he zipped up his jeans. He was getting
drunk now, like the rest of them. And as another bottle was
handed to him and another man took his place, he looked up at
the gagged priest who stood above him with eyes closed.

'Praying,' Thripp said, his speech beginning to slur. 'The bastard's
praying. Who the hell does he think he is, standing up there
like he's fuckin' Christ Almighty?' He grabbed a machete from
one of the laughing Colombian guards, climbed up onto the altar
and sliced through the fabric of the priest's cassock, ripping it
away down the front to reveal the thin alabaster body and worn
white underpants. Contemptuously, Thripp ran the razor edge of
the blade through the elastic waist and leg hole so the garment
fell away in tatters to reveal the priest's fear-shrivelled genitals.

'Don't think he fancies our little Juanita,' Pye laughed.
'Fuckin' queer. All priests are fuckin' faggots.'


319

Rutter turned to Mallory. 'Your turn, Kurt!' A giggle. 'Why
don't you give it to 'er up the arse? Bring a smile to both their
faces.'

Mallory swallowed hard, finding it difficult to think of a reply
and difficult to disguise the loathing with which he spoke the
words. 'C'mon, Derek, I'm not poldn' that little whore. I don't
want the bloody clap.'

'Ah, forgot to bring a condom, did we?' Pye jeered. Hoots of
derision rose from the rest of the gang waiting eagerly for their


It was then that Doug Tallboys made his move. He'd been
standing beside Mallory and Pete Stafford, staring in blind rage
at the events unfolding before his eyes. He'd known his fellow
countrymen and their Colombian enforcers were capable of cruel
intimidation, but he'd never envisaged anything quite like this. At
last, suddenly, he snapped.

Stepping forward to the edge of the altar, he snatched up the
Ingram that Rutter had left there while he'd taken his turn with
the girl.

'STOP IT, ALL OF YOU!' he screamed, waving the gun in
the air.

Everyone stopped and looked.

Bad move, Mallory knew, but nevertheless his hand instinctively
reached towards his own gun holstered beneath his jacket.
Even together they would be hopelessly outnumbered unless
Tallboys found a lot more allies amongst the silent minority.

'Don't be stupid, Doug,' Harry Morgan called out. 'The boys
are just having some fun. Remember what these people did to
Billy.'

'Billy was a cheap thug,' Tallboys snarled, 'like the rest of you!'
Another bad move, Mallory thought.

Tallboys's eyes blazed as he kept the Ingram pointed, swaying
back and forth to cover the other gang members and the line of
guns already aiming at him. It was obvious he was no fighting soldier,
more at home with spanners than with guns.

He glanced back at Stafford. 'Well, what about it, Pete? Here's
our chance!'


320

Mallory caught the young man's eye and gave a warning look.
The Scotsman was heading for a fall. Stafford was. hesitant and
forced a smile. 'What's the matter, Doug, where's your sense of
humour?'

Tallboys glared, feeling betrayed.

Thripp stepped forward until he stood just feet before the
pointed muzzle of the Scotsman's sub-machine gun. 'That's the
trouble with engineers. Good with vehicles but know sod all about
guns.' He nodded towards the Ingram. 'You've left the safety on.'

Doug Tallboys glanced down at the weapon in his hands. And
Thripp had him. His movement was a blur, snatching the gun
with one hand and stepping forward for an over-thigh body throw
that sent Tallboys slamming against the chancel steps.

Thripp looked down at the Scotsman who was nursing the
cracked bone in his elbow. 'I did warn you, Doug. And you made
one mistake in your reckoning. That you're indispensable as our
engineer. Wrong. We've found a replacement who's far more
suited to our line of work. He joins us next week. So now you've
just gone and speeded up events.'

Harry Morgan joined Thripp, standing by his side. 'You know
Stan Summers's favourite little saying, Doug. The boss always
says those who are not with us are against us.'

Doug's pale grey eyes stared up at them as he wiped some blood
from his mouth. It was almost as though he had a premonition of
what was coming next. Perhaps he had, because he showed no
surprise when Morgan pulled the stubby 9mm pistol from his
jacket pocket. Made no protest before the single blast echoed
around the little chapel of Cruz de Oro.

Mallory winced and was instantly swamped with a feeling of
guilt and shame. Knowing it would have been crazy to have intervened,
but still now wishing he had.

The wild atmosphere of orgiastic mayhem died in an instant,
the sense of drunken revelry burst like a balloon. Morgan turned
to Thripp, clearly ill-tempered at the change of mood. 'Okay, get
it over with.'

Guy Thripp gave a brief nod of approval to the Swinyard twins.
They knew exactly what was expected of them. Tom drew the


321

heavy sack of grain with its attached rope onto the altar and fixed
it around Father Le6n's ankles. Meanwhile Jerry scrambled up
and stood behind the half-naked priest, tightened the noose and
checked that the far end of the rope was now firmly anchored to
a wooden beam.

He looked at Harry Morgan. Morgan nodded. Jerry Swinyard
shoved the gagged priest hard in the small of the back, catching
him unawares.

The audience caught its breath as Father Le6n toppled from
the altar, lurching towards them until the rope checked him and
pulled him back, just as the sack of grain was kicked away. Its
dead weight dropped and the rope sprang taut. The snap of the
priest's spinal cord was clearly audible.

After a few seconds of involuntary twitching like a faiied
escapologist, the bound and hanging corpse started slowly to
turn, first one way and then the other.

Harry Morgan stepped in front of it. 'Now, I'm sure you
people realise you have a choice. You hand back the stolen
weapons and swear allegiance to us or you are against us. Raise
your hands if you are with us.' He turned towards Mallory. 'Give
'em the message, if you please.'

He could scarcely think straight. He was shaken to the core,
unable to marshal his thoughts let alone his words. Making a
hash of it, he translated three times before he got it right.

One by one, the hands went up. No one declined Morgan's
offer to join them, to swear loyalty.

'Right,' the boss said, 'tell them to leave now, Kurt. Our men
will go with each of them to bring the weapons back.'

The audience was all too eager to leave, the chapel emptying
fast. Harry Morgan followed, leading his men away until at last
only Mallory, the Tafurs and Pye remained, the gangster
fascinated by the gently gyrating corpse of the priest in its tattered
cassock.

Pye grinned. 'Always wondered if it was true.'

'What?'

'That a hanged man always dies with an enormous hard-on.'
Mallory didn't need to look. 'It's true.'


322

Something about the certainty with which Mallory said it
unsettled Pye. He grinned awkwardly. 'The ultimate orgasm, eh,
death? Ready to fuck the angels.' Inexplicably he began to feel
hot about the collar. 'Need a bit of fresh air. Be a mate and
release the farmer will you, Kurt?'

Mallory watched him scurry out of the door, before he turned
back to the altar. The priest still twisted slowly on the rope, the
eucalyptus beam creaking gently under the strain. Below the
dangling feet lay Juanita, unmoving, her naked body still splattered
with mucus, her legs open and abandoned, hovering on
the verge of unconsciousness, her mind and body in shock,
paralysed. Her eyes staring blankly at the corpse above her
head.

He turned to Victor Tafur. The man was as still and cold as an
ice sculpture while Mallory gently released the cloth gag. His eyes
were strange, fathomless. Mallory Slid out one of his Chinese
knives.

'Going to kill me?' -

Mallory could find no words to speak as he cut through the
binding ropes. Nothing he could say would explain to the old
man why he had been obliged just to stand by and let it happen.

'You may as well. I have seen hell on earth today. Death can
be no worse.' He looked closely into the Englishman's eyes. 'I
was right after all, you are no friend of mine.'

Mallory turned silently away and began the long walk up the
aisle to the door where the villagers had begun to gather, whispering
nervously to each other as the story began to spread. It was
they who would have to cut down the dead priest and take care
of Juanita and her father. Itwas best, and only fitting, that they
should be left to look after their own.

Accusing eyes followed him as he passed. A woman crossed
herself, praying for his soul.

He stepped out into the brilliant midday sun, but today its
warmth didn't manage to reach him. And it was quiet. So quiet,
he noticed as he walked away, that not even a bird sang.

14

It was after dark when the hooker left
the dosshouse hotel in Adoraci6n.

Her trade was made plain by the
shiny pink skirt she wore. It was short and clingfilm tight, emphasising
her compact and slightly muscular figure. With her flov6ng
black hair and dark glasses, she bore no resemblance to the pretty
United Nations aid official who had a short pageboy cut, wore
only a hint of make-up and had arrived a few hours earlier wearing
a smart chino travel suit. In fact that woman had retired early
with a migraine, and was no doubt asleep in a darkened room as
the hooker passed the white,painted ON Cherokee without
appearing to notice it.

She crossed the street and walked past a row of adobe dwellings
and shuttered shops until she arrived at El Tigre. A few scruffy
local men absently eyed her up and down as she walked by their
tables, but it was still too early for the business of the night to
begin. Perhaps they wondered why they didn't recognise her?
Had one of the regular putaz changed her hairstyle or was she new
in town? But if they did wonder, they didn't do so for long,
because they had other things on their minds - rumours that
something bizarre and horrendous had happened at Cruz de Oro
that morning. There were whispers of massacre and rape.
Someone even said that the priest was dead. But no one yet knew
anything for certain.

The hooker walked through the archway and into the adjoining
bordello. For a moment she looked lost as she viewed the
sparsely furnished lounge where the girls sat around waiting for
the first customers to arrive. They regarded the stranger with
sullen and undisguised hostility.


324

'What do you want?' asked the girl called Lucila.

'Sefiora Lacera.'

'Are you the girl from Bogotfi? The one who Sfior Kurt asks

for?' She sounded hurt.

'Yes.'

Lucila regarded her with thinly hidden disapproval. 'You don't
look so special. You're welcome to him.'

Another of the putas joined Lucila. 'But you're not welcome
here, taking our trade.'

A sympathetic smile appeared below the dark glasses. 'It's just
for tonight. We used to be quite good friends. I go tomorrow.'

Lucila suppressed her feeling of jealousy for this mysterious
and sophisticated whore from her customer's past. It was unusual
that anyone should go to so much trouble. Invite this girl, pay her
bus fare and ask Fanny Lacera to provide the bed. But you never
knew with men; they were such strange creatures. Vaguely she
wondered what tricks this puta knew that made her so special and
she felt an absurd compulsion to let her know she was just as

good. 'He is a nice man. In fact we are friends, too.'

The smile melted. 'Really? Good for you.'

Fanny Lacera waddled out from her office. 'Ah, the lady for
Sefior Kurt. I thought I heard a strange voice.' She started
towards the stairs. 'Follow me, will you?'

The rickety planking creaked and groaned beneath their feet as
Fanny led the way along a dark, narrow corridor to the end room.
She knocked before opening the door. Mallory and Dale Forster
were already there, waiting.

'Your lady friend,' she announced, enjoying the subterfuge.
'I'll bring the other two up as soon as they arrive. Don't worry,
no one will overhear you. I've kept the adjoining rooms free until
you've finished.'

As she left and shut the door, Forster said to Savage: 'You look
good in that outfit. Perhaps you've missed your true vocation.'

'Stow it, Dale,' she retorted and pulled offthe wig, shaking her
hair free. 'What's been happening, Kurt?'

He was smoking and his hands had still not stopped trembling
completely following the events at the chapel. 'It all went pear325


shaped this morning. Before he flew out, Stan Summers organised
a security clamp-down on the locals in order to get their guns
back. They killed the priest and raped Tafur's daughter in front
of everyone.'

Savage opened her mouth in a barely audible, 'Christ.'
Quickly he described what had happened, omitting some of the
messier details. He had only just finished when Mario and Goldie
were shown in.

The moment Fanny Lacera left them alone, Mario pointed an
accusing finger at Mallory. 'You did nothing! You watched that
child get raped and you did nothing.'

Savage intervened. 'There was nothing Kurt could do, Mario.

Be reasonable. Tallboys tried it, and look where it got him.'

'Maybe if he'd had some support...'

'Forget it,' Goldie said. 'It would have been suicidal.'

'But the state of that gtrl,' Mario said in impotent fury, tears
welling in his eyes.

'You've seen her?' Forster asked.

'We arrived back at the ranch just after they did. They were

both like zombies, Juanita and her old man. All the spirit has left

them both.'

'Where are they now?' Savage asked.

'Staying with friends,' Goldie replied, 'on one of the outlying

farms. The whole family's in hiding in case the Vipers come back
for them. They've asked us to organise a lorry to load all their fur
nlture so they can move to Bogota.'

'That's not our concern,' Forster said. 'You're getting involved

again. In fact, none of this would have happened, Mario, if you
hadn't suggested they snatch the arms shipment.'

Mario glared and jabbed his forefinger upward in a gesture of
defiance. 'Up yours, gringo! Something had to be done for those
people!'

'But it wasn't your place to do it.'

Mallory intervened. 'It would have happened sooner or later.

That or something similar. Father Le6n was determined to make
some sort of stand. What we need to do now is make sure none
of the Viper gang escapes the net. And the sooner the better.'


326

'Four more days,' Forster said. 'That's what was agreed, and
even that is pushing it for hitting Venezuela and Bolivia at the
same time.'

'Then you'll miss Harry Morgan. The day after tomorrow he's
flying to Medellin for a meeting with Felix Bastidas.'

The American shook his head. 'We won't miss him, Kurt, I
promise you that. Georgie and I will take care of it. Do you know
where he's having his meeting with Bastidas?'

'The Casa Verde, some posh restaurant for the filthy rich on

Yariante Las Palmas. Bastidas likes his long lunches.'

'Then it'll be the longest lunch he ever has.'

'But you'll be back for the big day?' Mallory asked.

Forster winked. 'I wouldn't miss it for the world.'

'When do we strike?' Mario asked, not bothering to hide his
enthusiasm.

'At the witching hour plus one,' Mallory replied. 'One in the
morning. I'll get rid of the guard on the north perimeter fence. I'll
use a green flashlight. Three for go. Five for-abort. Likewise for
you. Bring the bolt cutters.'

Goldie grinned. 'I'll bring more than bolt cutters, my friend.'


Later, the hooker from Bogotfi left El Tigre and returned to her
hotel, slipping past the unmanned reception desk to the room
occupied by the female UN official.

Mallory left a few minutes after to return to the mining camp.
On the stairs he passed Lucila and Thripp on the way up. He
gave a nod of acknowledgement but did not stop to speak.

Lucila hesitated on the staircase and watched him go. 'And I

think he is different from all the rest.'

'What?'

'Sefior Kurt. I think he is a kind man, that I am special to him.'
The wounded pride showed in her voice.

Thripp was dismissive. 'Him? He's just a tramp.'

'I don't think so. He has seen so much of the world, knows so
much. '

'Yeah?' It didn't sound like a description of Kurt Hulse he'd
recognise. No one at the camp had completely taken to him.


327

Except Start Summers, of course, who valued his linguistic exper=
tise. And Doug Tallboys, who was now buried in a shallow grave
up in the cuch///as.

'But he lied to me. He has this friend, this whore who he pays
to come all the way from Bogota.'

That definitely didn't sound like Kurt Hulse. "When?'
'Tonight.'

"Where is she staying?'

'I don't know.'

'What was her name?'

Lucila shrugged. 'Maybe Dofia Lacera knows.' She tightened
her grip around his waist. 'C'mon, I will show you just how spe=
cial I can be to a man who gives me extra dollar!'

On the way up they brushed by a tall, fair-haired American
coming down. Guy Thripp knew who he was. A researcher from
the United Nations assessing an aid programme for the area.
Thripp made a point of knowing who everyone was in the little
settlement; in fact he had quite an effective network of informers,
of whom Lucila was only one. Someone would know the name of
the mystery whore from Bogota.


The next morning after an early breakfast the two UN researchers
left town by road for Santa Maria. Once back at the
rooms they had kept on at El Imperial hotel, Forster put through
a call to the private pilot he kept on retainer at Bucaramanga.
Within twenty minutes the man was airborne and on his way.

Forster drove Savage to the strip. 'Will you come back before
it happens?'
She nodded. 'If all goes well. I don't want to miss the big day.'
'Good luck.' He smiled awkwardly, never sure how prickly this
Brit girl would be. 'Or should I say break a leg.'

There was a hint of a grin on her face. 'That's better. You're
learning.'

She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Then,
picking up her small grip, she walked out to the taxiing aircraft.

It was three o'clock when she landed in Cali. She took a taxi to
the Hotel Men,hales and went straight to her room, telling the


328

receptionist she had a migraine and didn't wish to be disturbed.
Hanging the sign on the door to her room, she made one phone
call before changing into jeans and a blouse and applying more
make-up. The long black-haired wig and spectacles with plain
glass lenses completed the transformation. Slipping out of her
room, she left the hotel by the back way.

After walking several blocks and making three textbook checks
to ensure she was not being followed, she found a taxi rank and
told the first driver to take her to the park that ran beside the Rio
Cali.

Although Jaramillo's lawyer had earlier told her that their
offices were electronically swept each morning, Savage was taking
no risks.

The rendezvous was at a park bench by the river, Mafia
Palechor as elegant as ever in a charcoal business suit, her dark
hair long and wavy.

'Let's walk,' Savage said.

'Sure.' And after a few moments: 'So what is happening?'
'We're going in to finish the business.'
'Yes?'

'In three days. On the fifth.'

'That's splendid. My client will be delighted.'

'Then the final payment will fall due.'

'Everything is ready. To the bank in the Caribbean, the new
arrangement.'

Savage confirmed. 'Then this will be the last time we meet.'

Palechor had an instinct for these things. 'There is something
else?'

'There's a loose end and We need your help.'

'If we can.'

'The head man, Harry Morgan, will not be there. But we know
where he will be and who he'll be with. I need an explosive device

with a timer. Not big, no more than a pound of plastic explosive.'
'I see. When?'

'By tomorrow morning.'

There was a low whistle as Maria Palechor sucked in her
breath through her perfect white teeth. 'That is tight.'


329

'And I need one of your enforcers, someone reliable and experienced
to place it.'

'It could be arranged, I think.'

'it's important.'

'My client will want to know the other target, the man who is
meeting with Harry Morgan.'

Savage hesitated. 'For obvious reasons I'd prefer to keep it
between me and the placer. Clearly, the more people who
know o o o'

'I can tell you my client will not agree unless he knows. He
could be the target himself. Stranger things have happened in
Colombia.'

Savage drew a deep breath. 'Felix Bastidas.'

Maria Palechor stopped walking and looked at Savage. Hal
she heard correctly? Felix Bastidas, the elusive young pretender
to their resurgent rivals in Medellin. 'Where is the meeting to
take place? My client will want to know that too.'

'The Casa Verde restaurant in Medellin. A private room is
booked for lunch. Your placer will need cover and experience to
talk his way in before they arrive.' Savage had never had to set up
a cold-blooded execution like this before; she thought it was as
awful as having to kill someone herself. Suddenly, irrationally,
she was overcome with impatience. 'Well?'

The sleek lawyer smiled and tossed her hair as she looked out
across the sunlit river. 'I think I can say that Ruiz Jaramillo would
guarantee you heaven and earth for such a prize.'


'Are you sure?' Thripp demanded irritably. He'd been in a foul
mood since he'd received the radio message relayed from
Medellin. Felix Bastidas and Harry Morgan dead, blown to
smithereens in a restaurant bomb blast. The news had shocked
him to the core.

'I'm positive,' Mick Pye replied evenly. 'It's as though the

woman didn't exist.'

'Tell me.'

'I took one of the Colombians with me to visit Fanny Lacera.
She said Kurt only ever referred to the woman by name once.


330

Thought it was Martha. He said she was a special friend he'd met
in Bogot/,. Fanny got the impression this woman was a whore
who Kurt had got kind of friendly with. Now he had a few pesos
in his pocket he wanted to pay for her to come down to
Adoraci6n and stay over. He rented a room off Fanny.'

Thripp scratched at his chin. 'That strikes me as an odd thing
to do. None of our other lads has done anything like that.'

Pye shrugged. 'No, but then unlike Kurt, they don't know anyone
down here. Some of the Colombian gang have paid for wives
and girlfriends to come and stay at the hotel in Adoraci6n to stop
relationships breaking up.'

'Where did this Martha woman stay?'

'Everyone assumed the hotel, but I checked. No one of that
name or anyone resembling her description. In fact the only
woman staying there was someone from the UN.' Pye warmed to
his subject. 'Something else strange. We spoke to the guy who
runs the cafe at the bus terminal. He didn't remember anyone
coming or going who could have been her.'

Thripp didn't know whether to be suspicious or not, suddenly
aware that the tentacles of paranoia were tightening their grip and
he was unable to stop them. 'Maybe she came by taxi and no one
saw her.'

'In that one-horse town, boss? You've got to be kidding. A taxi
arriving is a major social event. Someone would have known.'

Thripp considered carefully. Only three people knew that
Harry Morgan had a scheduled meeting with Felix Bastidas.
Himself and Stan Summers and Kurt Hulse who had been in the
room at the time, helping Summers with some Customs documentation
written in Spanish.

Of course the leak could have emanated from the Colombian
side. Whoever had been responsible for the explosion - the DEA
or the Colombian anti-drugs police or a rival cartel - could have
an informer on the inside of the Bastidas operation. Someone
who knew the time and place in advance.

And yet - he thought again about the scruffy Englishman he
knew as Kurt Hulse.

'Things only started going wrong when Kurt turned up,' Pye


331

said, as though reading his boss's mind. 'Killing Pedro Gom6z
was just the beginning. Then Billy Susan. Kurt was one of the
few who knew the details of the arms shipment and he knew

that film sound recordist who was at the ambush. Now this.'
'Coincidence?' Thripp murmured.

'Let's find out. Talk to him. Wait till he's asleep tonight, then

grab him from his bed when he can't get to his gun or those fucking
knives of his. Put the frighteners on him. I'll soon find out if

this has been coincidence or not, I promise you, boss.'

'You don't like him, do you?'

'No.' The dull eyes were unblinking. 'Never have.'

'Get some of the lads together. Discreet like. Meet here in half

an hour.


Mallory knew he dared not sleep. Wouldn't have been able to
anyway, even if he tried.

He withdrew his hand from the moth-eaten sleeping bag and
held the luminous dial of the cheap watch to his eyes.

Midnight. Just one hour to go. One hour before he was due to
slip out into the night and make his way to the northern perimeter
fence. Two Colombian sentries to dispose of before he
signalled to Mario and Goldie who would be out there in the
darkness.

His heart began to palpitate at the prospect, the fear starting to
pump the adrenalin too soon, draining his mind as well as the
strength from his body. A sort of blind, paralysing panic beginning
to smother him. And the fear making him sweat. He could
feel it gathering in the small of his back and between his thighs.

Just how many nights had he spent like this? Almost every one
since he'd arrived at the camp, but never quite as bad as this.
Lying in his cot, listening to the uneven snores of the Colombians
and the endless chorus of cicadas beyond the open window.
Restless, sticky and frightened. Never knowing when he'd gt it
wrong. Make just one small mistake and alert the enemy's suspicions.
Seeing shapes in the shadows. Bent figures creeping
towards him, knives or machetes hidden beneath their black
cloaks. Drifting faces of men he'd known and destroyed.


332

Destroyed in the name of the Father. The dark angel of revenge.
How long, he wondered, before the tables were turned on him
and it would be he who heard the approaching flap of wings?

He moved his head suddenly and saw it at the window.
Perched with huge talons on the sill, its eyes glinting, head
cocked and its beak hooked, the hunched shoulders outlined in
black against the ultramarine sky and the moon. Nighthawk or
vulture? Did it matter? He knew it was coming for him.

He awoke with a jolt. There was nothing at the window. No
bird, no moon. Exhausted, he had drifted into the nvilight world
on the edge of sleep. Again he held his watch up to his eyes. Five
to one. Time enough. He couldn't bear the thought of lying there
for a second longer.

Sliding his legs from the sleeping bag he sat on the edge of the
cot to pull on his shirt and jacket, then dragged his leather boots
over his bare feet. He went silendy to the window, peered out,
then slid over the sill and dropped to the alleyway that ran
between the huts. For a moment he crouched watching and listening
intently for any sign of movement before creeping through
the shadows to the vehicle park. From there he could see that
everywhere was in darkness, nothing stirring.

He frowned. Faint light showed through the rattan blind of
Guy Thripp's hut. Someone else suffering from insomnia? No
doubt the man had been shaken by the news that Bastidas and
Harry Morgan were dead. Perhaps he sensed the end was near?
gas he aware of the darkness closing in on him?

Mallory turned his head away and dipped into the deep and
shadowy lee of another outhouse, keeping himself hidden by the
row of Rocstas and pick-ups. "�ghen he reached the last vehicle he
peered around its tailgate.

The watchtower was thirty metres away, standing beside the
chain-link fence with its spiralled crown of razor wire. It wasn't
very high, the observation platform built on twenty-foot lengths of
eucalyptus and reached by a crude timber ladder. He could just
distinguish the vague outline of the guard hunched over the rail.

A flicker of light caught Mallory's attention at ground level.
The second guard was brewing a small pan of coffee on a camp333


ing stove beneath the platform, his cigarette showing as a pinprick
glow of red.

There was no time to lose. Mallory moved like a wraith, low
and slow, rolling each foot silently as he closed in - the art of the
stalking huntsman he had learned as a boy in Paraguay and never
forgotten.

His right hand located the loop of baling twine in his jacket
pocket; he transferred the other end of it to his left hand as he
glided forward. A quick flick of one wrist and then the other, coiling
it tight in readiness to take the immense strain of a man fighting
for his life.

Just a few more feet. The shoulders hunched in lont of him,
the light of the stove flame glistening on the rough mop of hair.
Hissing gas now audible, the smell of tobacco smoke and bod3
odour. Mallory towered behind the crouched figure. His arms
slowly raised above his head. The baling twine pulled taut.
Poised. For one split second he closed his eyes. Now! Do it!

His arms dropped over the guard's head, his wrists thudding
on the man's shoulders before pulling sharply back, snapping the
twine tight into the soft flesh of the exposed larynx. Mallory's
knee pressed into the offered back, pushing it forward at the same
time as he drew the garrotte back with so much force that the
muscles in his arms began to tremble. His fists crossed over each
other, his forearms locked together.

Only a soft, bubbling gurgle escaped the guard's lips before the
baling twine cut off his ability to speak and denied oxygen to his
brain. Big hands and dirty nails scrabbled desperately at the evertightening
necklace of death. His feet tried to shuffle but the pain
was too great and the effort was half-hearted. The will to resist
was ebbing, fingers falling away from his throat. Mallory heard
the tell-tale rattle and felt the body go slack. The head lolled.

He stepped back, gently laying out the corpse on the ground.
Still the stove hissed on unheeded.

'Gerardo!' A voice called from above. 'What's going on down
there?'

Mallory's heart stopped. He took a deep breath. 'It's me, Kurt,
I couldn't sleep. Gerardo's made the coffee. Shall I bring yours


334

up.' Positive suggestion.

'Sure, my friend, my mouth tastes like a parrot's cage.' A
hoarse laugh. 'Too many cigarillos.'

Mallory took the pan from the stove and poured the contents
into a mug; then he began the climb.


At that moment Guy Thripp burst into the Colombians' bunkhouse.
Derek Rutter and Mick Pye yelled as the Swinyard brothers
ran down the aisle between the cots, waving their flashlights
and waking everyone.

'Kurt's gone[' Jerry shouted. 'His bed's empty!'

'He no sleep so good,' one Colombian said and pointed to the
window. 'No sleep, go walk sometime.'

'Okay,' Thripp said. 'Let's find him.'


Mallory climbed to the observation platform and handed over the
mug. He knew the guard, a man called Gustavo. Pleasant
enough; simple and friendly until he drank t6b much. He sipped
at the coffee and stared out into the inky void. 'So, Kurt, what do
you think about the death of Harry Morgan and Felix Bastidas?

A bad omen, eh? Is it going to be a problem?'

Not for you, old son.

Mallory slipped one of his Chinese knives from its scabbard.
He edged up behind Gustavo, murmuring in an absent sort of
way: 'There'll be problems, I'm sure, but we'll get over them.
Life is full of problems.'

The man laughed. 'Some more serious than others,' he said
with feeling.

'Too true.'

Mallory's left arm swung over Gustavo's shoulder and around
his face, his forearm ierking back, smashing into the Colombian's
mouth and cutting off his cry of alarm. Mallory's fingers scrabbled
to find the man's right ear, gripped its flabby edge and
pulled it forward. At the same time he lifted the knife in his right
fist and held the point just below and behind the ear. Then he
iabbed, hard, feeling the flesh yield under the pressure, splitting
like thin silk. The blade began to disappear. One inch. Two.


335

Then three.

Gustavo was dead, the brain disconnected from the rest of his
body. Mallory took the weight, lowering it to the platform floor.
He tried to extract the knife, the blade resisting. Finally he jerked
it free, wiping it on the dead man's shirt.

Then he heard the commotion. Running men and shouts from
the direction of the bunkhouse. Torches flashing, beams cutting
across the vehicle park, playing along the perimeter fence. He
heard someone shouting his name. The voices were English, not
Colombian.

'He's not in the latrines!' someone yelled. It sounded like Mick
Pye.

'Then where the hell is he?'

'SOMEONE TURN THE FUCKING FLOODLIGHTS
ON!'

That had been Guy Thripp, Mallory was sure of it. His heart
began to race, but there was nothing he could do. He was stuck
at the top of the observation platform with a corpse at his feet and
a knife in his hand. And not even a parapet to hide behind, just a
thin timber rail.

Suddenly the lights came on, blinding after the darkness.
Shielding his eyes, Mallory looked down and saw them. Thripp
and Pye and Rutter. The Swinyards were there too; all of the
leading clique.

All he had now, he decided, was bluff. 'GUY! UP HERE!
SOMETHING'S GOING ON, THE GUARDS HAVE BEEN
KILLED!'

Malevolent eyes followed the sound of his voice, the men turning
round, and he could see that they were all armed.

Pye glanced uncertainly at Thripp, but the boss's suspicions
remained firm. 'Come down from there, Kurt! Real slow! And
throw down any weapons - including those bloody knives of
yours!'

Mallory considered his options for a moment. He could use his
own automatic or even pick up Gustavo's Ingram and try and
take them all out in one sweeping burst. But his chances of success
were small. They were professionally trained soldiers and


336

any survivors would retaliate instantly with only one inevitable
consequence. He was a sitting duck. Better, he decided, to continue
his bluff and sweat it out. There was no actual proof he was
the killer.

Reluctantly he threw down his automatic, Gustavo's Ingrain
and his two knives before climbing onto the ladder.

Pye met him at the bottom, waving a handgun. 'Hands on
head and turn round,' he barked.

Mallory obeyed, protesting as the man began to frisk him.
'Hell, Mick, I'm on your side! What's going on? I've just found

the two guards - Gustavo was a mate of mine.'

'Stow it!' Pye hissed.

Guy Thripp said: 'Take him to my office.'

'Give me five minutes with him,' Pye offered, 'and I'll get the
truth out of him.'


'Goldie' Goldstein had been looking through the Spylux nightsight
and had been temporarily blinded when.the vehicle park
floodlights came on.

Mario scrambled alongside him. 'What's happening?'
'They've found Kurt, In the act, so to speak.'
'God! What do we do now?'

Goldie raised a hand. 'Wait a minute. They're taking him off.
Interrogation, I should think. They've replaced the guard, put a

man on the tower.'
'Just one?'
'Looks like it.'

'We can handle that.'

Goldie looked uncertain. 'I'd better tell Dale and Georgie.' He
reached for the radio set and called them up. Their UN Cherokee
was parked off the track a mile from the compound.

Savage answered and listened anxiously to the news before
passing it on to Forster. 'Goldie, listen, Dale wants to call it off.
He says without Kurt's inside help you'll need more support. In
a day or two he can get hold of some good freelancers.'

Goldie didn't like what he heard. 'Kurt's a prisoner, Georgie,
they virtually caught him in the act of eliminating the guards. He


337

hasn't got a couple of days. He'll be lucky to have a couple of

hours if they put the heat on him.'
'Could you handle it, though?'
'Sure, with a bit of hick.'

'There's no point in putting both of you at risk too.'

'But Kurt--'

She was brusque. 'Kurt knows the score. I'd like to do something
but it would be suicidal. And Dale is adamant and it's his show.'

Goldie looked across at Mario and shook his head. The
Martinican's eyes narrowed. He reached across and grabbed the
microphone. 'Forget it, lady, we are going in.'

'Mario? Listen, God believe me, there's nothing I'd like more.
But your lives are important too. I can't ask you to put youelf
in unnecesaary danger, to lose three operatives for the sake of
one.'

'You're not asking, seflora, it is our decision. Kurt is our friend.
This is organisadon business now. We go ahead as planned.' He
switched off and glared defiantly at Goldle. 'Well, do I speak for
both of us?'

Goldie smiled. 'We'll use the rifle, I think.'

It took five minutes to assemble the special Interarms Mini
Mark X Mauser with its skeleton butt and outfitted with an 18.5
inch stainless-steel barrel with a one-in-eight-inch twist. The
nightscope was a Davin IRS 218. But what made the difference
was the specialised .300 Whisper rounds from SSK Industries.
Most unusually this was a low-velocity sniper round. A state-ofthe-art
development which could be fired effectively with a suppressor
attached to a range of around two hundred metres.
Basically a .221 Remington Fireball case containing 240 grains of
Winchester 296 powder and necked up to .30 calibre. Capable of
delivering death with pinpoint accuracy in total silence.

By the time Goldie had set up the bipod and settled down
prone in a comfortable cleft between the rocks, the camp floodlights
had been extinguished and the lone guard had begun his


Now was the big test. The Mauser had been zeroed and the


338

rounds perfected at a Portcullis Industries' range in England
before being flown out to Bogota by executive jet, It had been
hermetically sealed with sachets of silica gel, then carefully crated
and carded in the pressurised passenger compartment. But since
then it had endured the rigours of cross-country travel in their
Fourtrak as well as a range of temperatures, both hot and damp
weather. All these factors could conspire to alter the fine-tuning
of the scope. Perhaps by only fractions of a millimetre, but over
a hundred and fifty metres it could make all the difference
between hitting the target or missing it altogether. And there was
no way of knowing because there had been no opportunity to test
it.

For that reason, Goldie decided to go for a head shot first.
That was safest, ensuring instant death and no warning cry. If
that failed, then the totally silent operation would allow him a
second chance. He cranked the bolt, lined up his eye, relaxed his
shoulders. The scope's multidot reticle for one-fifty metres
appeared over the dark form of the hunched Colombian guard,
set against the fuzzy green background of the image-intensifier
nightsight. Goldie edged the dot up, over the chest, the neck.
Head now in the sight. Target not moving, leaning against the
tower rail.

His forefinger eased round the trigger, feeling the weight of the
one-and-a-half-pound pull. Taking up the pressure. A deep, slow
breath and another. Nice easy rhythm. Sweat gathering on his
back. A smile spreading on his lips. Comfortable, heart rate
steady. A gentle squeeze. Simultaneously he heard the firing pin
strike, the lugs locking up and then the impatient hiss of escaping
gas. Then nothing. It was eerie to hear just the velvet rush of displaced
air as the Whisper round went on its way.

Goldie tensed, eyes transfixed. The target didn't move. Not
true. The sentry didn't alter position, but gave a short flick of his
head as if he'd heard something. An insect? Or the silent flight of
the round sent to kill him.

'Missed,' Goldie said, ejecting the spent case and thumbing in
another round.
He settled down again, ignoring the increase in tension and the


339

butterfly flutter of lis heart. Body shot this time. And hope that
the error of misalignment was minimal. Centre of the body.
Navel. Up slightly. Hover. Feeling good. Squeeze real slow.

The crack of the pin and the lugs locking, the sigh of gas and

the soft whistle as the bullet headed down range.

There was no mistake this time. If he'd been concerned that a
body shot might allow the wounded sentry to raise the alarm, he
needn't have been. Being a long, heavy round it didn't expand
when it struck the man's chest, it tumbled. Goldie winced. The
action tipped open an enormous cavity in the sentry's torso, creating
massive tissue damage that was clearly visible through the
nightsight.

'Okay, mi amigo, time to go.'

Mario collected the bolt cutters and melted into the night.
Goldie continued watching the distant scene while his friend
clambered down the canyon spur until he found himself at the
wire fence beside the watchtower. Pressing the nose of the bolt
cutters into the fence he began snipping furiously at individual
strands. When the aperture was cut, he left it in place, then signalled
Goldie to join him.


'So, you bastard, who was that woman you met?' iick Pye
demanded.

Mallory's shirt had been stripped from his back and he'd been
bound to the straight-backed chair by rope. The Swinyards were
going through his pockets, examining his few possessions.
'Martha, you mean?'

'A whore?' Pye demanded.

Mallory tried to hide the fear he felt, clenching the muscles in

his rectum and in his groin. If he was going to die he didn't want
the ignominy of letting them see just how afraid he was. 'She was
a bit more than that.'

'Where d'you meet her?'

'Bogota.'

'Where in Bogoti?'
'Some bar.'
'Which bar?'


340

'A place on Calle 13.'

'The same place you met the guy who told you about us?'
'Yes.'

Pye's face was an inch from his, his breath smelling of the sugared
almonds he habitually sucked. 'You're a fuckin' liar, Kurt
Hulse. If that's your name, which I doubt. Workin' for the Cali
cartel are you? Get in here, infiltrate, get rid of Felix Bastidas?
What about Harry? Did Morgan just get in the way, so your
people just blew him apart like so much dog meat?'

'For Christ's sake I don't have any people!' Mallory pleaded to
be believed, 'I know nothing about all this. How could I?'

Tom Swinyard pulled something from Mallory's jacket pocket.
A length of baling twine. He let it hang free. 'Proper little Boy
Scout, aren't we?'

His twin brother Jerry peered closely at it. 'Blood and skin tissue.
That's one of the murder weapons, boss, the guy he garrotted
first.'

'That's nonsense,' Mallory protested.

Guy Thripp gave a brittle smile. 'Unfortunately we don't
exactly have facilities for DNA testing here.'

'We ought to reinforce the guard,' Derek Rutter suggested.
'Perhaps he killed them in preparation for an attack. By Cali, the
drugs police, the DEA--'

Mallory tried a different tack. He didn't want anyone finding
Mario and Goldie out there. 'Look, okay, I admit it. I killed those
two bastards, but it was just personal. They screwed me at
canasta a couple of nights back. Cleared me out, cheating scum,
they had it coming.'

'I don't believe you,' Pye said. He moved his lighted cigarette
towards Mallory's left nipple. Mallory flinched as the hairs of his
chest shrivelled under the intense heat. 'So get talking.'

Over Pye's shoulder Mallory noticed that the hut door was
inching open. Then Mario's head appeared, close to floor level,
followed by the stubby little barrel of a Micro-Uzi. Pye must have
noticed something in Mallory's eyes, seen the momentary distraction.
He turned round. 'Shit!'

Mallory lifted his legs, bending them at the knees and thrust


341

out with his feet, hard. He caught Pye a crippling blow in the testicles
that bent him double and sent him crashing sideways into
Rutter who was trying to tug his revolver from his waistband.

A window shattered at the rear. Heads turned back the other
way. Goldie slipped over the sill and into the room with practised
dexterity. He was an incongruous sight, thin and studious-looking
with his spectacles and long, wild hair but moving with the
speed and precision of the professional assassin. 'All guns down,'
he ordered. 'NOW!'

He edged crabwise until he was beside Mallory. His weapon
still covering, he flicked open a switchblade with his left hand and
sliced through the rope bonds with one effortless stroke.

Mallory was on his feet. He picked up the nearest Ingram,
checked it over swiftly and joined Mario and Goldie as they lined
the men up on the floor, legs spread and hands out.

'What are you, Hulse?' Thripp demanded angrily. 'Workin' for
Cali? The DEA?'

Mallory didn't answer immediately, first frisking him for any
hidden weapons. Satisfied, he leaned over so that his face was
only inches from Thripp's. The, Guy? Me and my friends work
for all those you've killed directly or indirectly. All those whose
lives you've ruined or made a living nightmare. We are their
vengeance.'

'What?' Thripp was scared, didn't understand. The panic

raised his voice several octaves. 'Who are you, for fuck's sake?'
'I am the angel of death.'
Mario laughed.

When the gang members had been bound hand and foot with
heavy-duty, self-locking freezer des, Goldie remained guarding
them while Mallory and Mario set off to deal with the
Colombians on duty at the compound gate. The men were in no
way alarmed at the sight of the two figures sauntering towards
them from the darkened camp. It was not unusual for a friend to
visit during the night hours, someone with insomnia who fancied
some company, a smoke and a chat, and who was sometimes
thoughtful enough to bring a hot drink or a bottle of something


342

agreeably stronger.

It was like taking candy from a baby, Mario said.later. As they
approached the little sand-bagged sangar with its corrugated-fin
roof and back panel for protection against wind and rain, the two
compact sub-machine guns appeared as if from nowhere.
Without a command being given Mallory and Mario opened up,
the double hail of fire converging inside the sangar. The soft stuttering
burp of the silenced rounds was incongruously gentle compared
with the chaos and destruction the guns created in a mere
six seconds. One man of the five was still alive when they
checked; Mario slit his throat.

They unlocked the gates and swung them open and Mallory
signalled with his torch. It took five minutes for the Cherokee,
now stripped of its UN livery, to arrive from its hiding place.

Savage looked anxious. 'Are you all right, Kurt? I was so worried.'

'I'm fine.' He glanced at Mario. 'I am blessed with some good
friends.' .

Dale Forster swung out of the driver's seat. 'Any problems?'

Mallory shook his head. 'Goldie's got the ringleaders secured.
The others are hopefully all asleep in the bunkhouses.'

Suddenly Savage noticed the corpses strewn in attitudes of
grotesque abandon around the sangar. She winced and looked
away. Never before had she seen bodies so severely shot up, had
somehow never imagined it might be like this. But then, she
realised now, she had never allowed her mind to dwell on the
final purpose of the exercise. 'To infiltrate and ultimately destroy
the gang' had seemed so neat and tidy on paper. So simple. In
her mind's eye she'd visualised the buildings being burned,
together with the cocaine stores and the labs. Only later, much
later, had she realised that the deniable nature of the operation
meant that no wimesses could be left alive. She had never been
so close to a 'black op' before, and never wanted to be again.
Thankfully such tasks rarely featured in the peacetime r61e of
SIS.

Forster had no such qualms. By the way he eagerly took his
own Micro-Uzi from the vehicle and from the glow of anticipa


343

tion on his face, it was clear he was looking forward to taking
part. He'd been brought up on it, almost with his mother's milk.
Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, then El Salvador and Nicaragua.
He was itching to get back into the fray.

After securing the gates so no one could escape, they returned
to Thripp's hut. Savage's unexpected appearance might have
drawn wolf whistles from the prisoners under other circumstances,
but no when she had a gun pointing at them.

'Hurry up, Kurt,' she said tersely.

He grinned at her. 'Shoot if you need to.'

'I will.' But he saw that her hand was shaking slightly.

Mario and Goldie took the Colombians' bunkhouse3 Mallory
and Forster went to the Englishmen's quarters. At the synchronised
time of two thirty both teams struck. Two men per
bunkhouse, one turning left and the other fight. A long burst up
one line of cots and another down the facing row, tearing through
sleeping bags and blankets into the bodies beneath. Then a quick
flip of the mags that had been taped together, end to end, and an
almost leisurely stroll down the centre aisle, putting an end to the
misery of any survivors.

Forster had some trouble, had completely missed a couple of
targets in his first burst but they posed no real threat. They were
still half asleep and disorientated, scrambling naked from their
beds, trying to find their weapons. But it had made the American
sweat for a moment.

At the other end of the bunkhouse, Mallory deliberately passed
over the cot where Pete Stafford slept. Now the ex-Para sat up on

his mattress, hands above his head and face drained of colour.
'Kurt, what the hell's going on?'

Forster came to his side. 'Good question, Kurt, what the shit
you playing at?'

Mallory said: 'Pete's okay. He wanted out.'

The American was on a high, his eyes wide and alert, riding the
adrenalin wave. 'Fine, he can have out.' And his finger curled
around the trigger for a three-round burst. Stafford's chest and
abdomen exploded under the impact, throwing him against the
back of the cot.


344

'Christ!' Mallory said, turning on Forster.

'Don't be a patsy, Kurt. This is no time for bleeding hearts. No
witnesses. You know the rules. This is the end game.'

Mallory met the American's steely gaze, then reluctantly
turned away. He couldn't bring the boy back, and Forster was
right. One witness could result in a rap for mass murder and
could even result in a revenge attack on British or American
installations by the hard men of Medellin.

A mirror operation by Mario and Goldie at the Colombians'
bunkhouse met with similar success. Later there was a brief fire
fight at the laboratory where half a dozen Colombians had
become alerted by the commotion, but they were easily outgunned
and quickly silenced.

Their corpses were taken to the bunkhouses along with those
of the gate sentries. Then it was a question of dousing all the
buildings with anything inflammable they could find. There was
no shortage of petrol, paraffin and meths. The laboratory, the
coke store, the bunkhouses, cookhouse and admin huts all went
up in quick succession.

Mario and Goldie ran back between the flaming buildings to
the gate where the others waited. A Toyota pick-up had been
loaded with Guy Thripp and the others, Mallory waiting with

Savage and Forster by the Cherokee.

'All done,' Mario pronounced.

Savage looked around at the raging pyres, the reflected flames
dancing in her eyes, giving a sheen to the perspiration on her face.
'God, I somehow never thought it would end like this. It's awful.'

'There'll be no evidence left,' Mallory said matter-offactly.
'Just charred and unidentifiable corpses.'

She looked at him, an edge to her voice. 'Don't you feel anything,
Kurt? Anything at all?'

He grinned. 'Sure. Pleased that it's nearly over.'

It took more than an hour to drive to their final destination.
There was no discernible track as such, but the route was passable
enough. They wound back and forth up the canyon slope
and beyond to another valley and another peak. Savage had no
idea where she was. Completely disorientated, all she knew was


345

that they were journeying deeper and deeper into the wilderness.
To the place that Mallory and Mario and Goldie had decided on.

'They won't want to talk,' Savage said as they bumped over
rough ground.

Mallory didn't look at her directly. 'No. We'll fatigue them
first.'

'Fatigue? That's an odd word to use.'

'Weary them, exhaust them. Then they'll talk.'
'Yes? I hope you're right, we don't have much time.'
'Don't worry, George, we'll take care of it.'

When they finally reached their destination and killed the lights
it was pitch black. The sort of dense darkness you could feel,
almost touch. Savage sensed it pressing in on her. All she knew
was that they were on high ground, the air chill and thin. She
looked up but saw no moon and no stars. Standing on ground she
could not even see was uncanny. Like being in outer space, she
thought, and she longed for the cloud to lift. Marooned in nothing.
Just an awesome sensation of isolation, of being far beyond
the reaches of any kind of civilisation.

'We'll wait until morning,' Mallory decided. 'Then we can see
what we're doing. There are some nasty drops around here.'

Forster agreed. 'And our friends will be secure enough in the
back of the truck.'

'I'll take first shift,' Mario offered.

Savage shivered. 'They'll probably die of hypothermia.'

Dale Forster grinned. 'They should worry about that at a time
like this. You just get some shuteye.'


She heard the hammering.

It was very distant. Workmen probably, because their house in
Battersea was very rickety. Not like it had been when she'd left it.
Now the ceiling had caved in, the walls leaned and the floor
sloped. No wonder the workmen were in. If they hadn't been, the
place would have collapsed.

She felt warm and cold at the same time. Her body warm and
cosy, her face chill. Cold outside air from the broken window, she
thought. A shiver ran through her. She cuddled up towards Giles,


346

reached for him. He wasn't there.

More hammering.

The picture in her dream melted instantly, fi:om snuggling
warmth to the chill reality in a split second. Visions of the dark
night, the shattered bodies in their macabre poses, the blazing
buildings of the camp. All came flooding back. Two bad dreams,
real and imagined. And the nightmare was reality.

She opened her eyes. The sky above her head was vast, a
muted and fathomless grey. A circling eagle provided the only
sense of perspective and distance. Suddenly she was overwhelmed
with a feeling of isolation, of panic. Sittingup with a jolt
she struggled to release herself from the sleeping bag and looked
around. There was no one there. Just the deserted Cherokee and
the empty pickup.

They had parked at a little viewpoint in the rocks. Any farther
and the vehicles would have plunged over into a deep river valley.
Rising beyond it was layer upon layer of barren mountain like
the one on which she stood. Layer upon layer of spectacular
three-dimensional cutouts, like brown and rusted knife blades,
stretching as far as the eye could see. The cuchillas. The ultimate
wilderness. Nothing and nobody. It was the end of the world, or
the world before time began. Primeval, prehistoric. And she had
never felt so alone.

Shivering against the mountain chill, she rummaged anxiously
for the polar fleece jacket in her grip, pulled it on and lit a cigarette.
The flame provided welcome warmth to her cupped hands.
She exhaled and walked towards the edge.

Across the vast abyss she could see streams of white foam,
carving deep clefts in the mountain opposite, becoming waterfalls

as they gushed into the boiling rush of the river far below.
Again she heard the sound of the hammer.

What on earth were they doing? No one had said anything
about them staying any length of time. So had the plan changed?
Were Mallory or Forster or the others building a shelter?

She moved back to the vehicles and looked towards the source
of the sound. It came from a thin copse of trees at the bottom of
a gentle spur.


347

Carefully she began edging her way down, her trainers disturbing
the shale, sending showers of it tumbling before her. The
noise of it disguised the sound of the voices. She paused, straining
to hear. Not just voices, singing voices. Unmatched and badly
out-of-tune. She could not discern the words, but thought she
recoguised the tune. Someone else was whistling.

She hurried on down, sensing suddenly that something was

amiss. The tune in her head, catchy, taunting her memory.
Irritating. Irritating and silly bow the name of a melody escaped
one.

Then the image came into her mind. An irreverent comedy
movie, a parody on Christ. The Monty Python team and their
alternative gospel, The Life of Brian. That song? What was the
name of it, that scene?

Mario's basso profundo voice was now distinct, Goldie's
higher-pitched, verging on the alto, amused. 'Always look on the
bri-ight si-ide of life.. I' The sounds oddly incongruous, the irony
somehow not at all funny in this strange setting.

She stumbled into the tree line and saw Mallory sitting on a
boulder, smoking and watching in silence. Forster stood behind
him, his face an impassive mask.

Her mouth dropped as her eyes travelled across the small clearing.
They were all there. Thripp, Pye, Rutter and Tom and Jerry
Swinyard. All naked, all stretched and crucified between the
saplings. Arms outflung, their palms nailed into the resinous timber.
The tops of corned beef cans used as washers to prevent the
steel tacks from tearing through the fragile flesh and finger bones
of their hands.

Mario and Goldie stood before them, clapping and tapping

their feet. 'Al-ways l-look on the bri-ight si-ide of life!'

'CHRIST!' Savage exploded. 'What the hell is this? You can't

do this!'

Mario stopped whistling and turned to face her. 'It's how we

do things in South America.'

'It's - it's barbaric!'

His eyes were hard. Hard like she'd never seen them before. 'A
culture difference, that's all. Revenge must be cold to rnake it


348

sweet, that's what we say in South America. Ask Kurt. And ask
Goldie; he's learned a few tricks from the Arabs when it comes to
asking questions and getting truthful answers.'

Forster looked uncomfortable. 'And we needed answers, baby,
didn't we? Well, man, you've got them. This business might be
unpleasant but I'm afraid it was necessary.'

Mallory climbed to his feet. 'Summers and his men are working
for the IRA.'

She stared at him in disbelief. 'What?'

'You heard. The Provisional IRA. No lawyer, no policeman,

no court in the world would ever have got that out of him.'
'Are you crazy?' she challenged.

'Guy's been in a very talkative mood this morning. The IRA
have used drugs money for years to finance their terror campaign.
So have the Proddies. But then your people must be aware of
that, George. First marijuana, then heroin, now coke. They got
into it through the lawyer in Madrid. Mignel Castafio and his
friends in ETA. International terrorist links, hands across the sea.
The IRA and ETA scratching each other's backs. You and I
know all about that, don't we?

'Meanwhile Summers had dabbled independently, buying
small amounts of dope and heroin in Cartagena on the north
coast. Castafio met him and put him in touch with the IRA
through ETA and prepared a business plan - for a percentage, of
course.'

Savage shook her head. 'I can hardly believe this. I mean the
cease-fire in Ulster, the peace talks--'

Mallory said evenly: 'Peace or war, you still need money for
political ambitions. That's if you intend to win.'

'How certain arc you about this IRA connection?'

'Thripp is certain. When Summers was introduced to Felix
Bastidas in Mcdcllin by Castafio, he rcaliscd he nccdcd some
muscle and asked Harry Morgan's security firm to put a team
together. That's when Thripp got involved. He and Morgan had
a meeting once with both Summers and Castafio. Castafio
brought his Irish friend along. He was just introduced as Kcvin.'

'And this Kevin was IRA?'


349

'Summers wasn't sure, but accepted at face value that he was
a Dublin businessman - Thripp says he still does. Castafio said

he'd met Kevin on one of his regular business trips to Eire.'
'That's how Castafio met the O'Mores?'

Mallory nodded. 'On the usual cocktail circuit. Dublin's a
small place.'

'But Thripp thought this Kevin was IRA?'

'He and Morgan had no doubt. Said they could smell it, sense
it. You know what it's like; they could tell by little things he said.
Things that passed over Summers's head, but the other two had
served as soldiers in the Province. They picked up on it.'

Savage frowned. 'It's hard to believe ex-soldiers would knowingly
get involved with the Provos.'

'Two very bitter men, George. Especially Thripp. He feels he
was shafted by his own after that business with us. He never forgave
them when he was kicked out of the army. He was angry and
resentful. What better way to get back at those who'd betrayed

him? Besides, he needed the money.'

She looked puzzled.

'His son's got Down's syndrome, remember?'

'Oh, yes, of course.' But her mind was racing. 'We need to
know who this Kevin character is - and the European end.'

'Castafio's the one you want for that. He holds all the cards.'
The sudden piercing scream was demented, a sound from hell.
Savage could no longer think straight. She was confused, her
head feeling like it was about to burst like an eggshell. This was
wrong, wrong, wrong. The cry and the chorus of singing voices
was still ringing in her ears, merging now with the low moans of
the dying men. She drew a deep breath, clearing her mind, and

straightened her back. 'Cut them down, Kurt. Do it this instant.'
'Feel sorry for them, do you? These traders in misery?'
'It doesn't matter. Cut them down.'

'Thripp's the one with the three-nines tattoo, the one who
killed Vic West and then Luz and the baby in Venezuela. He set
up the rape of Juanita. These are the same men who murdered
Father Le6n and Doug Tallboys along with God knows how
many others.'


350

'I don't care!!' she screamed.

'Well, you should do,' he said. 'We should all care. But people
don't. That's why Mario, Goldie and I - and others - that's why
we do what we do.'

She stared at him. 'You're actually enjoying this,' she accused.
'No. But I'm not wasting any tears over them either.'
'I don't understand you, Kurt, I really don't.'

'I know,' he replied simply. 'You never have and I don't really
expect you ever will.' He turned to Forster. 'Dale, would you take
George back to the vehicles.'

The American nodded, placing a restraining arm on her shoulder.
Angrily she shook it free. 'Don't fucking patronise me! What
are you going to do?'

Mallory's eyes were narrow like a cat's. 'Do what you want.
Put them out of their misery.'

Her eyes were ablaze. 'Then do it quickly,' she hissed.

He watched as Forster walked away with her, up the slope, and
disappeared from view. Then he joined Mario and Goldie
beneath the hanging men. He took the gun from his friend and
checked the magazine. There were four single shots fired. One
each in the head of the Swinyards, Pye and Rutter.

Guy Thripp watched through misty vision, vaguely aware that
his companions were being cut down one by one and carried to a
shallow grave. When it was covered, they prised the nails from
Thripp's palms and dropped him to the earth before tying his
hands behind his back.

Mario drew the machete from the scabbard on his belt. 'Now
I shall remove his right arm and his right leg,' he announced, 'and
we can leave him here for the wild cats and the vultures.'

'Put that away,' Mallory said. 'Juanita won't want your trophies.'

'Is
George making you go soft?' Goldie chided.

Mallory ignored him. 'Just get back to the vehicles, both of
you.'

Mario resheathed his machete and glowered at his friend
before following Goldie up the slope.

'Bravo,' said a feeble voice.


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Thripp was still lying on the ground, still unable to move but

obviously slightly recovered from his ordeal.

'What?'

The man's voice was weak but still had a defiant tone. 'Going
to do the decent thing? An honourable execution - Soldier to soldier.'

Mallory didn't answer. He pulled the gun from his waistband,
chambered a round and pointed the barrel at Thripp's forehead.

Decent? Honourable? The words struck a chord in Mallory's
subconscious. Brother Hermann had used those selfsame words.

There was no remorse in Thripp's eyes, just mockery and arrogance.

Mallory thought then of his friend Vic West, of Mario's woman
and their son, of Juanita and Victor, of the priest and Doug
Tallboys. Even the abused little puta called Lucila. Given his
time again, Mallory knew that Thripp wouldn't have changed a
thing.

'Mario was right. Execution is too good for you.'

He lowered the barrel to Thripp's right knee and fired twice.
The man's scream filled Mallory's head and echoed, wailing
between the high peaks.

Somewhere, out there, the animal was disturbed by what it
heard. It was the distant, answering roar of a jaguar.

Guy Thripp, on the edge of consciousness, stared down at the
bloody mess of his leg, watching his life blood pumping into the
dirt. Unaware that Mallory had already cut his bonds and was
walking away.

'Kurt! Kurt!' But his cry was weak and feeble, barely audible.
Mallory turned back and looked up at the circling hawk. 'Just
pray that carancho doesn't peck out your eyes before the jaguars
finish you off. May your soul wander these hills for ever. And

even that is better than you deserve.'

Then he turned and was gone.

Somewhere, maybe closer already, Thripp thought hazily, the
cat roared again.

15

Santa Maria was still in darkness early
the following morning when Mallory
boarded the superbus for Bogota.

He was nervous, sweating as he took his seat. Any one of the
well-wishers gathered to wish buen viaje to relatives and friends,
could in fact be on the lookout for him.

There was only so much he could do to disguise his appearance
and there were only two routes out of Santa Maria. It was all too
easy for anyone who was determined to find him. And he was certain
that news of the camp massacre had reached Medellin by
now and he had no doubt that the followers of the late Felix
Bastidas would be baying for blood.

It was with profound relief that he felt the pullman jolt forward
on the start of its long journey south.

After the execution of the gang members in the cuchillas the previous morning, the carefully plotted escape plan had gone into
action. Using a cross-country route which bypassed the razed
ruins of the Vipers' mining camp, all five members of the hit team
rode in the Cherokee to a point on the main Cruz de Oro to
Adoraci6n road.

It was there that Mario and Goldie had concealed their
Fourtrak, covered with hessian and freshly cut branches. They
would return to the Tafur ranch, apparently back from their filming
expedition, and announce that their job for the BBC was complete.
Although Deputy Gilberto would no doubt complain again
- that they had gone offwithout him, a fat cash bonus would
mollify him and ensure his silence; he certainly wasn't going to
brag to the comisario about his incompetence. The next morning,
all packed, they would set off in leisurely innocence for Bogota.


353

Meanwhile Savage and Forster replaced the UN livery transfers
to the Cherokee before driving on to Adoraci6n in the fastsettling
twilight.

A roadblock had not been entirely unexpected. The only question
was whether it would be manned by guerrilleros, Bastidas's
men from Medellin, the police or the army. As it turned out, it
was Comisario Oscar Pulgarin. He could be seen in the headlight
beams of the car ahead, strutting about in his polished boots and
waving one of his ivory-handled revolvers while one of his
deputies conducted a haphazard search.

Mallory was able to slip unobserved from the Cherokee's rear
door, skirt the roadblock in the dark and rejoin the vehicle on the
other side.

'No trouble,' Forster told him. 'Obviously we weren't on his '
list of suspects, but he's giving everyone else a hard time. I asked
him who or what he was searching for, but he wouldn't be drawn.
Just said he had his orders.'

Savage nodded. 'The question is, from whom?'

Mallory had no doubts. 'From his chief in Santa Maria acting
on behalf of Bastidas's boys in Medellin.'

They had dropped him off before reaching Adoraci6n as they
could no longer risk Mallory being discovered in their company.
While the Cherokee continued its journey on to Santa Maria,
Mallory had walked into the darkened village and slipped aboard
the antiquated corriente bus that was about to make the last run
of the day to Santa Maria. He huddled in a corner making himself
as inconspicuous as possible until it was filled with campesinos
and Indians taking their vegetable produce and chickens for sale
in the market the next morning.

It had felt strange arriving back. in Santa Maria after so long
away. The frontier town with its leafy plaza and enormous cathedral
felt like the hub of civilisation after Adoraci6n and Cruz de
Oro. But it also made Mallory feel exposed and vulnerable. So
many people, so many watching eyes. Keeping to the shadows he
had made his way to the dilapidated La Concordia hotel where
he rented a room.

Once inside he'd set about cutting his hair, hacking away sev

354

eral inches off the length. It was no masterpiece but it would do.
Then he'd run the cold tap, the ancient pipework thudding as it
spewed brownish water into the cracked china basin, and took
the bottle of hair tonic from his rucksack. In fact it contained
wash-in colorant. Following a quick shampoo, he rubbed the
stuff in until his black hair had become a lightish mid-brown.
After a shave and wearing a replacement set of nondescript
clothes provided by Forster, the transformation would be complete,
plain-lensed spectacles adding the final touch.

With nothing more to do, he'd lain out on the mildewed mattress,
knowing he would not sleep; it was impossible not to keep
one eye constantly on the door.

Savage had already arranged a seat for him on the midday
Aerotaca flight to Bucaramanga the next day, booked in the name
of his Harry Pike cover supplied by SIS.

However, he had long ago decided to make his own arrangements,
although he hadn't told Savage or anyone else.
Experience had taught him that in this game there was only one
person you could ever completely trust. Yourself. And what even
friends and allies didn't know, they couldn't tell. Either inadvertently
or under interrogation.

So if anyone was going to be waiting for him at the strip at
Santa Maria, or for the little airliner when it landed at
Bucaramanga, they were going to have a long wait. Because at
three thirty in the morning he had slipped out into the dark
streets and made his way to the bus terminal.

The big pullman was well on its way to Bogotfi when dawn
broke to herald a bleak day, windy with low scudding cloud that
was full of the threat of rain2

He had his last view of the cuchillas; they seemed wilder and
more inhospitable than ever, mist drifting in the shelter of the
deep canyons. He thought momentarily of Guy Thripp, his body
half-eaten by mountain cats and picked over by wolves and vultures,
then put it from his mind.

By late morning the pullman reached the town of Tunja, where
the driver took a break for brunch and allowed his passengers half
an hour to stretch their legs.


355

Mallory used the shops and back streets to check and double
check that he hadn't been followed. He did not intend to rejoin
the bus. Instead, he hitched a lift with the driver of a lechero who
was delivering his tanker of milk to Bogoti.

It arrived at the city just before nightfall and three hours before
the departure of a flight to La Paz in Bolivia. He took a taxi to the
airport and made his way to the lavatory where he extracted the
passport in the name of Englishman Jim Tate from the secret
pocket in his baseball cap. Then he checked in but waited for the
final call before making his way to immigration.

As he approached the desk, he noticed the three Colombian
officials standing to one side; two in uniform, one in smart civilian
clothes. Their eyes followed as he passed.

'Sefior Pike!'

Shit, shit, shit! Keep walking. His stride barely faltered before
he increased his pace. He heard the footsteps behind him, the
gasp of exertion. Almost at the desk, the previous passenger moving
on.

'Sefior Pike!' Breathless.

Ignore it, his mind screamed, ignore it!

He placed his passport on the shelf for the officer to check.

A hand touched him on the shoulder. He feigned surprise and
turned.

The plain-clothes man was clearly angry, but was forcing himself
to smile. 'We're looking for Sefior Pike.'
Mallory looked perplexed. 'Pardon?'
'You are British?'

The two uniformed men had caught up, their sidearms drawn.
'Si, yes. Mr Tare. Jim Tate.'

The official studied his face closely, trying hard to decide
whether or not he was looking at the man he wanted. 'You are
not Sefior Harold Pike?'

'I'm afraid not. My name's Tate.'

The desk official handed the passport to the man in plain
clothes who studied it carefully. A clear expression of annoyance
showed on his face. 'I must ask you to come to our office.'

'Is that absolutely necessary, officer?' Mallory knew he couldn't


356

afford to be too compliant or too obstructive, either would land
him in deep trouble. 'I'm happy to answer your questions, but I
really must catch my flight. People are waiting to meet me in La
Paz.'

One of the uniformed men muttered something in Spanish
about fair hair; Mallory pretended not to understand, but noticed

that the plain-clothes man now seemed less sure of himself.
'What is your business here?'
'I'm a tourist.'

The official pointed at the rucksack on the floor. 'Have you
checked in your main luggage?'

'That is my luggage. I like to travel light.'

'Then you will not object if I look.' Without waiting for a reply
he stooped and untied the retaining cord. A compact Bible
dropped out onto the tiles. It was something Mallory always kept
on the top of his bag when travelling in South America - with the
Latin psyche so steeped in Roman Catholic belief, the mere sight
of the Good Book often acted as a deterrent to the worst of criminal
excesses. Reminded of the divine retribution in store, any
thief fearful for his soul might well move on to other pickings.

In fact, it had exactly that effect on the agitated official. He
picked it up with due reverence, obviously surprised that an
Englishman should carry one. 'What is your occupation, Mr
Tate?'

The idea came to Mallory instantly. 'I am a priest. I've been
looking at your marvellous cathedrals and churches - their architecture
is my hobby interest.'

'Oh.' The official's hand withdrew from the rucksack like a
bag-snatcher caught red-handed. He smiled uneasily. 'Forgive
me, Father, but you - er - do not - er - dress like a priest.'

Mallory beamed benevolence. 'And what pray, does a priest
look like? Travelling by bus is a dusty and sweaty business which
ruins good clothes. Besides if I dress like the locals I find it puts
both them and myself at ease.'

'Of course.' He handed the passport back in an almost apologetic
manner. 'I am sorry to have troubled you, Father. We are
checking all British male passport holders today in order to find


357

this man. One of my colleagues thought you resembled a photograph
we have of him.' He hesitated. 'But I can see now he was
completely mistaken.'

Mallory smiled, apparently unconcerned. Surely the man
could hear his heart thudding like a tom-tom, could see the blood
rushing to his face? 'I wish you luck with your search.'

'Muchas gracias, Father. I hope you've had a good visit.'
'Most satisfying.'

'Hasta la vista.' Then he turned and was gone.


Mallory didn't stop shaking for the entire length of the flight to
La Paz. He wished now he hadn't been so goddamn smart - had
taken a direct flight out of the continent to the USA or Europe,
instead of taking an internal Lloyd Aereo Boliviano airline down
to Santa Cruz before picking up an American Airlines flight to
Miami. Taking a more leisurely circuitous route was meant to
add to the smoke screen. However good the theory, it was doing
nothing for his nerves - not now he knew someone was looking
for Harry Pike.

Just what sort of double-cross was this, he wondered?

Only a handful of people knew his false Pike identity. Mario
and Goldie, of course, but they were totally above suspicion. And
then there was George and her masters at SIS who had arranged
the cover and the documents. Whilst he could never fully trust
them, he had worked well with them in the past and they had
never let him down before. And he was certain that Savage would
not stand for it anyway - assuming, of course, she was told.

Their possible motive would not have been difficult to work
out. The entire venture had been totally illegal and would hardly
have won the approval of the parliamentary committee whose
task it was to ensure the accountability of the intelligence services.

However
effective the operation had been, the good and the
true, with their own reputations being their prime concern, could
hardly be seen to approve of co-operating with and accepting
funds from a major drug cartel. Or mass murder. While the top
spooks were well-practised at parrying the questions of politicians


358

and Whitehall mandarins, there was always a danger when freelancers
like Mallory were used. Those who did ,not know him
might consider him to be a loose and dangerous cannon. One
that might rebound in their direction. Not necessarily tomorrow,
or the day after, but sometime in the foreseeable future. Perhaps
as the result of some Sunday newspaper probe or an investigating
television documentary team chasing another media award.

Similarly, the Americans might have a reason to be rid of him.
To hand him over to one cartel or the other to do a quick 'wet
job' and dispose of the body. Or even to set him UP as a scapegoat,
revealing the existence of the organisation and sacrificing it
to cover some politician's back.

Dale Forster, Mallory decided, was the most likely suspect.
The two of them had never really hit it off and the American was
well used to the murky world of black operations. On the northbound
flight to Venezuela, Mallory decided on a change of plan.
Suddenly a stopover in the US or a direct return to the UK
through Heathrow controls did not seem like a good idea. He had
a ticket for an onward flight to Miami and then a change to
American Airlines for a flight to Heathrow. Instead he left the
plane at Caracas and took the next available Air France plane to
Paris. Once there he caught a train to Calais, boarded the Dover
ferry, then tooka train to London.

He booked into a cheap Bayswater hotel and spent the next few
days unwinding and marshalling his thoughts. By day he walked
the parks, visited art galleries or hunted in the back streets for
second-hand bookshops. He found several volumes he had
always promised himself he'd read. He bought a water-heating
element from an electrical ghop and a bag of groceries, including
teabags, milk and sugar. Each night he spent alone in his room,
reading deep into the night and drinking copious mugs of tea. He
lived on biscuits, soup and fresh fruit.

After six days he'd made up his mind. With his cover name
known to someone who shouldn't know it, his security was compromised.
No question. What he couldn't know was whether it
was Felix Bastidas's friends in the Medellin cartel who were after
him, or if there was a more sinister explanation. He considered


359

telephoning George at her work place and telling her what had
happened. But if it was part of some kind of setup by the
Americans or her own superiors to rid themselves of material witnesses,
then there was a risk in making contact with her. They'd
realise he was back in the country and guess, as he wasn't apprehended
in Bogota, that he was travelling under a false identity of
his own. Routine legwork by the intelligence service would soon
discover that Harry Pike never entered Bogotfi, but a Jim Tate
had on that same day. And the same Jim Tate left the country on
the same date that Harry Pike was due to depart. His disappearance
in Paris and re-emergence at Dover a couple of days later
would hardly even muddy the water if his own people were after
him.

And Colonel Oliver Maidment? Normally Mallory would ha,e
trusted the man and the organisation implicitly. But for this operation
they'd held hands with the secret services of Britain and the
US, so for once his trust could not be total. Maidment could be
under surveillance or his phone tapped, anticipating Mallory's
attempt to contact. Or Maidment could be duped by some plausible
lies into betraying him, although Mallory doubted that the
colonel would fail for that.

In the end, Mallory reasoned, it was best just to let the trail go
cold. To disappear without trace for a while before returning to
his croft. No one could wait for ever for him to turn up. Even
avenging drug barons had limits to their patience if not their
budgets, whilst the intelligence services suffered the opposite
problem. None of his few friends knew when to expect him
home. And if Savage were genuinely surprised by his temporary
disappearance, she was at least familiar enough with his nomadic
lifestyle for her not to be unduly alarmed.

Probably the whole thing would blow over. The incident at
Bogoti airport might well be one of those strange events that
would never be explained. And he hoped that was the case.

At least it was a good time to disappear. It was August and the
weather was reasonably fine. He would enjoy a few weeks living
off the land, getting back in touch with nature. It would cleanse
his soul and lift his spirits.


360

His only regret was that it meant a delay in seeing Kelly
O'More again. Much as he'd tried not to, he had found his
thoughts returning to her time and time again. Her tumbling copper
hair, those dancing green eyes and that easy smile, the languid
movements of those long legs. God, he really missed her,
could think only of the two of them in his mind's eye, galloping
together by the surf along the edge of Miggles Strand.

He'd been a fool - or was he just mellowing into middle age?
Going soft? Mallory wasn't used to feeling this way about a particular
woman. Maybe it was the thing called love, that he had
always dismissed as the fantasy of poets and movie-makers, far
removed from the harsh realities of life. At least it had always
eluded him, until now.

Seeing Miguel Castafio in Colombia had really driven it home.
It was his own fault. If he'd behaved like other men he had little
doubt that Kelly would have dropped everything to live with him.
Would never have been tempted by the suave lawyer. Probably
she was the only woman he'd ever known whoWould not baulk at
living the life he loved on the very edge of civilisation. Well, at the
first opportunity he would ask her, and see what response he got.

There was one other certainty in his mind. His old life was
over, his work for the organisation or anyone else was finished.
He'd done his bit.

The face in the mirror was hardly recognisable. He'd lost
weight in South America, maybe a stone, living on his nerves. His
cheeks were gaunt and his eyes had an unnerving haunted look
about them. No, never ever again.

What was it Brother Hermarm had once said? 'The last person
you ever really know is yourself.' How right he'd been, the bastard.

In the morning, Mallory paid his bill, shouldered his rucksack and set off at a brisk pace to walk to Paddington station. There,
on impulse, he did something he'd never done before. He bought
a postcard and a stamp and addressed it to Kelly's bachelor flat
in Dublin. He wrote simply Love you. Kurt. And then quickly
posted it before he changed his mind.

He took the West Country train, changing at Newport for
Abergavenny in south Wales. The town was near the wild and


361

magnificent Sugar Loaf; beyond them lay the Brecon Beacons
and, remoter still, the Black Mountain region beyond that.
Plenty of space there for him to disappear, wandering and
fishing by day in streams and reservoirs, melting into the woodland
at night to camp rough and cook over an open fire. Nothing
ever tasted as good as fish you had caught yourself, he reflected,
watching the eyes whiten and the skin of the trout begin to crisp,
the mouth-watering aroma mingling with the woodsmoke...

The days ran into one another, melting away time itself.
Mostly mild and sunny, the weather was kind with only the odd
shower. Mallory found himself existing in an almost trancelike
state. Sometimes wandering the hills, talking to the occasional
sheep farmer or rambler, exploring old villages and chapels and
studying their history. Graveyards always fascinated him, the
names and dates, so many untold stories buried with these
people. Once in a while he would call in at a pub for a pint in the
early evening. At times he would visit a bigger town and spend a
few hours browsing in second-hand bookshops. On other days
he'd fish or read, or set traps for rabbits, just to vary his diet.
He'd rather lost the knack of trapping since his childhood, but
after the second week either his luck or his skill improved.

At last the bad dreams stopped. He was at peace with himself
once more.


He awoke late, having read by candlelight long into the previous
night.

There was a heavy dew on his sleeping bag and there was a
touch of autumn in the air for the first time. He shivered, pulled
on an old sweater and climbed out to stoke the embers of the fire.
Tea and a chunk of toasted bread for breakfast. Out through the
tree line he could see the marching grey thunderheads of a new
weather front moving in.

It was time to go home, he decided. He had been in the hills
for just over four weeks, five since he'd returned to England and
nearly six since the massacre in the cuchillas. The memory of it
startled him and he realised he had not thought about it for many
days now.


362

Rain was sheeting down by the time he reached the railway station,
rucksack over his sloulders, and caught the.Swansea rain.
He boarded the Cork-bound ferry and fell asleep on a padded
bench sear in the lounge.

When the ship docked the next morning, he went ashore and
hired a small car. As he did not have a driver's licence to go with
his. Jim Tare identity, he booked it under his own name and set
off on the fifty-mile drive back towards his croft.

Carefully he rimed his arrival in the area for after dark. That
and the use of the hired car made it very unlikely that any of the
locals would even see let alone realise he was back.

When he finally arrived, a ferocious storm was throwing itself
in off the Atlantic. He could hear the surf thundering along the
shoreline like a rolling barrage of artillery. He parked in a layby
half a mile from the croft and picked his way down a little-used
footpath towards the beach. He serried down to study the building
and its surroundings. There were no lights showing and no
parked cars on the turning circle. Above the howling of the wind,
he could hear the nervous whinnies of the horses. Feeling happier
he edged down towards the stable outhouse. Slipping under the
fence he crossed the paddock to the apple trees where, sheltered
by the croft's gable end, stood the row of beehives.

He moved swiftly to the second and gently eased open the
lower drawer. Dozy workers crawled benignly over his hands as
he unwrapped the oilskin and withdrew the 9ram Browning pistol
and slid in the magazine. Closing the drawer again, he moved
on towards the front of the croft. It was dark and silent, the curtains
drawn, just how he had left them.

The key slid easily into the lock and he heard the tumblers
click. Unoiled hinges creaked as he restrained the door from
crashing open under the force of the wind.

A smell of must and stale air reached his nostrils. Cold and
damp. He slipped inside and closed the door. He felt something
underfoot on the mat. Dropping the gun into his iacker pocket he
stooped, his fingers feeling the smooth varnished surface and
hard edges of a postcard. Placing it in another pocket he fumbled
towards the hallway hook where he kept the hurricane lamp. He


363

flicked his lighter and adjusted the flame before pushing open the
door to the parlour.

'AGGH!' the startled voice said. 'SWEET JESUS!'

Mallory had taken a backward step in surprise. Now he lowered
the lamp and squinted into the gloom. 'Mattie?'

'Kurt?' The relief was clear in the old man's breathless tone.
'Oh, thank the Lord for that. I'm thinkin' you're them come
back.'

'Who come back?' He stumbled over a pile of books on the
floor. 'Wait a minute. Let's get some light in here.'

It took a few minutes to locate all the lamps and illuminate the
room in a feeble glimmer. Even in the half-light, Mallory could
see things had been disturbed. His numerous bookshelves were
stacked differently and the furniture was not where he had' left
it.

'I tidied up as best I could.'

Mallory felt the chill fingers of fear on his neck. 'When did it
happen?'

'About a week ago. Must have been the Saturday or Sunday
night, because I didn't come into the house those days, just

tended the horses. I found it all messed on the Monday night.'

'Do you know if anything was taken?'

Rooney shook his head. 'Nothing that I could tell.' Then a mischievous
grin appeared amid the beard. 'But then let's face it,
Kurt, you don't keep nuthin' worth taking. Except that wee
bottle o' malt.'

Mallory smiled. 'Is that a hint?'

The old fisherman ran his tongue over his lips in anticipation.
'Well, you did shake my old heart up a bit.'

'So what are you doing here?' Mallory asked, fetching the
bottle from an old pine dresser.

Rooney indicated his rusty old shotgun resting against the sagging
armchair. 'Thought I should guard the place. They were
obviously searching for something - had made a right mess. I
think maybe they'll come back. And if so, sure I'd be givin' them
the fright of their lives, so I would.'

'It's appreciated,' Mallory said, pouring the malt into two


364

chipped tumblers. He made no mention that anything to do with
his work he kept hidden in the beehives. Some secrets were best
entrusted to no one.

'Ah, that's lovely, Kurt,' Rooney said as he took the measure
and sipped at it with noisy relish. 'I put some old blankets over

the curtains. Thought it best no one could see lights.'

'D'you think these people might still be around?'

Rooney shrugged. 'I don't know. You're a bit cut offout here.
But there were some strangers seen in the village last weekend.'

'Was there anything odd about the men? Were they English or
foreigners? Maybe American or Spanish?'

Rooney chuckled. 'Bless me, Kurt, no. That's why I thought
nothing of it at the time. They were as Irish as I am. But they
were hard-looking, ff you know what I mean.'

Mallory's eyes narrowed; he didn't say what was on his mind
but the mental connection between the Provisional IRA and
Miguel Castaflo made him think of Kelly.

He asked Rooney if she had known about the break-in.

The fisherman shook his head. 'Haven't seen the wee girl in
months, Kurt.' He sounded disappointed, but as his watery eyes
looked up from his tumbler of malt, Mallory realised he was trying
to break the news gently. 'In fact, she's not been around since
about a fortnight after you left. Been travellin', so I believe.'

'Travelling?' Mallory queried. Rooney wasn't too good at

lying.

'Well, I thinks she's been spending a lot of time with that
Spanish lawyer feller. Sure he invited her over to Spain for a holiday.'

Mallory
frowned. 'C'mon, Mattie, stop holding out on me.'
'Well, Kurt, I think maybe they've - you know.' He looked
embarrassed, searching for the words. 'Shacked up together, so
to speak.'

Mallory stared at him. He felt a sudden rush of anger. With
Castaflo, with Kelly. How could she be so stupid? Then he
realised that he was mostly angry with himself. Angry that he had
let her go, treated her with indifference. To her, he realised suddenly,
it must have seemed like rejection.


365

There was something else too. He was jealous. For the first
time in his life he wanted this woman all to himself. It was not an
emotion he was used to. The knuckle-whitening tension and
anger was like nitroglycerine deep in his gut, just itching to
explode.

Rooney saw it in his eyes. 'I'm sorry, Kurt. Still, I expect she'll
tire of him soon. He's not her sort, she's much too good for him.
She'll come home.'

But Mallory wasn't so sure. The most sensible women could
have their heads turned by flattery, attention and romantic
words, however false. And some could not stop blindly loving
some of the world's most evil men.

He wondered if Savage had managed to reach Kelly on her
return from Colombia, to warn her about Castafio as she hi/d
promised It certainly didn't seem like it.

He remembered the postcard he'd sent on impulse from
Paddington station and wondered if it was still lying on the doormat
of her Dublin flat. The thought depressed him.

Postcard? That reminded him. He reached into his jacket
pocket and extracted the card that had been waiting for him.


Dear Kurt, I'm off on my travels again on the 15th. A
little translation work in Madrid. Hoping to meet an from
friend of yours and tie up some loose ends. Love Sally xxx


It was the organisation. Colonel Oliver Maidment's call sign.
Madrid? Immediately he thought again of Kelly and Miguel
Castafio. Was there a connection? Was Maidment following
through on the White Viper business? Making his own agenda? It
was now the 17th of the month. He was already two days late.

Mallory was tempted to tear it up and throw it in the wastebin.
He'd had enough. All that was behind him now. But the words
'Madrid' and 'old friend' intrigued him. A reference to Mario or
Goldie perhaps? Or Kelly? The hook was temptingly baited.

It took no more than five minutes for him to decide. He had to
go. At least to see what it was about. And if he didn't like what
he saw he could always turn round and walk straight out of it.

He said: 'Thanks for looking after the place, Mattie. But no


366

more all-night vigils, ch?'

Rooney understood. 'You goin' away again? Thought you
might be home to stay.'

'So did I.'


He left the croft before first light, stealing up the cliff path and
along the road to where he'd parked his hire car. Before entering
he checked beneath it with his torch. Nothing. But then he
couldn't be too careful.

The drive to Shannon was uneventful. He returned the hire car
to the same company's airport office and took an early morning
flight to Heathrow. Maidment's car was in the Long Stay park,
the key tucked into the exhaust.

In the glove box he found a note of instructions, an open return
ticket to Madrid, a wad of peseta bills, and a hotel reservation
slip. Relocking the car he returned the key to the exhaust pipe
and then took a courtesy coach to the terminal building. At the
Iberian Airlines desk he booked himself on a gnid-afternoon flight
using his Jim Tate identity. To keep one step ahead, just in case.

Although it was late summer the Spanish capital, high on the
dusty Castilian plateau, was as hot and dry as ever, the sky clear
and the temperature well into the eighties during his taxi ride to
the centre. It was not a city that he particularly liked, full of beggars
and purse-snatchers. Its parks and tree-lined avenues were
too parched and arid to be enjoyable until the evenings, its fume
filled streets too choked with nose-to-tail traffic, and the innumet-able
cafes and tapas bars too full of elegant poseurs for his
taste.

He'd been booked into the Carlos V, an inconspicuous three
star hotel on Maestro Vitoria, a pedestrian precinct that was
sandwiched between the main thoroughfare of Puerta del Sol to
the south and the lively tourist magnet of the Plaza de Callao to
the north. At least it was a quiet location by Madrid standards,
the small reception lobby cool and dark and decorated with a suit
of Spanish armour and a Georgian wall tapestry to appeal to
American tourists like those whose luggage filled the hall.

The room was drab but functional. He switched off the air


367

conditioning, which he loathed, and threw open the double window
doors. Noises rushed up at him from below the black iron
balcony: the hum of traffic, hundreds of walking feet and a street
singer strumming his guitar.

Sitting on the bed Mallory double-checked the typewritten
instructions before telephoning the newspaper. He asked .for
small ads and repeated the contact code message that would signal
his arrival. Anna, Please marry me. Yours now and for ever. Don
Juan. The woman at the other end giggled as she took it down
and told him to phone her back if he was rejected before she took
his credit card number for payment.

There was little to do now except wait.

He spent some time lingering over a cuba libre at a pavement cafe until the sun went down, then strolled for a couple of houdrs.
In the back streets he came across several whorehouses, sleek
coiffured beauties in tight dresses and much gold jewellery beckoning
him inside. For once he was not even tempted. It seemed
there was only one woman now he wanted - Kelly O'More.


He was barely awake the next morning when the telephone rang.
Instantly he recognised Goldie's voice. 'I'm phoning in answer to
your ad. I'm interested in buying. Could you be at the Real Jardin

Botfinico at eleven?'

'No problem.'

'Fine. In the Piano de la Flor. Eleven o'clock.'

Mallory replaced the receiver, then showered and dressed. He
had no taste for breakfast, instead deciding to take a leisurely
walk down to the rendezvous. Puerta del Sol was busy, people
grabbing morning coffees on their way to work, buying newspapers,
cigarettes and lottery tickets dissolute youths hanging
around the pinball palacios. Leaving behind the crowds, he
walked along Carrera de San Jer6nimo towards the Prado
museum. It was blissfully cool in its lofty galleries and a good way
to kill a couple of hours, distracting himself amongst the E1
Grecos, Riberas, Velizquezs, Goyas, Rubenses and Raphaels and
their portrayals of bygone eras. Times, it struck him, when it
might have been better for him to have lived. When there was no


368

real civilisation beyond the big cities, no rules. When men lived
and died by the sword.

At fifteen minutes to eleven he walked to the adjacent botanical
gardens and made his way to the raised terrace at the rear. By
the columns of the pavilion was an oval pond with a statue and
fountain. A pair of lovers strolled by, hand in hand. There was no
one else and after a circuit of the adioining terrace he found no
evidence that their meeting place was under surveillance.

As he returned to the oval pond, he saw Goldie and Mario
approaching. Both looked relaxed, chatting and laughing
together, dressed in slacks and short-sleeved summer shirts.

Mario's face beamed as he saw his old friend, and hugged him
with a bear-like embrace. 'Mi cornpaqero, it is good to see you
again! I had been thinking you are dead. That the Vipers kill you
before you get out of Colombia!'

Mallory smiled. 'I don't think there are any Vipers left. Not
after the job we did on them.'

It was Goldie's turn to step forward, as reserved as always, just
that enigmatic smile of his betraying a genuine sense of relief. 'I
tell Mario you will be okay, Kurt. Going to ground for a while,
eh?'

'It seemed best. And you?'

Goldie shrugged. 'No, I just covered my tracks. I was keen to
get back to my family.' His wife and two children lived discreetly
with him in Durban. It was a good cover, his job supposedly an
international salesman for a joint South African-Israeli fruit canner.

Mario said: 'I've returned to Martinique and bought a flat. I'm
thinking I'd like to go back toCruz de Oro when the dust has set
tied. Maybe ask that little Juanita to make an honest man of me.'

Goldie made no comment, but his eyes said it all. The Juanita
they had known and loved in their own way had been destroyed
in that little chapel. The girl's soul was dead and nothing they
could do would ever bring it back.

Mallory glanced around the deserted terrace. 'Is the colonel
coming or will you be telling me what this is all about?'

Goldie said: 'The organisation is working alongside SIS again.


369

They've asked us to finish the job.'

qChat do you mean?'

'Georgie's in charge.' He nodded towards the steps. 'Here, you
can ask her yourself.'

She looked good in the blue polka-dot blouse and short white
skirt. Her legs were tanned and her face was lit with a wide smile.
'Kurt!' She reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek, then
stepped back to look at him, her eyes bright and moist with relief.
'I was so worried about you! I had a car waiting for you at
Heathrow when you got back from Colombia. When you didn't
show we all thought the worst. Silly, because I ought to know you
by now. Colonel Maidment said you'd be all right, that it would
be typical of you to break away from the plan at the end. I sort of
thought that myself but, of course, I couldn't be certain.'

'I had my reasons,' Mallory said. He felt reassured enough now

to tell her about the incident at Bogotfi airport.

All three listened intently. When he finished talking, Savage
said slowly: 'I had no idea. You really should have contacted me
when you got back.'

'That didn't seem wise. Only the three of you and Dale Forster
knew I was supposed to be using my Harry Pike ID. Or possibly one of your chiefs in SIS, or someone on the American side.'

Mario approved of Mallory's wisdom in creating a new identity
unknown to anyone but himself. 'Amigo, you are too smart for
them.'

Savage gave him a scathing glance. 'That's not how we operate,
iario.'

'It's not how you operate, George,' Mallory replied quietly,
'but one can never double-guess how your superiors might operate.
They wouldn't necessarily tell you. Someone might want to
cover every trace of the operation because it broke all the rules.'

'I don't think so, Kurt.'

'So who broke into my home? Not your people?'
'Your croft?' Her eyes widened. 'When?'
'About ten days ago. They wrecked the place.'

'Only I know where you live, Kurt. You're on my Z-file. And
there's nothing kept in writing.'


370

'Then it must be the Americans. Dale Forster knew my real
identity and enough about me to track down my address.'

Savage's face had paled, despite her tan. 'No, Kurt, that's not

possible. Dale Forster is dead.'

Mallory's mouth dropped.

She said: 'It happened about three weeks after we fled
Colombia. A boating accident off the Florida Keys. He was on a
fishing holiday, just unwinding like the rest of us. It was thought
that probably a cylinder of cooking gas exploded. Another yacht
saw it happen, but was too late to do anything. It sank in deep
water. The coroner returned a verdict of accidental death.'

'It's true,' Goldie confirmed. 'It can't have been Dale. But also
I cannot think why anyone should have been looking for someone
with your cover name at the airport.'

Savage added: 'Maybe Dale mentioned it by mistake when the
flap was on. There was a lot of confusion co-ordinating the raids.
Venezuela was a bit of a cockup. There was a tip-off from the
police and most of the Colombians escaped into the jungle. But
Bolivia went well. Crabtree and Beavis were killed in a fire-fight
with the Leopards.' She meant the anti-drugs police there. 'All
the names of the Viper gang were issued. Maybe the list was also
sent to the Colombian police in case any of them got away.'

'My name shouldn't have been on it,' Mallory retorted. 'Kurt
Hulse might have been understandable, but certainly not Harry
Pike.'

'I agree, but mistakes happen.'

Mallory was still not happy. 'They even had a photograph.'
Her smile verged on the patronising. 'Kurt, even I do not keep
photographs of you after false passports are made for you. I see
to it personally that all negs are destroyed.'

'Can't you check things out with Dale's superiors?'

'It was a black op,' she reminded. 'it didn't happen and no one
officially knows about it, so there is no one to talk to about it. His
superior's Washington number is now a dead line. Dale was a
freelancer gone rogue as far as any connection with the US
administration is concerned. What he got up to was none of their
business.' She sighed. 'As for Dale's accident and your break-in,


371

well, I'd say they're probably just unfortunate coincidences. Did

anyone actually see who broke into your home?'

He shook his head. 'But nothing was taken.'

She looked at him directly. 'Let's face it, Kurt, there isn't much
worth taking. It was probably local kids who'd had too much to
drink. An empty isolated cottage was an irresistible temptation.'

He knew she could be right, but it still left him with an uneasy
feeling. There was no point in a continuing debate, because
they'd probably never know for certain. So he changed the subject:
'Why did you call me here? If it's to do with the Viper connection
then it must be about Castafio.'

Savage lifted an eyebrow. 'Very astute, Kurt. Mario and Goldie
have been keeping him under surveillance for the past week. The
thing is, your reports fxom the camp suggested that several 6hip

ments of cocaine were already in train to Europe, right?'

He nodded.

'Well, so far none of it has been intercepted. All we know is
that most of it has passed or is passing through St Petersburg.
We've got no jurisdiction there, the local Russian mafia is in total
control and the police are in a shambolic state. They're underfunded,
corrupt and their morale has never been so low. Our
people are doing their best, but their old Cold War contacts are
with politicians, journalists and the military. They've yet to penetrate
the new criminal networks.'

'So?'

'Castafio's an international lawyer and he'll be the link with
Europe.'

That made sense, Mallory thought. 'Did you manage to warn
Kelly, tell her what he was involved in?'

'Yes. I had to pick my moment because she's been living with
him.' There was no hesitation as she said it very matter-offactly.
Her eyes were without expression as though she were hiding what
she really thought. You enjoyed telling me that, he decided,
hardly aware of her next words. 'We kept watch for two days until
she went to the hairdresser's. She was very surprised to see me.'

'How did she react?'


372

'With disbelief at first, but not for long. I think the photographs
convinced her.'

Mallory frowned. 'What photographs?'

'Of Miguel Castafio sharing his siesta with one of the Spanish
lady lawyers in his firm. A room at the Palace hotel, no less. No
expense spared. Once Kelly was over the shock, it was no problem.'

'She's
gone back to Dublin?'

Savage laughed lightly. 'No, Kurt, she offered to help. She's
still with him.'

Mallory couldn't believe he was hearing this. 'What? You
asked her to do that - knowing he's up to his neck in the White
Viper operation? You'd put her at risk?'

'No, Kurt,' she retorted. 'And I hardly needed to persuade her;
she volunteered all too readily.'

'She doesn't know this game.'

'She's in no danger. Kelly is just continuing as though nothing

has happened. We simply arrange to meet from.time to time.'
'That, George, is a risk.'

'No. Hairdressers, manicurists, even lavatories. Girlie places,
Kurt, where no one's going to suspect anything. I wouldn't put
her at risk. She was my friend long before she was yours. But having
someone on the inside is going to make it a lot easier to get
to Castafio. He's always got an armed bodyguard with him and
his villa is like Fort Knox. And I'll tell you something else. When
she knew this case was connected to the one that you were working
on in Colombia, she was really happy to think she'd be helping
you. Yes, you.'

Mario grinned. 'I think maybe this Irish girl has the hots for
you. '

'Stow it,' Mallory snapped.

'I want you to meet her,' Savagesaid..'Sort out how you're
going to catch Castafio with his guard down. It'll have to be at his
villa because that's where he keeps the details of all his more
dubious transactions. He has a very secure private office there. At
least that's what Kelly thinks. But you'll have to act quickly
because on Monday evening he's going away on a business trip


373

with his lawyer lady friend. He says it's to Paris but Kelly has seen
airline tickets for Budapest.'

'And you say she's not at risk?' Mallory asked sarcastically.
'You should have told her not to snoop.'

'You can tell her yourself. She's arranged to go alone to the
bullfight tomorrow. I've already arranged the tickets for the same
section. You get there first.' She handed over a bright yellow
baseball cap from her bag. 'Wear this for easy identification and
make sure there's a free space next to you.'

Mallory glared. 'I'm not pleased about all this, George.'

She gave a little smile and shrugged. 'Sorry. I'm just doing my
job.'


The crowd was in festive mood, cheering and chanting in the
dusty bowl, the energetic drums and trumpets of the little band
adding to the clamour of excitement. Two horses dragged away
the one ton dead weight of the corpse, trailing a thick red smear
across the sand.

The lion-hearted beast had twice almost caught the matador
who was becoming too slow for the sport and too fat for his
embroidered bolero top.

Mallory had no problem with bullfighting. It was part of the
South American culture he'd been brought up in. And he'd had
enough close shaves with angry and dangerous bulls on te
ranches there to appreciate the courage of both the animals and
the men who destroyed them. But he was less enthralled with the
spectacle and exhibitionism of it all, the arrogant strutting poses
and playing to the gallery. Let me have one of these narcissistic
heroes for five minutes, he mused, and we'd soon see how brave
he really is. Anyway, after five kills in a row and many more to
come, it was all beginning to pall. Another corpse hauled off,
another lively, kicking bull ushered in; it began to resemble a the�
atrical conveyor-belt abattoir.

He looked across the arena of the Plaza Monumental to the
clock on the tiled roof opposite. Almost three and Kelly would
arrive at any moment. There was no mistaking the small thrill of
excitement in his gut. No doubt now how much he'd really


374

missed her. He lit a cigarette. God help me, he thought, if this is
the thing they call love.

The night before in his room at the Carlos V, he had pored
over drawings of Miguel Castaio's villa with Mario and Goldie,
examining the many photographs that had been taken with a telephoto
lens.

Finally he had outlined to them the plan that had been forming
in his mind. The plan he would put to Kelly at their meeting,
adapting it according to her response.

It had met with Mario's gleeful approval.

Goldie was not so sure. 'Georgle said nothing about that.'
Mallory had looked at him directly, his eyes ice-hard. 'And she
didn't say not to. You wouldn't object if this was a straight job for
the organisation, would you?' he challenged.

A shrug. 'I guess not, but it isn't. It's a joint venture. If she was
here now she'd veto it, you know that.'

"Well, she isn't here. She's using us for political ends. Okay,
fine. But her people are still making use of the organisation because of the way we do things. That's also the price they have
to pay.'

Goldie had looked morose until Mario placed one huge arm
around his shoulders. 'C'mon, amigo! Kurt is right, we all know
that. We all know what will happen if it isn't done. It's why the
organisation was formed in the beginning.'

The enigmatic smile had made a brief appearance on Goldie's
face. 'Yeah, I suppose you have a point.'

Mallory looked up. The hand on the big clock at the far side of
the bullring inched onto the vertical. Three. He turned his head,
straining to see up the crowded concrete terraces to the nearest
entrance arch.

And there she was. He saw her just as the band struck up to
herald the arrival of a fresh bull tothe slaughter and a cry of
blood lust rose up into the hot afternoon sky. She looked magnificent,
he thought, wearing a simple long white cotton dress
with a square neck, the skin of her arms lightly tanned. The wild
copper ringlets glistened as she held up the brim of the wide
floppy sunhat to scan the rows of seated figures that descended


375

sharply away below her.

He looked quickly back to the arena where the bull had begun
trotting round the perimeter fence, seeking a way out. It was
important that theirs appeared to be a chance encounter.

It seemed like minutes as he waited, not daring to turn his
head. Where was she? Had she missed him? Should he look back
again?

Then he caught the waft of a light perfume, heard the people

near to him moving to let her through.

'Hi, stranger.'

He looked up at the wide smiling mouth and the dancing green
eyes shaded by the undulating brim of her hat.

'Sit down,' he said quietly, grinning despite his effort to appear
hardly to notice her.

'Ow, gosh it's hard, so it is. And rough.'
'You didn't hire a cushion?'
'I didn't know you could.'
'Have mine.'

She lifted her bottom. 'Why thank you, kind sir. What a gentleman.'
She frowned suddenly. 'Is it all right to talk?'

He smiled. 'That's the reason we're meeting. Just don't look
directly at me for a few minutes. Make it seem as though we just
get chatting after a while.'

'This really is exciting. I've always wanted to be a spy.'

Out in the arena, the picador, looking like Sancho Panza from Don uixote in his wide-brimmed hat, was lancing the bull as the
enraged beast head-butted the armour-clad flanks of his horse.
Kelly winced.

From the corner of his eye Mallory watched her mouth" move,
entranced by the generous lips and the whiteness of her teeth. He
felt an overwhelming urge to just reach out and kiss her and to
hell with it all.

'Well, I'm not at atl pleased George roped you into this. You
could get hurt.'

'She didn't ask me to; I wanted to. I thought you might be
proud of me.'

'I am. But I still don't want you to do it.'


376

'It's only until tomorrow. And I'm enjoying it. Can I look at
you now?'

'Not yet.'

'I've missed you, Kurt. I can't tell you how much.'

'What about el torro rabioso?'

He was aware she was wrinkling her nose. 'Well you were right
about him all along. Don't gloat. I suddenly had the notion I
might be able to change him. Silly me. Still, he did have a nice
bum.' She risked a sideways glance. 'Come to think of it, I've
never seen you in jodhpurs.'

He couldn't resist a smile at that. 'And you never will. Tell me,
did you check you weren't followed?'

'Yes, well, as best I could. But there are a/ot of people here.'
'It's not easy.'

'Anyway, Miguel has no reason to suspect anything. He's the
one with things to hide. What with - you know - and that bimbo
partner of his, Claudia. Funny thing is, he hates bullfights. Can
you believe that? An Argentinian who hates bullfights? He's
happy for me to come alone and do my tourist bit. Anyways he's
got a meeting at home with Claudia this afternoon. So she's
probably waving her red knickers at him now, getting him to
chase her round the bedroom.'

The quick-m0ving banderilleros had managed to drive two
long darts into the bull's shoulders. Now it looked confused and
angry as the matador strutted into the arena.

/'hat time are they leaving tomorrow evening for the airport?'
'Around eight.'

'When is he home from work?'
'Tomorrow he says he'll be back at five.'
'And the bodyguard?'

'Emilio's always with him. He's quite nice really, rather taken
a shine to me. Probably because he knew all along Miguel was
screwing that brazen trollop.' She turned her head towards him
and grinned widely. 'You can tell I'm not bitter, can't you?'

'Could you get Emilio away from Castafio and out of the
garden at around six o'clock?'

She thought for a moment. 'I could ask him to give me a hand


377

in the kitchen. He likes cooking and he likes me. I'll ask him to

show me one of his specialities.'

'What about the dogs?'

'Jekyll and Hyde? Actually they haven't got names, but one's

quite sweet and the other's a bloody werewolf. Trouble "is they

look the same. Rottweilers.'

'Where will they be?'

'Roaming anywhere, that's the idea. But they have a caged

compound next to the garden wall.'

'Whereabouts?'

'There's an almond tree on the outside. Opposite that.'

'Could you have them put in the compound?'

'I suppose so. I can say the grocery man is making a delivery.'

She thought for a moment. 'Then if the dogs do hear ydur
approach, it's less likely to worry anyone.'

Bright girl, he thought. 'Good thinking. And what about the
perimeter alarm?'

'I guess I could turn it off. I know where it is.'

'Then we're all set.'

An almighty roar went up from the crowd as the matador went

in for the kill, arm raised with the sword blade pointing down,
fleetingly poised between the beast's shoulders. Kelly's hand
grasped Mallory's arm and she gasped as the sword was thrust in.
Deep and straight. It was perfect marksmanship, plunging
directly into the heart and lungs. The front legs collapsed
instantly, the bull stumbling onto its knees, hawking up great
clouds of blood onto the stadium floor.

Kelly turned her head away. Mallory clapped and rose to his

feet with the rest of the audience. The band struck up in triumphant
mood.

16

A long trail of dust across the baking
landscape marked the .approach of
Miguel Castafio's red Ferrari Spyder.
It had been another hot and sdfling afternoon under a breathlessly
blue and cloudless sky. From his hide at the edge of the
pine wood in the foothills of the Sierra de Guadarrama, Mallory
was able to look down on the villa and beyond to the switchback
trail that led to the motorway. It was little more than fifty kilometres
to the suburbs of Madrid in the southeast. A mere jog for
Castafio's Spyder.

Mario and Goldie had been sitting beside him on the soft bed
of pine needles in the welcome shade since they moved into position
at noon. From their vantage point they could see the villa
with its roof of terracotta tiles and over the high, razor-wired
walls to the swimming pool and sun terrace on the other side.

It was strange watching Kelly through binoculars as she swam
in the blue water, then lazed on a lounger while the maid served
her an iced drink in a tall glass. People rarely see friends and
loved ones from a distance, he mused. To watch her like this, as
a voyeuristic stranger might, he was able to confirm in his mind
just how stunning she really was. Those long limbs and her easy,
languid way of walking with just the slightest sway of her hips.
And that smile, even distorted through the binoculars, was as
magical and infectious at a distance as when standing by her side.
A half-smile to herself as she swam or stretched out like a cat on
the lounger; a full and gracious smile when the maid brought
refreshments on a tray. She wore a bikini with a top, he noticed,
and wondered if that was because she knew he and the others
might be watching. Had she dispensed with such modesty when


379

she had been alone with Castaflo? Probably, he decided, and the
thought made him irrationally angry. The old green-eyed god of
sexual jealousy began to gnaw into his mind and he wished to hell
the thought hadn't entered his head.

At last the soft and throaty burble of the Spyder's exhausts
reached them as the car slowed for the electronic gates to open.
Some distance behind followed the sporty little Nissan 100 NX
targa driven by Claudia Venachi. When both vehicles were in and
parked beneath the vine-covered carport, the gates slid shut
again. Castafio was the first to emerge from the shade, wearing a
polo shirt and elegant silvery suit, the jacket of which he had
slung casually over one shoulder. He was as good-looking and
arrogant as Mallory remembered, all tan and Boll6 sunglasses,
teeth gleaming and black hair tousled from the fast drive. Claudia
Venachi followed him, in a business power suit that was provocatively
tight and teetering on heels that were an inch too high. Last
to appear was the bruiser, dressed in a baggy sharp suit that
barely contained his overdeveloped pectorals and biceps. Razor
cropped, peroxide-blond hair covered his squarish head which
gave the impression of having been screwed directly onto his
body without benefit of a neck. He walked after his boss with a
rolling gait made necessary by muscled thighs as thick as tree
trunks.

A few minutes later the armed day shift left; the gunman
guarded the villa whenever Castafio and his bodyguard were not
there. Now he was driving to his home to snatch supper with his
wife before returning in time for the lawyer's departure to the airport.

Mallory continued watching the villa until Castafio appeared
alone on the sun terrace to greet Kelly. It was irritating to watch
the man kiss her hard and long, while his right hand idly squeezed
her left buock through the thin material of her bikini. She
showed no sign of obiecting, moving away only when the maid
came with a beer for her master. Kelly then pulled on a terry-towelling
robe and disappeared inside the villa; if all went well, she
would now be distracting the bodyguard in the kitchen.

'Time to go,' Mallory decided and pocketed his two-way radio.


380

The position of their hide had been chosen because it was
within the villa's only blind quadrant, unable to be overlooked
from any of the windows. While Goldie was to continue watching
and give warning of any unexpected problems, Mario and
Mallory carried the long, twin-handled canvas bag between them,
setting off down a dried-up gully which offered good cover to the
bottom of the slope.

Once there, they were below the level of the villa garden wall
and safe from being seen by anyone in the grounds or on the sun
terrace. The two men crouched down in a clump of withered
grass a short distance from the almond tree which marked the
position of the dog compound beyond the wall.

Fishing into the canvas bag, Mallory produced a steel catapult
and four thick slabs of sinewy beefsteak. These he had saturated
in burundanga, the same plant extract drug he had used on Stan
Summers in Colombia.

He aimed and fired the four pieces of meat in rapid succession;
it would not do for one of the Rottweilers to gobble the lot. As
the first splatted against the wall of the house and adhered
momentarily before dropping down into the compound, there
was a murmur of curiosity from one of the dogs, but that was all.
After waiting for fifteen minutes Mallory and his friend carried
the bag to the foot of the wall. It took them barely a minute to
assemble the telescopic aluminium scaling ladder. Mario held it
fast as Mallory began to climb. His heart was thudding, half
expecting something to go wrong. Either Kelly had been unable
to switch off the alarm or the dogs would be waiting for him, licking
their lips. But as his head appeared over the parapet, he
immediately realised the plan had worked like a dream. The two
enormous animals were curled up in the shade, eyes watching but
brains too doped and soporific to care, let alone move. He turned
back to Mario and gave a thumbs-up;, his friend grinned and
handed up a large and heavy plastic carrier bag.

After cutting the razor wire, he used wistaria branches to
scramble down the inside of the wall before dropping the last few
feet into the garden. He went immediately to the carport, leaned
into the open cockpit of the Spyder and released the catch.


381

Once he had access to the rear engine compartment he took a
plastic Coca-Cola bottle from his bag; it was three quarters full of
petrol. He fixed it upside down so that the top was just half an
inch from the swan neck of the exhaust manifold. Satisfied it was
secure he then produced a coil of insulated copper wire from his
bag of tricks. Securing one end to the live battery terminal, he ran
the other down to the manifold swan neck and wrapped it loosely
around half a dozen times.

Lastly, he took out four polythene freezer bags filled with used
engine oil and stuffed one carefully into each corner of the engine
compartment. It was that simple.

He spoke into his radio handset. 'Okay, it's all ready. Come
and join the party.'

Seconds later his friend was over the. wall with surprising deftness
for a man of his bulk. Together they moved down some
steps into the flagstoned courtyard at the rear of the villa, ducking
beneath each window until they reached the basement
kitchen. A smell of herbs hung heavily in the air, wafting fi:om the
collection ofearthenware pots by the door.

Mallory edged past them, his back pressed tight against the
door jamb. His hand found the butt of the silenced 9 mm
Browning High Power which nestled inside his shirt. The automatic
had been supplied by Savage; a 'clean' weapon with no history and its serial number filed off. He chambered the first round,
released the safety and peered into the kitchen.

The bodyguard was standing at the worktop with his back to
the door. Mallory grinned, this was almost unbelievable. The
man's jacket and leather gun holster hung on a chair back and his
shirtsleeves were rolled up. The forearms were flexed and his
huge hands were moving to and fro in front of him. His palms
were open, his sausage fingers extended with the delicacy of a
woman's as he gently rolled out the pastry. Pastry! Mallory
almost choked with amusement.

Kelly sat decorously beside him on the worktop, cradling a
drink in her hands. Her robe had been loosely wrapped to offer a
careless display of cleavage as she plied the man with questions
about his mama's favourite recipe.


382

She was a real pro. No sign showed in her expression as she
saw Mallory's approach over the bodyguard's shoulders; she just
gabbled innocently on as he crossed the floor. He kept the gun
low, hidden from her view, until the last moment.

As he swung it up suddenly, she yelped. It was an involuntary
cry of surprise and horror. But it came too late for the bodyguard.
As his back stiffened and the cold muzzle of the silencer pressed
into the back of his neck, Mallory squeezed the trigger. The blast
tore into the spinal cord, instantly severing the body from the
brain, the round blasting up into the cranium and exiting through
an eye socket. Blood splattered over the floured pastry and the
man's head pitched forward on top of it. Then slowly, very slowly
he slid down to the floor.

Kelly sat, frozen, staring at the dead man, her mouth slowly
starting to form around a scream. Mallory raised a finger to his
lips. 'I'm sorry. It had to be done.'

'You killed him,' she said blankly. It was not an accusation
just an expression of total disbelief. 'He'd done no harm - he
helped me when I asked him.'

Mallory was checking the body over for weapons. Finding
none, he took the man's pistol from the holster hanging on the
chair and emptied the magazine. 'Sure, and I'm certain his mama
loved him. Unfortunately he kept bad company and he was dangerous.
That's why your boyfriend employed him.'
'You didn't tell me you were going to kill him.'
Mallory raised an eyebrow. 'You didn't ask me.'

iVtario entered through the courtyard door. 'What d'you want
me to do with him?' he asked.

'Hide him in Castafio's fancy car.' As his friend began dragging

away the body, he turned back to Kelly. 'Where is Miguel now?'
'In his office with Claudia. Going over details of their trip.'
'Who else is in the house? Just the maid?'
She nodded. 'Just Rosa.'

'I want you to go and find her. Tell her she can go home early.
Make up any excuse you like, but just make sure she leaves
immediately.'

Kelly moved towards the door. 'So you're not going to kill her


383

too just because she keeps bad company?'

Mallory turned his back and talked into his radio. 'It's me.
We're in. Come and join us.'

Ten minutes later the maid was wheeling her bicycle out of the
gate and wobbling off on her way to the nearest village, hardly
believing her good fortune. Meanwhile Goldie had arrived, coming
in over the garden wall.

Mallory turned to Kelly. 'I'd like you to wait here and open the
gates for George when she arrives.'

She nodded. 'You're not going to kill Miguel, are you?' Her
eyes were wide, haunted, no longer knowing what to expect of
Mallory.

'Still care, do you?' he asked sarcastically and immediately
regretted it.

'He doesn't deserve that. Nor does Claudia.'

Mallory said: 'That won't be necessary if he co-operates, and
he'll be given every opportunity.'

A weak smile fluttered on her lips. 'You be careful too. Don't

forget he keeps a gun in the desk drawer.'

'I won't.'

He looked at Mario and Goldie, both of whom now had their
pistols drawn, and nodded. 'Let's go.'

They moved with practised synchronisation, one moving and
two covering, then the leader covering while the last man overtook
them and advanced again. The leapfrog advance-and-cover
routine took them swiftly up to ground-floor level, then across
the lofty, marble-tiled hallway and up the wide sweep of carpeted
stairs. Goldie reached the top first and crouched by the landing,
checking the corridor and doors confronting him. Mentally crossreferencing
with the rough layout Kelly had drawn for them, he
trained his pistol on the door he knew to be the office.

Mallory came next, dropping down beside him. Goldie
inclined his head. There was little sound, just the background
gurgle of the villa's plumbing as somewhere a water tank refilled.
Then Mallory heard it, the gentle tapping of a computer keyboard.

The
office. Their eyes met momentarily and Mallory inclined


384

his head. Confirmed.

Mallory was up and crossing the landing, each step taken with
a slow, rolling motion. Heel to toe, heel to toe. Totally silent.
Past an open bedroom door. A glimpse of the kingsize bed, satin
sheets ruffled. Curtains jigging in the warm flow of air from outside.
He heard the sudden rush of tapwater. Someone was in the
en suite bathroom. Turning, he signalled the fact to Goldie and
Mario who still waited at the head of the stairs.

They nodded to each other in silent agreement, rose to their
feet and slipped quickly across the landing. Mario stopped beside
the bedroom door, his back pressed hard against the wall. Goldie
joined Mallory and the two of them moved down two doors.

Here the noise of the keyboard was quite distinct, joined by the
muted chatter of the laser printer. Mallory's fingers closed
around the gold-plated door handle, inching it round. The locking
peg cleared the retaining hole and the door began to swing. It
opened up to reveal a fitted suite of pale oak office furniture.
Desks, filing cupboards and a work station facing an open window
with a spectacular view of the Sierra de Guadarrama soaked
in the soft watercolour glow of late afternoon. It was there that
Castafio sat at his computer VDU, tapping in data.

As the door opened up to its full extent, the hinge gave a small
groan. The lawyer's back stiffened slightly, sensing that someone
had entered the room. 'Emilio?' He half-turned, his face suddenly
white. 'EMILIO!'

'Save your breath,' Mallory said in Spanish, stepping forward
to trap the man's fingers in the drawer as he reached for the gun
he kept there.

Castafio squealed with anguish, pulling his hand free and nursing
it. He glared up at the silenced Browning staring him in the
face. 'Who the hell are you? Police?'

Mallory smiled. 'Sort of,' he said, this time in English. 'We're
acting on behalf of all the poor miserable bastards whose lives
you've ruined.'

The lawyer tried again. 'DEA? Are you DEA?'

'Getting warmer. Now why should you think we're DEA?
Never been mixed up in the cocaine business, have you?'


385

Castafio realised his error. 'Coke? No, never.'

'On your feet,' Mallory ordered.

'I've met you before,' Castao remembered suddenly, his legs
trembling uncontrollably as he tried to stand. 'I've seen you
somewhere.'

'Let me help your memory. Try Ireland.'

The lawyer's jaw dropped. 'Jesus Christ! You are Kelly's
friend.'

Mallory grabbed his shoulders and shoved him out through the
door as Goldie stepped aside. 'That's right, amigo. And we know
all about you and Sefior Summers and your friends at Cruz de

Oro in Colombia.'

'nat?'

'We were there,' Mallory said simply and pushed him along the

corridor to where Mario stood by the bedroom door.

'She's still in the bathroom,' he said.

All four entered, Castafio forced to sit on the edge of the bed
while they waited for Claudia to emerge from the connecting
door. Mario stood behind it as she entered.

She stopped in mid-stride, agape at the sight of the armed
strangers. 'What is going on?' she blurted.

Mario stepped up behind her. 'Okay, pretty one, just keep
calm. Go and sit next to your boss - or is it lover, eh?' He jabbed
her in the small of her back with the muzzle of the silencer.

As she sat beside him, Castafio glowered up at Mallory. 'rere

you responsible for what happened at Cruz de Oro?'

Goldie gave one of his menacing little half-smiles. 'And what

was that?'

'A massacre by all accounts. The police say there was a fire that
swept through the camp - but no one believes that. Anyway, it
hardly matters now. That's all finished.'

'Not quite,' Mallory countered. 'There are some loose ends to

be tied up.'

'Meaning me?' Castafio asked. He tried to look contemptuous.

'I am just a lawyer. I didn't know what those people were doing.

I thought they were in the emerald business.'

'But Stan Summers was your client.'


386

'He lied to me.'

'And you can save your lies for the police,' Mari.o said. 'They
have more time to waste than we do.'

'We're interested in the destination of the cocaine consignments,'
Goldie added. 'The ones you thought were emeralds.'

The lawyer tried to look unconcerned. 'I've told you. It's all
closed down.'

Mallory said: 'There are several major shipments still en route
for Europe.'

'If that's so, I know nothing about them.'

'So why, may I ask, are you about to fly to Budapest?'

'A holiday, a break.'

Mallory stooped so his face was just inches from the lawyer's.
'LIAR!'

Castao was taken aback by the ferocity of Mallory's retort.
'No, no really...'

'There is an easy way, or a difficult way,' Goldie said softly.
Mario added: 'The Conquistadores broughta few novel techniques
with them for loosening tongues when they came to South
America. Garrotte de bolas. They found that if they tied a man's
arms and legs together behind his back, they could lift him off the
ground by a rope fixed around his balls.'

'But they did it-real slow,' Goldie embellished, 'otherwise they
tended to tear them off.' He produced a coil of paracord from his
pocket and looked pointedly at the wooden ceiling beams.

Mallory glanced towards Claudia. 'Of course, we could shoot
your girlfriend here. Just to prove to you we mean business.'

The female lawyer gulped, the blood draining from her face.
'Then shoot her,' Castafi0 challenged. 'She means nothing to
me. And neither of us knows what you're talking about, so you'd
be wasting your time anyway. Do you really want the murder of
two innocent people on your conscience?'

'Conscience?' Mallory asked. 'Do you think we had a conscience
when we killed everyone at Cruz de Oro? We had as
much conscience as the narcos we killed there. And d'you know
what? You are an even filthier scum than they were. You sit here,
safe and sound, feeding off the misery of others. Getting filthy


387

rich - your luxury apartment in Madrid, thi villa, your yacht,
your pretty Ferrari car. You do not even get your hands dirty and
you take no personal risks. Protected by your fi'iends in high
places--' Castafio blanched at that '-- Oh, yes, we know about
all your politician friends, the policemen and the judges who
come to your house parties. Don't talk to me about conscience,
Sefior Castafio.'

Goldie spun the paracord coil like a lasso. The lawyer's eyes
were mesmerised as it unfurled, trailing over the beam and down
to dangle inches above the bed.

Goldie looked down at the dark stain spreading across
Castafio's expensive silk-weave trousers. 'Dear me, I think our
friend has pissed himself.'

'I don't think the lady will want to watch this,' Mallory sail.
'Why not?' Mario asked with dramatic enthusiasm.

Claudia had already seen and heard enough. She was close to
passing out. 'Look, I'll tell you as much as I know.'

Castafto glared at her. 'The stupid bitch is bluffing, trying it
on. She doesn't know anything, because there is nothing to know!
You are all making a terrible mistake!'

Mallory folded his arms across his chest and regarded the
lawyer for a moment. 'I knew a man once, a brother in a holy
order. A saying of his was that if you told yourself a lie enough
times, in the end you would believe it yourself. And he should
have known because just like you, Miguel, he lived a lie. And he
died for it too just as you are going to do if you do not level with
US.'

'The computer!' Claudia shouted suddenly. 'Everything you
want to know is on the computer next door. That is, if he didn't
manage to erase it as you came in--?' She left the question hanging
in the air as she turned to Castafio. His facial muscles had
stiffened into a mask.

Mallory smiled. 'Sefiorita, I don't suppose Miguel will thank
you, but he should do. You have just saved him from a very slow
and lingering death.' He waved the Browning 'On your feet,
both of you.'

They walked back to the office where Goldie, the only one of


388

the three to have any knowledge of computers, sat himself in
front of the VDU. 'Right, which of you is going to talk us
through?'

'Punch up the menu,' Claudia said, ignoring Castafio's continuing
scowl. 'Look under Venezuela, Exports. Yes, that's it.
Most of the trade is genuine as stated, but all those shipments
under Invicta Trading are the ones you want. It's a shell company
registered in Panama we set up for the operation. It appears a
genuine trading brokerage, buying commodities from different
companies, mostly Venezuelan and selling to whoever wants the
goods. Timber, chemicals, canned meat or fruit, depending
which is the latest way to disguise and ship White Viper coke.
Most of the traffic used to be to Rotterdam via the Dutch Antilles
or to here in Spain. Always we use different ships, usually small
independent companies with ships registered in Panama or
Liberia. But in the last six months they are often Russian.' She
peered over Goldie's shoulder as he rolled the Invicta consignments
onto the screen. 'See, those are the ones you are interested
in. The last one left Venezuela days after the camp attack. It was
already in the pipeline and Miguel and I saw no reason to stop it.'

Goldie pointed at the consignment number on the screen.
'This one? Two thousand drums of chemicals, powdered lye.'

'Yes. A highly toxic alkaline liquid containing potassium
hydroxide. We have found it a great disincentive to Customs
rummage crews. They have to wear special clothing and breathing
apparatus to protect against eye, skin and lung burn. In that
consignment, two hundred and fifty of the drums contain cocaine
packages that will only be found when each drum is drained.
That is the meaning of the additional line of figures which you
have to read in reverse. The last number is the total quantity of
cocaine. Five thousand kilos.'

Goldie gave a low whistle. Around flue tons of White Viper.
The amount was stupefying. And that was only one of four shipments
en route.

'How do you know which drums contain the stuff?.' Mallory
asked.
'Translate the last number into an alphabetical figure, from


389

one to twenty-six. In this case it is nineteen, meaning S. The
importer just looks for all drums with the letter S in the middle
of the serial number.'

'Easy when you know how,' Mallory murmured.

Goldie returned to the menu and called up the importer's list,

then cross-referenced it with the consignment number. 'Intransit
Global in St Petersburg. Is that the importing company?'

She nodded, but fear was showing in her eyes again. 'Yes, but

I know nothing about them. I am sorry. Only Miguel knows that.'

Mallory turned to the lawyer. 'So, do we have to string you up

by your balls, mi amigo?'

Castafio, sitting slumped in a chair, sighed resignedly. 'I guess

you people, whoever you are, will be able to find out the rest from
that. It's a front company we set up a year ago for Sefior
Summers and his Russian partners. Summers provided the initial
capital and they basically run the show. They had a ready source
of arms they wanted to sell and we had a potential big buyer in
Felix Bastidas. The Russians also wanted in on the coke trade. It
is not big in Russia yet, except with the spivs in Moscow, but they
wanted to get established before it really took off. Meanwhile
they offered to provide us with an excellent new route into
Europe. Given the big mark-up on White Viper we could afford

their exorbitant handling charges.'

'How much?'

'Up to twenty per cent of value.'

This was getting interesting, Mallory thought, and cadged a
cigarillo from Mario to aid his concentration. 'So who is your
Russian partner?'

'Actually he's Ukrainian,' Castafio replied in a slightly patronising
tone. 'Uses several names. Sergei Chenko, Nikolai Khuchuk

or a host of others. His nora de guerre is El Capitfzn. The Captain.'

'Ah,' Goldie said suddenly, turning round in his seat. 'The
Sportsmen! Now I understand.'

Mallory frowned. 'What do you understand?'

'The Captain as he likes to call himself is the head of 0ne of the
major Ukrainian mafias. They are known as the Sportsmen, very
droll. Many are ex-athletes from the armed forces and the


39O

Spetsnaz. Very powerful and the Captain has his finger in many
pies. My friends have quite a file on him.' By that Mallory knew
he meant Mossad. 'Very wisely he controls his empire from
another country where both he and his money are safe from the
law and his many rivals.'

Mallory considered for a moment, the complex geography of
the region forming a vague map in his mind. Then he had it.
'Hungary,' he said.

Goldie grinned. 'That is why our friend here has air tickets for
Budapest. We know that the Captain operates from there with
impunity and must have some friends in very high places. He has
a vast estate guarded by armed men on the Buda side of the
Danube. If I remember rightly, it's some six kilometres to the
north of the city in a forest area between Moskvater and
Huvosvolgyi.' He turned to Castafio. 'Have I got that about
right?'

Castafio no longer looked complacent. Whoever these
strangers were they knew more about his workl than he believed
anyone could. He looked pale and shaken as he nodded. 'Yes,
more or less. There are few controls on the Ukraine's border with
Hungary and the Captain can pull on the necessary strings. The
drums are next moved to one of his warehouses where the
cocaine is unpacked by men wearing special suits and breathing
apparatus.'

'How is it shipped on?' Mallory asked.

The lawyer shrugged. 'I do not know. That is down to the
Captain.'

Mallory leaned forward and waved his cigarillo in front of
Castafio's nose. The lawyer stared at the glowing tip, mesmerised,
feeling the heat on his skin. 'You're lying again. You've
already said you pay the Captain twenty per cent for his trouble.
That means the merchandise still belongs to you and your client
and you are not going to let some gun-toting Ukrainian mafia
waltz off with it. Besides, the whole idea of a high purity brand
means you have to guarantee it's not tampered with. So you'll
know precisely where it is at each stage of the journey. No doubt
you'll even have someone of your own travelling shotgun with it.'


391

Claudia was becoming exasperated at her boss's reluctance to
come clean. 'Please, Miguel, perhaps you have a death wish, but
I do not want to be shot. Tell them['

Castaflo hesitated for a moment, turning his head away as the
skin on his nose began to blister. 'If you punch up Transport on
the menu, you will see all the routes and times. My client supplies
refrigerated container trailers for overland shipments. The feezer
units contain tens of feet of internal tubing which they fill with
cocaine powder under pressure. Yet they can still be rigged to
appear to work. These monoblock units are held in place by just
four or six bolts. Undo these and get a forklift and it can be
replaced by a genuine unit in a matter of seconds. The beauty of
it is, no official is allowed to touch them without specialist assi.stance
because they contain CFC gases.'

Mallory watched as the list of dates and registration numbers
wiped onto the screen. 'Out by road into Austria, then into
Germany.'

Goldie said: 'You can see the sense in that. Nowadays the border
between Hungary and Austria is virtually non-existent. The
two countries enjoy excellent relations since the fall of
Communism - like a family reunited after the old Iron Curtain
came down. And there is a very heavy volume of commercial traffic.'

'And of course,' Mallory added thoughtfully, 'Austria and
Germany are the same country in all but name. Their border is
hardly considered to be a maior international smuggling route.'

'Yet,' Goldie said ominously with one of his sly smiles. 'One
day the honeymoon will eod between the countries down there.
Eventually the politicians will have to accept that too many
people are taking advantage of their cosy little clique.'

Mallory turned back to the screen. 'I see that some shipments
terminate in Germany and others go on down to Spain or across

the Channel to the UK.'

'Yes.'

'And then Stan Summers's outfit takes over, is that right?'
Castaflo nodded.

'And who represents Summers's partners? Or more accurately


392

who is the senior partner?'

'I don't understand what you mean.'

'You understand perfectly, Miguel. You knew Summers
through earlier drugs deals when you were representing the
Medellin cartel and he was looking to distribute. And you knew
the IRA through your contacts with the ETA separatists when
your firm defended them. You brought them all together.'

The lawyer shook his head. 'I know nothing about the IRA.
They mean nothing to me.'

'C'mon, Miguel, I'm losing patience. Who was the man your
ETA friends introduced you to? The man behind it all, the man
who is Summers's senior partner. The IRA link. A man who calls
himself Kevin.'

'You mean Setior Sheehan. At least that's the name he gives.
Sefior Kevin Sheehan.'

'What do you know about him?'

'Nothing.'

'You knew he was IRA.' 'No.
Just that he was Irish.'

'Harry Morgan and Guy Thripp knew he was IRA.'
Castafio's eyes seemed suddenly dark and fathomless. 'Then
perhaps you shouldn't have killed them. Then you could ask
them about this man. Although I met Sefior Sheehan, Morgan
and Thripp and especially Summers got to know him far more
than me. I was just the safe conduit with respectable cover for
routine liaison.'

Mallory realised then that they'd been subtly duped. Iven
under torture and facing death, Guy Thripp had managed to
steer them away from the truth. Just before they tore him down
from the makeshift crucifix, he had sworn that it was Miguel
Castafio who had the personal IRA links. In fact Castafio had just
introduced all the parties and monitored the trade from the safety
of Madrid.

The lawyer said: 'Look, Sefior Sheehan, or whoever he is, was
introduced to me by friends of my tTA client who I defended.
You do not get better credentials than that. His money was good,
always arriving when he promised, cabled from one of several


393

Swiss accounts.' The eyes pleaded to be believed. 'You do not

ask questions of such men; only they tell you if they want you to


In truth Mallory understood that all too well. As in his own
deadly business, it didn't pay to ask too many questions or to
know too much. For years now he had been able to work on trust.
If Oliver Maidment or Goldie or Mario asked for his help he
knew that whatever he was asked to do might not be legal, but
was in the interests of natural justice. Likewise with Georgina
Savage. He did not fully trust the Secret Intelligence Service, but
he had total faith in her judgement. Yes, he understood all too
well Castaflo's reluctance to ask questions of Kevin Sheehan.
The lawyer was, above all, a professional.

Nevertheless it was worth one last effort. 'You have no photograph
of this man?'

Castafio just smiled. 'What do you think, sefor? All I can tell

you is that he's in his forties. I think you would say a ruddy complexion
with quite fair, curly hair. That is the best I can do.'

They had just about come to the end of the road, Mallory
decided. It would be up to Savage now. Up to her people to
investigate Stan Summers and maybe find out the true identity of
the enigmatic Irishman called Sheehan. Meanwhile he was satisfied
that everything they needed was on the computer disk.

He smiled suddenly and clapped his palms together. 'All right,

you Can go.'

Castafio and the girl stared at him blankly, then glanced at

each other.

'What?' the lawyer asked, thinking he'd misheard.

'Are you deaf?.' Mallory replied tartly. 'Go. We've finished with

you. And don't forget your briefcase with your air tickets.' He
glanced at his watch. 'If you don't waste time you can still catch
it.'

From the expression on Castafio's face, the idea of catching his
flight, away from this nightmare, was extremely appealing. He
clearly didn't believe it, but he still needed no second bidding to
stand up and start edging towards the door, watching Mallory's
gun warily. The girl followed his lead.


394

'Mario, take their luggage down for them. There's a phone in
their car, remove it.'

His friend grinned. He knew what Mallory meant. Make sure
you put the two soft grips in the forward luggage hold. He didn't
want Castafio discovering his bodyguard's corpse before he drove
away with the evidence.

Mallory picked up his radio and spoke to Savage who was
parked up on the hillside in a hire car that had been fitted with
false number plates. 'They're leaving now. Come on down as
soon as they've gone. I think you'll be pleased.'

And five minutes later she viewed the Spyder rocket pass the
side-track where she was waiting. As soon as it had disappeared
she started up her little SEAT and turned right, back up the
unmade road towards the villa.

Kelly was standing by the open gates, looking distinctly subdued.

'What's
the matter?' Savage asked as she climbed out.

The Irish girl gave an uneasy smile. 'I think-I must be suffering
from shock. I've just spent half an hour washing blood off the
kitchen floor and cupboards.' She still appeared to be trying to
come to terms with events. 'Naive, I suppose, but I wasn't

expecting the violence. Not someone being killed.'

'Who's been killed? Not Castat'io?'

'No, Emilio, his bodyguard. Kurt just came in and blew his
head off right in front of me. It was awful. I was splattered in
blood.'

Savage didn't seem unduly surprised. 'I'm sorry.'

'You should have warned me.'

And if I had, Savage thought, you'd have probably run a mile
just when I needed you in place. But instead she gave a sympathetic
smile, thinking suddenly how young and vulnerable the
older woman looked. 'You're right. I shou.ld have said what could
happen. Trouble is you never know. Kurt would have to have
made a split second decision. He didn't have the time and
resources for tying people up and guarding them, and Emilio was
a very dangerous man. Besides, Kurt was probably concerned
about your safety.'


395

Kelly nodded her vague understanding, but her face was still
crumpled as she fought back the tears. 'Yes, I suppose so. Sorry,
I'm being a bit of a wimp about this. Maybe I'm not cut out to
be a James Bond girl after all.'

Savage placed a reassuring hand on her friend's shoulder.
'Where are they now?'

'Upstairs. I'll show you.'

They found Mallory with Goldie and Mario standing over
Castafio's VDU, double-checking what they had been told by
Castafio and Claudia Venachi.

Quickly Savage was brought up to date with what had been
learned. As she listened, a slow smile appeared on her face. 'The
Captain, Kurt, that's wonderful. The Global Issues Department
has been trying to get a handle on him for several years now. The
CIA and Mossad as well. Of course, it all makes sense. Until
recently drug smugglers had been using Poland as the favoured
new route into Europe - there was that big case in Gdansk last
year. But the border between Poland and the former East
Germany has. got really difficult for them with the clampdown on
illegal immigrants. So the Ukraine-Hungary-Austria route to
Germany is ideal.'

As she talked, Mallory found that his real attention was on
Kelly. She stood by the door, her eyes downcast, her posture
lacking its usual confident and upright stance. He was sure the
death of Emilio had shaken her badly and as he continued watching
her from the corner of his eye, his mind suddenly pictured
Castafio's red Ferrari Spyder lapping up the tarmac towards the
airport, engine humming sweetly and exhausts purring. The two
lawyers ecstatic to be alive, probal;!y laughing together, almost
hysterical with relief as their hair danced madly in the slipstream,
while beneath the sleek metal, the plastic casing of the insulated
copper wire around the manifold began to melt. Power pulsing
down from the battery and tiny sparks spitting from the bared
strands as the neck of the plastic bottle began to crumple and distort
- a half-inch away from the searing heat of the manifold.

'Of course, Hungary's banking secrecy laws are legendary,'
Savage was saying. 'It's even envied by the Swiss. And it's


396

attracted a lot of hot and dirty money - Iraqi, Lebanese and
Syrian as well as new Russian money which nearly all comes from
organised crime.'

Goldie tapped the screen. 'There are account details here.
They don't mean a lot to me, but I'm sure your experts will make
something of them.'

She nodded in agreement. 'The sad thing is we won't be able
to do anything about it. At least with this information we should
be able to intercept...' She did a quick calculation in her head.
Four consignments in transit to Europe or already there. Maybe
twenty tons of White Viper cocaine in total. The scale of the
operation was mind-blowing. 'The trouble is Castafio now knows
that we know. As soon as he gets to Budapest, he'll organise a
change of plan.'

Kelly said: 'Why don't you have Miguel arrested?'

Savage gave a small sad smile. 'I have no jurisdiction here and
Castafio is one of the untouchables. A highly respected international
lawyer from an aristocratic family and with friends in very
high places. It would take years of legal pressure and wrangling
and even with this evidence on the computer, a conviction would
be unlikely. He'd just say he was acting in good faith for clients
who duped him.'

'So he just gets away with it,' she said in disgust.

'Not necessarily, but probably.'

'Why not just--' She hesitated to use the word, momentarily
remembering his muscular, golden body leaning over her, her
hands clenching those buttocks that had looked so good in polo
jodhpurs '-- why not just get rid of him? Like you did Emilio.'

Savage glanced at Mallory. 'I didn't sanction that. My people
aren't allowed to, not nowadays. Don't believe what you see in
the movies. I can probably justify Kurt's action in terms of selfdefence,
especially as he had the good sense to put the body in
Castafio's car. It'll be Castafio's problem when he discovers it,
probably not until he returns from Budapest. My guess is he'll
use his underworld contacts to dispose of it. It'll never be found
or else be attributed to some low-life. Murder by person or
persons unknown.'


397

Kelly stared hard at her, not really wanting to hear the confirmarion
of something she'd always believed. 'So it's all right if you
can get away with it.'

It seemed that Savage had missed the sarcasm in her friend's
voice. 'In the Third World, yes, or sometimes if the victim is
some sort of gangster like Emilio.' She added: 'But Castafio is
different, too high-profile. If ever there was a sniff of a hint of
British involvement it could turn into a major political incident.
No one wants to rock European unity.'

Kelly sighed. 'It seems so unfair that Miguel should continue
to get richer and richer at the expense of others and never get
punished.'

'I agree. But, as I said, your ex-boyfriend is one of life's untouchables.'

Even as she said the words, as the Ferrari Spyder sped towards
Madrid and the airport beyond, the plastic neck of the Coca-Cola
bottle beneath the bonnet finally melted, splitting open to squirt
petrol onto the sparking copper coil around the manifold.

The car became an instant, moving fireball. As the bonnet and
wing panels were blasted assunder, it began careering from side
to side before crashing through the roadside barrier and over the
embankment. For a second it was airborne like a flaming meteor,
then it plunged into a field of sunflowers. There it burned with
an unbelievable rage as the polythene packets of used engine oil
fed the conflagration and ate its way into the fuel lines. When the
petrol tank blew, the entire vehicle disintegrated, spreading
debris over a hundred metres, and sent a thick coil of greasy
smoke tumbling into the air. It could be seen for miles.
Eventually, after a thorough investigation, the cause of the accident
would remain a mystery. There would be no traces of
melted copper wire, plastic or polythene. No reason for the
explosion. Only the scorched remains of a bottle cap might cause
a puzzled eyebrow to be raised, but probably not. The minds of
the police would be focused on why a pair of famous lawyers
should have had a corpse in the boot of their car:

In fact the ugly smudge could still be seen drifting across the
golden eastern sky an hour later as Savage drove along the.


398

Madrid-bound highway with Kelly by her side.

'When will Kurt be back home?' the Irish girl asked.

'The three of them have got a car hidden up behind the villa.
They'll split to the four winds - well, three in their case - it's standard
procedure after an operation like this. They'll drive down to
Seville and drop Mario off to catch a flight. They haven't told me
the details, not policy. Then I think Goldie will be dropped by
the border with Gib and will fly out from there. Kurt will dump
the car, take the ferry to Tangier and then catch a flight. All destinations
unknown. They'll go to ground while the dust settles.
I'm sure it won't be long before you see Kurt.'

Kelly nodded gravely. 'We all left in such a rush we didn't have
time to talk. I don't really know if Kurt's planning to come home
at all.'

'Oh, I think so,' Savage said with a smile. 'He's spending a
while with Goldie somewhere, but then you'll see him. When we
were planning the raid on Castafio's villa, he talked about you a
lot. Well, a lot for someone who doesn't nor//aally wear his heart
on his sleeve. I even started getting pangs of envy.'

Kelly grinned. 'Really? Anyway you're a married woman.'
'Don't remind me.'

Up ahead they noticed the pulsing blue lights of the police car
first. Savage felt a flutter of apprehension in her chest. Brake
lights blinked on as the traffic queue started to form and she
feared a police roadblock. But her anxiety was short-lived as she
saw the flashing amber beacon of a breakdown truck and the
ambulance parked on the hard shoulder.

'Some sort of accident,' she murmured, changing down as they
nosed up to the vehicle in front.

During the next five minutes, they inched forward. The inside
lane had been cordoned off and, within the tapes, traffic police
and paramedics milled around, staring at the ripped-out section
of steel barrier. Neither Savage nor Kelly could see the wreckage
that was somewhere down the embankment, but smoke still billowed
relentlessly from the site.

Kelly shivered. 'Looks nasty. And on a straight stretch of road.
Maybe it was a tyreburst...' Her voice trailed off as she saw the


399

vehicle debris that had been swept in behind the cordon. The
buckled front fender section, which had somehow detached itself
from the vehicle before it left the road, glinted in the sunlight. Its

red paintwork was scorched but the number plate was intact.
Savage braked as the queue came to a standstill.

Beside her, Kelly stiffened. She lifted her sunglasses to read the
registration number again, to be sure she'd got it right. 'Oh,

sweet Mary and Joseph.'

'What is it?'

'I don't believe it. That car, the number plate. I think it's
Miguel's Ferrari.'

'Miguel? You - you mean Castafio?'

'It's his car that went off the road.' A note of certainty had
edged into her voice.

Oh, my God, Savage thought. Her lips closed into a thin line
and she stared straight ahead. Suddenly she knew. Remembered
the time she'd seen this before. In Northern Ireland. An elusive

paramilitary leader vaporised by a mystery car explosion.
'What is it, Georgie?' Kelly asked, sensing something.

The traffic was speeding up again now and Savage changed

gear angrily. 'It's Kurt, damn him.'

'Kurt?' Bewildered.

A bitter smile crossed Savage's face. She shouldn't really say
anything, but she was too shocked to care. 'I thought the three of
them were a bit quiet when I said how Castafio was an untouchable,
how he wouldn't ever be brought to justice. Christ, I should
have guessed!'

'I don't understand. Guessed what?'
'That Kurt had rigged the car.'
'Rigged?'

'A bomb. One of Kurt's specialities, picked it up somewhere in
South America. Virtually untraceable. The police will never
realise it was an act of sabotage, or at least have no evidence.'

Kelly looked back over her shoulder. 'You mean Kurt did that?
He's killed Miguel and...' Realisation dawned. 'And Claudia?
Oh, God, he hasn't?'

Savage suddenly began to chuckle softly, shaking her head


400

slowly from side to side. 'That's our hero. The last of the men in
the white hats,' she said with heavy irony. 'How do you see him
now? A Roy Rogers or a Gene Autry? Or maybe old Hopalong?
Or the Lone Ranger? Hell, who was that masked stranger? Hi-oh,
Silver!'

'You didn't know he was going to do it?'

'No, I didn't. But I should have guessed. It was like what happened
in Colombia.'

'What happened?'

'Some other time.' Her knuckles showed white on the wheel.
'It's the problem when you use a freelance force. Especially, that
particular force. They believe in people's justice, rough justice.
Reaching out to where the law can't.'

Kelly still appeared confused, but other implications were now
starting to become clear in her mind. 'Won't I be a suspect,
Georgie? I mean if I leave just after Miguel and Claudia are killed
by a car bomb. Isn't the jealous lover going to be top of the list?'

Savage considered for a moment, realising that Mallory would
have already thought it through and discussed it with Goldie.
'You might be a very unlikely suspect, I suppose. But that's if it
even occurs to the police that it could have been a bomb. Despite
Castafio's friends in high places, he also had enemies - especially
in the police. His company has defended ETA terrorists and as a
result of Kurt's work and Castafio's computer disk, I expect our
own Drugs Squad in London will eventually send the Madrid
police detailed intelligence of his suspected activities. So if a
bomb is even suspected, the obvious perpetrators will be a rival
drugs gang or a disaffected ETA member. A jilted lawyer girt
friend who happened to walk out on him at the same time as the
accident is hardly likely to be top of their priority list. At worst,
in a few weeks' time your local bobby might call to take a statement
on behalf of the Spanish police, but don't hold your breath.
Don't forget, I'm your witness, the friend who came to pick you
up after your lovers' tiff. If there's a problem, call me. My department
excels in pouring oil on troubled waters and smoothing ruffled
feathers.'

Kelly grinned uneasily. 'Thanks, Georgie, you're a real friend.


401

I just wish I could take it all in my stride like you. It had all
become a bit of a game until Emilio was killed. Now Miguel and
Claudia...' She looked down at her hands and saw that they
were trembling. 'I suppose, eventually, you can get used to these
things.'

Savage didn't reply. There were some things in this business
you could never ever get used to.

Savage changed back the number
plates on the rented SEAT in the
Madrid 200 car park, before returning
the vehicle to the hire company at the airport. Then she and Kelly
took a British Airways flight to Heathrow.

There they parted company, Savage leaving her friend at the
Aer Lingus ticket desk while she took a taxi back to London. On
the journey she had time to marshal her thoughts, beginning to
realise the favour that Mallory had done for her and her followup
operations. With Castafio dead, the likelihood was that the
White Viper consignments would continue on their planned
schedule through Europe over the next few weeks. And the full
details were on the floppy disk in her bag. That meant there was
now a strong possibility of arrests in Germany, Spain and, hopefully,
the UK.

They might even be able to put a finger on Stan Summers, the
flamboyant Essex crook. So far the only evidence against him
came from the operation in Colombia which could never be used
because, officially, it had never taken place. And the skeletons of
thirty British nationals were not what she or her chiefs at riverside
would ever want to hear ratting in a British courtroom.

As soon as she reached her office in the Vauxhall Cross building
she made two calls. The first was to her husband.

'Honey, I'm home!' she announced cheerily.

He was not amused. 'Home, sweetheart, is here. With me in
this empty armchair in front of the fire. Home is not your sodding
office.'

She couldn't blame him. Since spending many weeks in South
America, supposedly on UN business, she'd hardly been back a


403

month before disappearing to Spain. 'Listen, my favourite City
whiz kid, I just have to make one call and I'm on my way. I'll pick

up a takeaway and a bottle of plonk. How about that?'
'Make it a couple of bottles. Three even.'
'Something to celebrate?'

'Not exactly. I've just lost my job.'

The second call didn't exactly cheer her either. Sidney
Monckton, deputy chief of SIS, was clearly in his after-hours
malt whisky and a chat mood - his way of unwinding in the wake
of a hard day. He interrupted her brief update of events with a
jovial: 'Pop up now, Georgie-girl, this all sounds very interesting.
You're lucky I've an hour to spare before I have to be off to a
Mansion House dinner.'

Lucky? To find the deputy chief in mellow and reflective mood
was not what Savage called lucky, not when she should be rushing
home to give Giles a shoulder to cry on. But then it really
wouldn't do to have them both ruin their careers on. the same
day. And she had seen too many who had misread the smile on
the face of this particular tiger. Monckton's whims, suggestions
and polite invitations were ignored at your peril, as a downward
or sideways career move or posting to some godforsaken extremity
of the world would surely follow.

At least she found him in genuine good humour, the tall loose
limbed body reclining in his leather swivel chair, long fingers
interlaced across his chest and a smile on the remarkably boyish face.

'Sounds like a cause for modest congratulations,' he said,
splashing some amber liquid into a second tumbler. 'Now do
please relax yourself and give me chapter and verse.'

Not wanting to be there for a moment longer than she needed
to, Savage quickly ran through the events at the villa, outlining
the details of the European distribution plans for aite Viper.
He listened intently. His laughing eyes, magnified through the
pebble glass of his horn-rims, took on a distinctly steely glaze as
she revealed the involvement of the Captain in Budapest. This
was a major breakthrough and she was sure Monckton was visualising
the moment he broke the news to the Chief himself and


404

maybe even headed a deputation to
		before the Joint

	appear

Intelligence Committee of the Cabinet. A handso, me prize and
proof that there was still a vital r61e for SIS to play in the fight
against drugs now that threats to national security were getting
harder to come by. It might also help to stop mumblings about
the millions spent on the new art-deco headquarters next to
Vauxhall railway station.

'So this lawyer Castafio and one of his business partners died
in a car crash?' He could hardly keep the scepticism from his
question.

Savage smiled brightly. 'Very convenient for us, sir. I imagine
he just wasn't concentrating. My freelancer's interrogation probably
shook him up badly.'

Monckton frowned. 'And this - er - accident was nothing to
do with us?'

By that she knew he meant SIS. No possibility of fallout and
unpleasant repercussions.

'Sir.' Indignant. 'I would never issue such instructions. It has
all the appearances of a genuine accident.'

Thank you, Kurt, she said beneath her breath.

'Then once again your man Zigzagger is to be congratulated,'
Monckton said. She did not ell him the codename was now
Zookeeper. 'If the Captain and the Sportsmen are unaware of our
intelligence, then we must take immediate steps. There is a lot to
be done. Right now.' Of course she knew he was right. This really
couldn't wait until the morning. Buttons had to be pressed,
people activated. God, she was tired.

Reluctantly she returned to her office and phoned her husband
to give him the good news. By the sound of his slurred words he'd
been hitting the gin and tonic; it was a short and unloving conversation.

Then she convened a meeting with the. duty officer of Global
Issues Department and the operations desk. "/ithin the hour, the
Head of Station in Budapest would have his supper interrupted.
A surveillance team would have to be thrown together at short
notice. It was not a maior problem because SIS had always had
good contacts in Hungary even before the collapse of Com405


munism. They would have to assemble local talent because there
were few SIS field officers who had ever mastered one of the most
difficult languages on God's earth and most of them had retired
in recent years,

With dates and locations of the transport schedule known,
together with the registration numbers of the vehicles being used,
it should be relatively easy to pick up the trail.

Her meeting over and the plan of action laid, she telephoned
the duty desk at the Investigation Division of Customs House.
Their Drugs Liaison Officer for the region was based in Prague;
he would take the next flight to Budapest to co-ordinate and
dovetail their part in the operation with that of the intelligence
service.

There would inevitably, she knew, be problems as both organisations
tried to fight for overall control because both would want
to claim the eventual credit. At least her people had a head start
and held the initiative .....

But it was all so tiresome, being dragged into these big boys'
games, especially when the real achievement would be down to

	organisation that didn't even exist. Didn't even have a name.

an

When Savage finally left the office it was two in the morning

and the lights were still burning in ops.


They came for him at eleven thirty. Four of the bastards, brick
faced Slavs in box-cut suits reminiscent of the old KGB style. But
nowadays the material was sharp and expensive and they spent all
their time talking to each other on portable telephones.

Kevin Sheehan was waiting for them in the lobby of the Grand
Corvinus and they knew exactly where to find him. One of them
spoke English but there was no need for words. Sheehan stood
and walked out, flanked by two men on each side, to the waiting
Lexus saloon with its smoked-glass windows.

They travelled in silence, Sheehan preoccupied with the reasons
for this hastily arranged visit. He liked Budapest. Normally
he would have enjoyed its architecture and old buildings, its
parks and coffee shops. He would have again been amused by the
Hungarian penchant for decorating their dull Ladas and Skodas


406

with brightly coloured transfers before the ancient cars inevitably
ended their days unceremoniously dumped at the. kerbside with
flat tyres. And he would have eyed up the girls with their dark
natural good looks and liking for indecently skimpy hot pants.
Girls whom he knew the Captain and others had been quick to
exploit for the burgeoning porno business: naive and anxious to
please, they were only too happy to perform for a fraction of the
rate of their West European counterparts. The free market economy
had arrived for good or ill.

But today Sheehan was blind to everything except the reasons
for his visit.

They crossed the Danube and then along the embankment
before pulling up outside the double-decked rotunda of the grand
Gellrt hotel. Its marble pillars and baroque stone walls, now festooned
in ivy, had been raised in 1918 to house the reception
halls and guest rooms and the public baths they now entered.

Sbeehan didn't like meeting here. Citizens queued for tickets in
this mausoleum of a place beneath the vaulted ceiling and stainedglass
skylight dome; they stood in groups on the mosaic floor,
chatting or peering at the art-deco statues as they waited for
friends. Definitely too many eyes and ears for Sheehan's liking,
but this was where the Captain chose to hold court.

He'd asked Nikolai Khuchuk once, why, when he had a splendid
dacha with indoor and outdoor pools, he was inclined to
spend so much of his time here at the public baths? The
Ukrainian had looked at him as though the answer was stupidly
obvious. 'It reminds me of home,' he said.

Then Sheehan had understood. In recently democratised
Budapest, the public baths with their steam rooms and cold
plunges and fat babushka attendants were the only reminders of
typical daily life under the old Communist regimes of eastern
Europe. For all his wealth and influence and power, Nikolai
Khuchuk was homesick.

One of the Sportsmen disappeared into the door marked
Thermal and Weight Room; Sheehan kicked his heels, uncomfortable,
trying to keep his face turned away from any casual
onlookers.


407

It seemed an age before Khuchuk emerged and he clearly had
no qualms about being seen. Here he was king and amongst loyal
subjects, untouchable.

'Mr Sheehan, what a delight!' His voice was deep and pure
Oxbridge with barely a trace of accent, although he had never set
foot in England; he had been taught at a KGB language school.

He was swaddled in a terry-towelling gown which added to his
girth and accentuated his short stature. His greying curly hair was
still damp from the steam and he was smoking a cigar. There was
a tigerish smile on his broad face and a hard glint in the crinkled
eyes.

'Would you like to swim?' Khuchuk asked. 'You can hire swim
shorts and towels.'

'I would like to talk.'

The tiger smiled. 'Our friend Castafio liked to swim. Liked to
show off to the girls.'

'Castafio won't be swimming any more. Or showing off. He's
dead.'

Khuchuk's expression hardly changed; he covered his surprise
by blowing a perfect smoke ring. 'I wondered why he failed to

keep our appointment. And no word of explanation, nothing.'
'A car crash.'

'I'm sorry. Let's have a drink and talk.'

He led the way through the pool room with its potted palms
and sunbeds and up to an open-air terrace with a stone
balustrade. It overlooked the hotel grounds and the outdoor"
pools. Three of the Sportsmen positioned themselves nearby,
ever watchful, whilst the fourth arranged for drinks.

The Ukrainian relaxed on a lounger. 'The last time I met with
Miguel Castafio - a few weeks ago- he mentioned there had
been a slight hiccup on.the production side.'

Sheehan's smile hid his real feelings. Slight hiccup? Wasn't that
just the understatement of the decade, even the century? Their
entire Colombian operation wiped out overnight and the camp
set ablaze - the warning tip-off of what was about to happen
being telephoned to Castafio one hour too late. It had come from
another cartel who'd got wind of what was happening. Rivals they


408

may have been but in Colombia they shared several mutual enemies
- not least the DEA which, they understood, had infiltrated
the White Viper operation. That seemed to be supported by
simultaneous events in Venezuela and Bolivia where raids on the
distribution network and the supply gangs in the Chapare were
co-ordinated by known DEA personnel. A total, cataclysmic
meltdown.

Not for the first time Sheehan wondered if the tip-off coming
just one hour too late was coincidence.

He said: 'There will be a disruption in supply.'

'Oh.' Khuchuk didn't attempt to hide his disappointment.
'For about six weeks.'

The tiger's smile returned. 'Is that all?'

Te have new partners in Colombia. They are very efficient.'
'Six weeks,' Khuchuk echoed. "We can live with that.'
'But there is another consequence.'
'Yes?'

'During the period of- er - disruption,-it is possible the
integrity of current shipments was compromised. Therefore precautions
must be taken.'

Khuchuk's eyes narrowed a fraction. 'Of course. What do you
have in mind, a change of schedulin#'

'Yes and no. Keep to the schedule and run the allotted
vehicles, but run them clean. Meanwhile transfer the product
to different vehicles and run them on a new schedule. That is why
I am here - to help you set up a new schedule.'

The Ukrainian tossed his cigar butt into a nearby plant pot.
'An expensive operation at this stage.'

Bastard, Sheehan thought, but he'd been expecting it. 'But
necessary.'

'Our percentage must rise by five .points.'

'No.' The Irishman was firm. Already the Captain was squeezing
them until their eyes watered. The new east European businessmen
had no idea of the give-and-take of Western commerce;
if they had an advantage, they pressed it to the point of self
destruction. 'No percentage increase. Te'll just cover the real
cost expense.'


409

Khuchuk looked unhappy.

'Before you say a word,' Sheehan added, 'remember that your
outfit is our first choice, but not our only one.'

The Ukrainian didn't answer immediately. His mind went

back nine months to when he'd first tried to double-cross
Sheehan - to the shoot-out on the patch of waste ground beside
the Danube on the city's outskirts. His men hadn't known where
they'd come from - they'd appeared as though from nowhere.
Without hesitation they'd gunned down three of his lieutenants.
Only later was he told the men had come from Belfast and had
bought their guns from a local Serbian mafia down in Szeged.

From that bitter experience Khuchuk had learned respect for
Kevin Sheehan's people; they knew their way around, they had
power and they weren't afraid to use it.

The beers arrived and the Captain raised his glass. 'To our
partnership - renewed!'


They hit the warehouse in Brentwood at dawn. Drug Squad officers
backed by armed units from PTI7 and local police and investigators
from Customs and Excise swooped to cut off the little
industrial estate just off the M25 and isolated the razor-wired
compound where the articulated container truck had been parked
since arriving off the cross-Channel ferry. It had been followed all
the way across Europe from Budapest, through Austria and
Germany to France.

Exactly to schedule, thought Savage as she sat at the wheel of
the inconspicuous green Cavalier and watched the flashing blue
lights through the rain while the police used bolt cutters to snap
the gate chains.

'Should be feeling proud of yourself, Georgie-girl,' Monckton
said.

She hadn't wanted him here, never in a million years. Certainly
not until it was sewn up for sure. But Monckton, being
Monckton, had insisted. No doubt wanted to share the glory, or
claim it for himself.

'Many a slip twixt cup and lip, sir,' she replied, just a touch
frostily.


410

'But it's all to the schedule.'

Yes, she thought, to schedule. Straight off Miguel Castaflo's
computer disk. The right route, the right dates, the right vehicle
registration. Just one thing out of place. 'I'm still worried about
the driver and his mate.'

'Probably not important.'

But she'd known since the container truck had passed through
Dover that their names were different from the schedule and she
thought it might be important. Even very important.

'The previous names showed up, sir. These don't.'

The original driver on the schedule was a smalltime
Hungarian crook with previous form according to the Budapest
police. His mate was from Londonderry, middle-aged with a
minor unauthorised-possession-of-firearms offence to his credit.
Into this Savage had read: driver supplied by the Sportsmen and the Provisional IRA riding shotgun.

Now the two new names meant nothing to her. Both were
Hungarian and both, according to Budapest, were clean.

The arclights came on in the unloading bay where the giant
truck stood, its anonymous red flanks caked with dust and road
dirt after its journey across Europe.

Another police car joined the collection gathered outside the
compound and Savage recognised the man who climbed out of
the rear. He was wearing a trenchcoat against the rain and was
standing between two plain-clothes officers, gesticulating in an
obvious display of protest.

Stan Summers hadn't been arrested, she knew. They just
called at his home in the early hours and invited him to attend a
raid on one of his business premises.

He stood, hands in pockets, for the next two hours while the
technical experts used a forklift to remove the freezer unit from
the container. It was clean. In near desperation other officers
stripped down the rest of the empty container, prising off the
inside panels and the insulation. Inside the warehouse the cargo
of mixed foodstuffs was examined, making it unfit for human
consumption in the process.

The sun had come up to introduce a wet, grey and bleak


411

autumn morning; it wasn't looking good.

Monckton was beginning to wish he hadn't come. 'Go over
and see what they've found.'

She was glad to be away from him, to be out of the stale air and
stretching her legs.

Stan Summers was still there, his chubby face beaming and
looking pleased with himself; quite cocky now that the initial
shock had worn off. He had even been joined by his solicitor and
the two of them were chatting and smiling.

Deciding how much compensation they would sting them for,
Savage thought. She lit a cigarette and, keeping in the background,
sought out one of her contacts from Customs.

'Any luck?' she asked.

He looked grim. 'I thought this was STI?'

Specific Target Intelligence. 'So did I.'

'Go home, Georgie, unless you like watching grown men cry.'
'I'm sorry.'

She crossed back over the road towards the Cavalier. Somehow
they'd known. Or else taken precautions and just got lucky.
Without STI the next stash of White Viper could be aboard any
one of the hundreds of container trucks coming across the
Channel that day. Or the next, or the one after. They'd lost the
needle in the haystack and it was one sodding big haystack.

'It's a blowout,' she said climbing back behind the wheel. She
felt deflated, as if all her efforts in Colombia and Spain had been
a waste of time. They hadn't, of course, but without a result on
home turf it just felt like it.

Monckton offered no consolation; he'd seen success and failure
a hundred times before. 'Best get back to riverside. Work to
be done.'

She turned on the engine. 'I could do with a few days off,' she
said, and meant it.

'Lick the old wounds, eh, Georgie-girl.' He laughed that
fourth-form laugh of his. 'Regird one's loins and prepare to rejoin
the fray.'

She engaged gear. 'I'd like to get away for a while.'

'Splendid idea. Take that husband of yours away to the Lake


412

District, a cottage or something. Do you the world of good.'

Fuck off, Monckton! she mouthed silently and let out the
clutch with an angry iolt.

He seemed to get the message; he said nothing more, which
was unusual.


Mallory stretched out his legs and dug his bare feet into the sand,
enjoying the sensation of it running between his toes.

It was years since he had done anything remotely like this.
Probably not since his childhood. Lying on a beach along
Durban's golden mile, doing nothing but enjoying the tepid sunshine
of the African spring and listening to the pounding surf.
The experience was not unpleasant, but it felt profoundly alien.

Goldie was lying out beside him, his body looking pale and
emaciated in the baggy blue swimming shorts. He propped himself
up on his elbows, his long hair tangled by the offshore breeze,
and watched his wife and kids at play.

Aggie was as reed-thin as her husband bt much younger.
Despite her fragile build, there was something wholesome arid
comforting about her. Perhaps it was her disregard for makeup
and fashion, Mallory thought. A combination of the very long
hair, the pale lashes of those powder blue eyes and the lazy smile.
He was reminded of a pot-smoking flowerchild, a disciple of free
love who had made an effortless transition into earth mother. As
she shovelled a plastic spade full of sand onto the castle keep, it
was easy to see that nothing would perturb her, unsettle her
peace of mind.

Their two naked children jumped up and down and squealed
with glee as sea water rushed into the little moat. A boy and a girl,
four and three.

'This could be you some day soon,' Goldie said.

The?'

'Family man. Changing nappies. Picnics in the park.' A sly
grin. 'I saw the way she looked at you at the villa. And the way

you looked at her. It was written all over your face.'

'What was?'

'The big question.'


413

'You think so?'

'I know so. We all need someone, Kurt, even you. I used to

think that my life was my work until Aggie came along. Then the
kiddies. Guess it puts things into perspective.' He stared out at
the glimmering waves of the Indian Ocean as they tumbled languidly
towards the shore. 'She's a very pretty girl, Kurt. Mario
thought so too, and he is an expert. And a warm personality. Too
good for you, my friend. You should marry her before she finds
another boyfriend like Castafio.'

Mallory nodded. 'You're right.'

'So you'll marry her?'

A grin. 'I meant you're right, she's too good for me.'

Goldie gave one of his rare squeaks of laughter. 'You should let

her be the judge of that, but take my advice and don't leave it tOO
long. You're welcome to stay with us here for as long as you like,
but you must ask yourself how long is she likely to wait?'

Mallory watched two cormorants flying high above the beach.

His friend was right, had seen it in his eyes. He had been alone
in life too long, keeping friends and lovers at a distance. Exactly
what was it he was afraid of?. It was time to change, to recognise
that barely a second had passed since they'd left Madrid that
Kelly hadn't been in his thoughts. He'd promised himself he'd
stay with Goldie's family for a week. And yet it was now ten days
and still he hadn't made a move.

He asked himself why. It wasn't that he wanted to put off the
moment, his longing to be with her again was like an ache in his
gut. It was something else. Something else was unsettling him.
Even here, lounging on the beach in mild sunshine and with the
laughter of children ringing in his ears, he felt a nagging sense of
unease. But not of the future; it was a sensation he recognised all
too well from his past. Events at Cruz de Oro and in Madrid had
happened thousands of miles away and were fast drifting into the
mist of time. Yet they were still haunting him. Even here he felt
as though eyes were always watching.

He said suddenly: 'Maybe we shouldn't have come here so

soon after Madrid.'

Goldie shrugged. 'We covered our tracks.'


414

'I always make a point of disappearing for a month or two. To
let the trail go cold.'

'It's not a luxury I can afford, Kurt. iF i did that I'd spend half
the year unemployed. Anyway, I switch identity when I travel and
I've lived here now for ten years without problems. We have good
friends and neighbours, we go to dances and barbecues. No one
knows who I really am or what I do. They think I'm a travelling
salesman. Why not? Boxes and compartments, isn't that what the
experts have always taught us?'

'No security is ever a hundred per cent foolproof. There was
that break-in at my home.'

Goldie looked sceptical. 'Is that what all this is about? That
incident at Bogotfi airport still preying on your mind? And you
still think Dale Forster's death was suspicious?'

'The boat exploded and sank without trace in thirty fathoms,

Goldie. No one will ever know the truth.'

'I never had you down as paranoid.'

Mallory laughed uneasily. 'I've been in this game too long.
Maybe I'm starting to think I can't still get away with it. That's
why I quit before - after I came too close to getting caught out. I
only came back to avenge Vic West.'

'You are starting to depress me. How about an ice cream?'

'Sure, why not?' Mallory grinned at his friend's attempt to
change the subject. 'I haven't had an ice cream in years.'

'You should do. Remind yourself of your childhood and keep
in touch with your soul.'

Goldie had meant it well enough, but Mallory had no desire to
remember certain aspects of his childhood. That had been when
darkness had first touched any soul he still had left.

The children and Aggie placed their order and Mallory trudged
with Goldie across the sand towards the promenade.

'By the way, Kurt, I got a call from Mario last night. He
phoned just after you'd turned in. That idiot has got no idea
about international time zones! Sends his best wishes. He's now
bought this little house on Martinique. He's settling down and
has got himself a fishing boat.'

'Any new woman in his life?'


415

Goldie shook his head, struggling against the breeze as it
tugged at his voluminous shorts. 'Doesn't sound like it. He's still
having wet dreams about Victor Tafur's girl. Blames himself for
what happened. He says he'll wait for six months or so and go
back to Bogoti. See if he can find Juanita and persuade her to
marry him. Sometimes that man acts like a love-sick bull!'

'Knowing Mario, he might just pull it off. He was very fond of

her.' They were nearing the promenade now and could see the
ice-cream van. 'And you, Goldie, what are your plans?'

'It must be catching,' he laughed, 'but I'm thinking of retiring

too. Freelancing is a precarious business. My mortgage is paid off

and I'm due a modest pension from Mossad.'

'What about the organisation?'

'Maybe I'll keep my hand in from time to time. Unlike you,

Kurt, I am not self-taught. I was professionally trained and old katsas never die. But maybe for the kids' sake, I ought to just fade
away.'

Mallory noticed the parked motorcycle out of the corner of his

eye. It was an ancient model that had been obviously repainted
by hand; two black youths wearing woollen hats and shabby nondescript
clothes sat astride it, watching people walk by. Girl-spotting,
he thought idly as Goldie joined the queue for the ice-cream
van.

Out at sea a white haze was settling over the horizon, blending

the water with the sky so that it was impossible to see the exact

line where one ended and the other began.

He heard Goldie order five cones with bars of chocolate flake

at the same time as the black motorcyclist began to kick-start his
machine. Twice, three times the engine gave an irritating cough,
as though trying unsuccessfully to clear phlegm. Mallory shared
the motorcyclist's frustration himself, listening with only half an
ear, absently willing the thing to start. If it hadn't started on the
fifth attempt and promptly backfired, he would probably never
have looked.

The loud fart of exhaust turned several heads. His eyes left
Goldie, who was walking back towards him with the five cones
cradled precariously in both hands, and he shifted his gaze in the


416

other direction. The motorcycle was wobbling uncertainly into
motion, the pillion passenger's legs still outstretched, coming in
Mallory's direction.

It flashed inexplicably through his mind that something was
wrong. But no, there was nothing wrong. But there was.
Something very wrong. The young black faces had vanished, hidden
behind masks of wool. His lasting impression was of the
whites of their eyes, wide with apprehension at what they were
about to do. Then he saw the weapon in the pillion passenger's
hand. Just a glinting barrel. A revolver, an automatic, some sort
of machine pistol. It was impossible to tell. The man's knees
gripped the side of the machine as the gun came up, held in a
double grip.

It all happened in agonising slow motion as the motorcycle
passed him by, the rider crouched over the handlebars, struggling
to hold it steady at a slow and even speed. The pillion seeking out
his target. Mallory thinking the danger was past; it wasn't him.
Then thinking, so who? And remembering-Goldie, walking
towards him. Trying to pirouette, raising his hand in warning, the
scream coming belatedly to his throat.

'WATCH OUT!' The force of his cry tore at his vocal chords.
But it was all too late.
Goldie Goldstein had been lifted off his feet and flung back
into the queue at the ice-cream van. Others were down, too. A
young woman and an older man, both lying on the pavement.
Covered in blood and screaming. And a child, a small boy,
writhing in his death throes as his mother rushed towards him.
Blobs of ice cream splattered everywhere over the red-soaked
clothing.

Mallory stood and stared, paralysed, as the motorcycle backfired
again and the young rider acce!erated, disappearing into the
stream of passing traffic.


A random killing, the policeman thought.

He was a polite Afrikaner and he chose his words carefully for
Aggie's benefit. Only in his mid-twenties but his eyes bore the
hardened expression of an older man who had seen it all before.


417

Probably boys from one of the townships, discontented that
the great promise of the New South Africa hadn't lived up to
their expectations, that nothing much had really changed. The
police had been anticipating a backlash and maybe this was part
of it. A lot of disaffected youths out there, still simmering with
resentment. Gun-trained by the ANC in the old days. Some a bit
unstable. Drive into a nice town like Durban and shake it up a
bit. Why not.) Take a shot at the old enemy, let the white trash
know that not everyone with a black skin had forgotten or forgiven.

The police would find them though; the old motorcycle was a
good clue. But it might take a while.

Mallory let him out. Aggie wasn't aware that the policeman
had left, she was on another planet. Curled on her bed in a foetal
ball, sobbing with her thumb in her mouth. Her candyfloss world
shattered and her children, not yet understanding what had happened
to their father, taken in by caring neighbours.

She had calmed down a little by the evening when he took her a cup of tea. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she was so shaky that
the cup rattled in the saucer when he gave it to her.

'I got your parents' number from your address book,' he said.
'They're driving down from Ladysmith.'

She was still numbed. 'Dad never did like Goldie.'

'I'm sure that's not true.'

Aggie sniffed. 'Why him, Kurt.) Why.) Goldie of all people
would never persecute anyone for their race or beliefs. His father
died in Auschwitz.'

Auschwitz, Mallory thought. How many people were aware of
the irony of its translation: the last laugh. Well, Goldie had had
the last laugh all right. His life had been spent trying to destroy
the sort of evil that had resulted in his father's death. That had
been his private motivation for working with Mossad, and later
the organisation, though he doubted Aggie knew that; it was the
sort of thing Goldie would keep to himself.

'Sometimes these things just happen,' Mallory answered lamely.

She squeezed his hand. 'I'm glad you're here. How long will
you stay?'


418

'For as long as you want me to.'

For the first time her eyes were clear of tears. 'I. must learn to
cope. That's what Goldie would say. And you've got your own
life to lead. He told me you've got someone back in Ireland who's
waiting for you. You must go to her. She's very lucky.'

That night, after Aggie's parents had arrived and the family
were sitting up late to commiserate with her, Mallory went to the
room Goldie had used as his study. There was a notepad by the
telephone. Mario had phoned the previous night, his friend had
said. He flipped over the top sheet and there it was. A Martinique
telephone number for the new house.

He lifted the receiver and dialled, Wondering how best to break
the news.

It was a bad line. A strange and distorted voice answered in
French.

'May I talk to Monsieur Dubois?' Mallory asked in Spanish.

The man had no difficulty in switching languages. 'Who is calling
please?'

'A friend.'

'I must have a name.'

Mallory felt an uneasy crawling sensation in his stomach. 'Who
is that?'

'This is a police officer. You must give me your name.'

On impulse Mallory said: 'Smith. William Smith. I am a friend
of Mario's and I'm calling from South Africa. Now please put me
through.'

'I'm afraid that's not possible. Sefior Dubois is dead. I am the
Scene-of-Crime officer. Now I must ask you for your address and
telephone number for our file.'


No one appeared to be watching thebungalow from the quiet and
carefully tended Durban suburb street. But it was not yet dawn so
he couldn't be certain and Mallory was taking no chances.

Leaving a note for Aggie, he slipped out through the kitchen
door at the rear. The small garden backed onto another and he
scaled the fence into the adioining grounds. In minutes he found
himself on the sidewalk of a virtually identical parallel street.


419

Same clapboard bungalows in pastel colours, same pretty front
gardens and cropped lawns. He began walking at a brisk pace,
frequently glancing back over his shoulder. Watching the shadows,
listening for footsteps - or the sound of a motorcycle.

His head was still reeling from what he had learned from the
policeman at Mario's home o/a Martinique. Bludgeoned to death
by an unknown intruder, the place wrecked in the search for valuables.
The crime probably committed by a burglar high on something
or other-- but until investigations were complete...

All this had to be some kind of nightmare. Dale Forster, an
accident. Goldie, the victim of a freakish random killing. Mario
murdered by some dope-crazed thief.

It was too much to swallow. Mallory never had been a great
believer in extended coMcidence, but he couldn't be sure. He'd
even been witness to Goldie's death and he still couldn't tell
whether Goldie had been the specific target or the entire ice
cream queue, chosen to represent the white middle class. Was it
a messily botched assassination or a deliberate massacre? He
didn't even know if the killer had been after him too? Had he just
been standing too far away to be taken in a single burst or had
the killer flunked the job?

All he knew was that over half the team that had gone into
Colombia was now dead. And if it wasn't an amazing sequence
of unlucky events, then who was behind it? And what was the
motive, the reason?

Only he and Savage were left now. And if the break-in at his
croft had been part of it, then by rights he too should now be
dead. And that would have left George as the sole survivor.

Yet the killing process - if that's what it was - had begun before
the mission to Madrid when he was still working for her and her
masters at SIS. It didn't make sense, although everything pointed
to some sort of governmental hand behind it all. Considerable
power, influence, finance and resources were required to track
down so many individuals to different parts of the world and to
orchestrate a series of accidents or apparently motiveless killings.
It smacked of the work of some intelligence agency, but the real
reason for it all still eluded him.


420

As he continued walking and the day began to break, he felt
calmer. For the moment at least he was certain that no one was
following. The streets were filling with pedestrians making their
way to work, cars were coming out of their driveways and taxis
beginning to ply their trade.

He picked one up at a rank and told the cabbie to take him to
Durban airport. Using his Jim Tate passport he took the first
available flight to Johannesburg. Rather than fly to Heathrow, he
booked on an afternoon flight to Paris. It would add a day to the
journey by taking a train to Calais and then a ferry to Dover, but
it meant a far better chance of entering the country unnoticed.

Thirty-six hours later he was back in London. As soon as he
arrived at Waterloo station he made his way to a call box and telephoned
the only number he had for Savage. Her direct office line.
A man answered. 'Yes.' No extension, no form of identity.

'I'd like to speak to Mrs Hayes.' It was the cover name she'd
used in Venezuela and Colombia.

There was a hesitation, the man presumably checking the list
of aliases she used. 'She's out of the office at present.' His tone

was abrupt and singularly unhelpful.

'How long for?'

'I really couldn't say.' The pompous response told Mallory he
was asking for classified information.

'Out like in hours or in days?' Mallory snapped.

'I really don't know.' Then, as an afterthought: 'Give me a
number and I'll ask her to call you when she's back.'

'That's no good. I can't be reached.'

'Then you'll have to call again.'

One more try, he thougbt. 'When? Tomorrow? Next week?'
'I really couldn't say.'

Like a bloody robot! Mallory seethed. Did he tell this smug jerk
that he had an unconfirmed suspicion that someone, but he
didn't know who, might be out to assassinate Intelligence Officer
Savage but that he had no idea why?

No, he thought not. For all he knew he was speaking to the
man who was arranging it. And if he left a message he'd called
then it would be known he was back in the country.


421

/

He made it sound as though it didn't matter. 'Not to worry, it
was just a personal call. Thanks anyway.' And hung up.

Another tack was necessary, another route. He called the
number of Portcullis Industries and asked for Colonel Oliver
Maidment. He was promptly put through to his personal secretary.

Her
manner was the absolute opposite of the man who had
answered Savage's telephone.- 'I'm afraid he's away on business
in Belgrade at the moment. Can I help you or take a message?'

'Would you just tell him Kurt called. I'm going home and
there's an urgent contract to sign.'

He could imagine her sharp intake of breath. That last phrase
was open code for there is trouble and a meeting is required
immediately. At least that's what Maidment knew. His secretary,
who had been with the colonel for years, realised it meant her
boss must be hunted down wherever he was in the world, even if
it meant interrupting a conference with a head of state, as it
sometimes had. But although aware of the importance of the
phrase, she would never, ever be allowed to know its true significance.

Mallory
felt happier now. Either Maidment himself or some
trusted intermediary would act as soon as his message was
received. They could discuss the deaths of Forster, Goldie and
Mario and decide what action should be taken. And Maidment
had the clout to knock on the door of the Secret Intelligence
Setwice. It would open to him.

Digging in his pocket for more change, he dialled Kelly's office
number in Dublin, only to be informed that she'd taken a few
days off. She was staying with her father in County Kerry.

He dialled again and waited for what seemed an age. In his
imagination he could see the telephone on the table in the large
and fusty hallway, its strident old-fashioned ring echoing around
the ageing panelled walls. Someone running down the long corridors
to answer it.

The tone stopped abruptly; it was Kelly. 'Kurt! Where are
you?'

'London. I'm coming home.'


422

'Thank God for that.' She sounded genuinely relieved.

'Are you okay?'

'Sure, I'm fine. But I was starting to worry about you when you
didn't show after a week. Georgie warned me you go walkabout,

as she put it, but when I didn't hear...'

'Have you been to the croft?'

'Just once, last week. I saw Mattie.'

'And there are no problems?'

The penny dropped. 'Oh, you mean the break-in.'

'Or any strangers snooping around the area?'

'Mattie didn't say. Look, Kurt, when are you coming back?
You could get a flight to Shannon tomorrow morning. I'll meet
you at the airport. Do you have any flight times?'

He told her. 'And don't mention to anyone I'm coming.'
She sounded puzzled. 'No, okay.'
'I'll see you then.'
'Kurt, I've missed you.'

Why did he find such endearments so difficult to utter? 'And
believe me, I've missed you too.'

18

The airliner came in to land under a
leaden, blustery sky. Wind and rain
squalled across the runway, muffling

the roar of the engines as they went into reverse thrust.

Kelly was waiting by the glass exit doors. A soaked trenchcoat
hung open on her shoulders, revealing her sweater and th
inevitable jodhpurs; her copper hair was sodden and dark, lying
flat against her head. But her grin was wide as she saw him striding
towards her. 'Welcome home to sunny Ireland,' she greeted
and threw her arms around his neck.

Mallory was drenched too by the time they reached her
Discovery in the car park. Dumping his rucksack on the hack
seat, he climbed in beside her as she started the engine and ran
up the blowers to clear the condensation on the windscreen.

'Five days nonstop,' she told him, shaking her head with
incredulity. 'Why do I love this country? I must be mad.'

Within minutes they had reached the road and he found himself
glancing over his shoulder to see if anything was following.

But in the drifting downpour it was difficult to distinguish

more than vague vehicle shapes and the misty haloes of dipped
headlights. '.Did you tell anyone you were coming to pick me up?'

'No,' she said, laughing as she spared him a sideways glance. 'I

was terrified to say a word! Why all the secrecy?'
'Mario and Goldie have been murdered.'
'You're kidding!'

The car wandered over the centre line and an oncoming vehicle
blasted out a warning. 'Keep your eyes on the road, will you!'

She stared ahead. 'God,. you're not kidding. Of course you're

not. I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. What happened?'


424

He told her. 'And that's the reason for the secrecy. In all, three
of the five of us who did the Colombian job are now dead.
There's only me and George left. I've tried to reach her to warn
her, but she's either out of the country or on vacation. I couldn't
get any sense out of her office. I just hope toGod she's all fight.'

'Ah!' Kelly said, now understanding. Well, at least you've no

need to worry on that score.'

'What do you mean?'

'She's perfectly safe. She's staying with me. Even as we speak
she's at home with Dad. He's probably got her playing chess with
him. I expect she has the right mind for it and he likes a challenge.
He wipes me out every time.'

'You didn't tell me yesterday.'

'That Georgie was staying?' She gave a mischievous grin. 'Well, I might have if you hadn't run out of coins. Why don't you
get yourself a phonecard like everyone else?'

He smiled for the first time with a growing sense of relief. 'How
long has she been with you?' 'A
couple of days. I spoke to her on the phone last week. She
was quite down. Problems at work apparently - on top of her

breakup.'

'What?'

'You didn't know she and that awful husband of hers have
split? Would you believe it? They had a terrible row and Giles
stomped off back to his mother's!'

'Maybe they'll get back together.' He hoped so; she deserved
some happiness.

'I wouldn't bet on it. It sounds pretty final. He whs iealous of
her career and you know how she feels about that. Anyway, she
sounded pretty wretched and jumped at the idea of a few days'
break. I hope you're not going to let her steal you back from me.

I won't allow it, Mr Mallory. Do you hear me?'

He grinned. 'What it is to be loved!'

She shared his good humour and laughed, but he sensed something
was troubling her. Her next words confirmed it. 'All this
talk of love.., yet sometimes I think I hardly know you.'

He shrugged. 'What you see is what you get.'


425

After a pause she said, concentrating as the wipers struggled to
keep the windscreen clear: 'But it isn't, Kurt, is it? Not really.
There's another side to you, a side people like me never usually
see. Georgie knew and then I saw it in Madrid and - and it

bloody well scared the pants off me.'

'You mean Miguel's bodyguard?'

'That, yes. And the violence, the things you do. Why do you do them? I've asked Georgie but she doesn't seem to know really:
She said you killed your first person when you were about
twenty.'

Suddenly the confines of the Discovery seemed claustrophobic,
airless. He had a feeling of being trapped, confronted by this
woman who had come to mean so much to him. She was forcing
him to admit something to her, something she had every right to
do ff he wanted to share his life with her. The trouble was it was
something he'd buried deep in his subconscious long ago. VeD'
deep and had tried to leave it undisturbed.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. 'George told you that, did

she? Did she tell you who the man was?'

'Some Mexican thug.'

He nodded. 'A murdering bully who intimidated local farmers
to get his way. He was above the law and no one would do anything
about it.'

'But you did.'

'Because I can't tolerate intimidation. I know what it's like that
empty dread feeling of fear and helplessness. I knew all about
that when I was a kid.'

'In Paraguay.' She glanced sideways at him. 'Tell me, Kurt.
Tell me what made you the way you are?'

The traffic noise from outside .was muted by the hum of the
blowers and the constant thrash of the wipers became mesmeric.
He'd never been more aware of her presence, her closeness and
the smell of her. They were enclosed in their own private world.
Just the two of them, like being in the Confessional. Needing to
talk and needing to listen. 'I've never told anyone.'

'Perhaps you should have. What was it like there?'

'Great for a growing boy - but primitive. The Glaubehaus had


426

moved out there from England during the war and they'd had to
build the entire community from scratch. The area had become
a place of refuge for various other sects, like the Mennonites and
the Hutterians. It was in the middle of nowhere, just miles of
scrub grass and a few palms. They put up a church and a schoolhouse
at the centre of the estancia and a hospital eventually and
three residential settlements nearby.

'I was fostered by a family who lived at Isla Madonna, the first
village they erected; the old man worked at the sawmill. It was
fine at first, a dream childhood. Transport was all by horse or oxwagon.
There was fishing in the Tapiraquay, orange groves and

monkeys in the woods, wild jasmine and orchids...'

Kelly smiled. 'That sounds idyllic - even to a girl.'

For a moment Mallory was silent, lost in the sudden rush of
memories.

'But it all went wrong?' she prompted.

He inclined his head. 'I was always a bit of a wild kid, but it got
bad once I learned I was an orphan. I resented having no parents
like other kids. It was no fun for the family who fostered me.
They were religious and strict - dedicated House of Faith followers
- and I must have seemed like the devil's son to them.' He
paused to light a cigarette, finding it almost physically painful to
haul his mind back over thirty years, to uneart what had happened.
'When I got too much for them to cope with, the couple
took me to the Glanbehaus administrators to ask for help and
advice.'

'What happened?'

'In their wisdom they accepted an offer from Brother Hermann
to take me in and look after me. He was highly respected,, but had
never married. Maybe that should have made them think, but it
didn't. For a year or so we got on well. He was wise in his way.
He gave me a lot of personal freedom and taught me a lot. Too
much in the end. I'd got friendly with some local Paraguayan
kids, farmers' sons. Brother Hermann, I realise now, was jealous.
That's when the abuse started. Began touching me up, made me
do things to him. It all made me feel odd, dirty and bloody frightened.
Said if I told anyone he'd have me Excluded - that's like


427

the Amish custom of 'shunning'. You know, put under curfew,
sent to Coventry and all privileges halted. Everyone was in dread

of that, kids as well as adults. Then the beatings started.'
'How old were you then?'
'About nine and a half.'

'Christ,' she said quietly. He Could hear the anger in her voice.
'Wasn't there anyone you could tell?'

'After a while I did. I told my foster parents. But they couldn't
believe it of Brother Hermann and told me to stop making up
stories and spreading lies. Then I tried some of the Glaubehaus
elders - with the same result. No one believed me and no one
helped. I was alone and terrified. That's why I hate intimidation,
why I hate the untouchables in this life. Sorry if that sounds ,trite,
it's just the way it is.'

Kelly was silent for a second. 'So that's why you killed for the
first time?'

'Yes. And I learned the sweetness of revenge.'

'That thug in Mexico who was terrorising your friends.'
Suddenly it seemed very hushed in the vehicle, its confines
pressing in on him. He looked at her, realising she hadn't understood.
Couldn't have understood because he'd never told anyone,
not even Savage. 'No. Brother Hermann on my eleventh
birthday. That's why I ran away.'


By the time they reached County Kerry it was getting premao
turely dark and there was no respite from the weather. It was
hurling itself in from the Atlantic, spewing squalls across the
countryside in howls of rage so fierce that trees were bending
under the force of it.

'Come in for a drink,' Kelly invited as they neared the O'More
house. 'I know Georgie would love to see you and Dad always
used to say I shouldn't keep you hidden away.'

Mallory shook his head. 'I'd like to get back to the croft.' Now
he knew Savage was safe, he really didn't want to see anyone until
he'd consulted Maidment.

'You crazy man,' Kelly said. 'It'll be damp and cold. Wait till
morning when the weather's supposed to clear. I've got your


428

horses in my stable, we could ride over together.'

That made sense, he supposed. 'You've talked me into it.'
They turned in between the old gate pillars and the Discovery's
suspension began to bounce; the untended potholes in the drive
were even worse than he remembered.

'You've got visitors,' he observed, seeing several other vehicles
parked next to Joe O'More's beloved Healey 3000 outside the
crumbling portico.

'Friends of Dad's.' She allowed herself a little smile. 'Don't
worry, you won't have to make small talk. I expect they'll all be
in the basement playing pool, so we can keep your presence a
state secret.' She applied the brake and killed the engine; in the
abrupt silence the rattle of the rain seemed to increase in intensity,
gusts of wind causing the vehicle to rock slightly; it was as
though they were surrounded by little demons trying to break in.
'One question, Kurt. If you think your life is under some sort of
threat, why come back here at all? I mean there's nothing to keep

you and I'd have thought you'd be happy as avandering spirit.'
'I had thought of going back to Paraguay,' he admitted.
'So why come back?' she pressed.
'To see you.'

She grinned. 'That's what I thought.'

They sprinted the short distance to the front door, both soaked
in a matter of seconds. Dripping puddles on the cracked tiles of
the lofty hallway, they removed their outer layers. The place was
chill and gloomy, but at least it was out of the wind. It smelled of
must and was even more dilapidated than Mallory remembered.
The white paintwork had long ago faded to a uniform yellow and
the once expensive wallcoverings were peeling away with damp.
Kelly placed a hand on one of the gurgling cast-iron radiators and
grimaced, indicating that it was barely warm. The old place was
expensive to heat.

At least the dark study was cosy, logs burning fitfully in the
stone fireplace and throwing shadows and patterns of light over
the rows and rows of leather-bound books. Savage was curled in
a leather club chair, reading under a silk-shaded standard lamp
with a glass of brandy at her side.


429

She peered over the top of her reading spectacles. 'I didn't hear
you arrive.'

'Not surprised in this storm, Georgie. I've brought a friend
with me.'

'Kurd' Savage grinned and put her book aside. 'What are you
doing here?'

'On my way home, Kelly picked me up fom the airport.'

'So that was what all the mystery was about.' She gave her
friend a reproachful look. 'You're a dark horse.'

'It's my fault,' Mallory said. 'I asked her not to tell anyone I
was back. There's been some big trouble. Have you heard about
Mario and Goldie?'

Alarm showed in Savage's eyes. 'What's happened?'

Of course she wouldn't know, he realised. Mario and G61die
were the organisation's men, not hers, and even Maidment had
not yet been told. 'They're dead. Mario was killed in Martinique
and I was with Goldie when he was shot in Durban.'

Her mouth opened but she could find no words to express her
disbelief.

'They might have been after me too,' he added. 'Or maybe the
assassins cocked up, who knows? I think Dale Forster was just the
first.'

'Tell me about it, Kurt, exactly how it happened.'

Kelly took her cue to retire discreetly and make some coffee,
leaving the two of them alone.

When Mallory had finished, Savage said: 'It's all very strange,
Kurt, but it doesn't exactly prove anything.'

He shook his head in disagreement. 'You can only accept coincidence
so far. You know how professional assassinations work.
You bring in a complete outsider,, give him the name and a picture
of his target. He knows nothing of the background, the reasons.
He does the job and vanishes without trace. With no motive
and no personal connection, the police are left clueless. They
may have suspicions, but that's all. It is murder out of the blue. I
know, I've done it enough times myself. That's why you must
have utter faith in those who hire you. Be able to trust them that
the target is legitimate.'


430

He nodded. 'I haven't forgotten the break-in at my croft.
Miggles Strand is well off the beaten track. I'm convinced now I
was to have been the first victim. That means you have to be at
risk too.'

'You think this is all connected with White Viper?'

'It's the obvious connection. None of us had worked with Dale
before.'

She nursed the brandy in her hands and shivered despite the
heat from the fire. 'Confidentially, I can tell you that something
about all of this isn't making sense. Five days ago we mounted a
series of co-ordinated raids across Europe. In Germany, Spain
and London to intercept the trucks from Budapest. I was with a
raid on a warehouse owned by Stan Summers. It was clean, the
artic trailer units must have been switched. Summers just stood
there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. The smug bastard. I knew
then we weren't going to find anything.' 'So
who tipped them off?.' Mallory thought aloud.

'Well, it certainly wasn't Castafto.' She gave him a disapproving
glance. 'I can't pretend your action wasn't appreciated, Kurt,
but I really can't condone it.'

'I'm not asking you to,' he responded more sharply than h,e'd
intended. 'Castafio was filth. He'd built a fortune feeding off the
drugs business and terrorism, yet no one could touch him for it.'

She nodded impatiently. 'I know your reasons, Kurt. But one
day you're going to get caught out and the law isn't going to save
you and nor is your precious organisation. I'd hate to think of you
doing life for the likes of him.'

There was a gentle knock on the door and Kelly entered with
a tray of coffee. 'Hope you two have finished your secret powwow.'
A sound of male voices drifted into the room. 'Dad's finished
the pool game. I hope you don't mind if he joins us with his
friends.'

Savage smiled. ' 'Course not. I'd like to meet them.'

Mallory frowned. A small warning bell rang deep inside his
head, but he wasn't sure why.


431

Joe O'More was laughing as he entered. Mallory was certain
the man had discovered the secret of eternal youth; he appeared
younger and fitter each time he saw him. Only the neatly brushed
white hair gave a clue to the fact he was in his seventies; there was
hardly a line or blemish on his lightly tanned face, just a few
crow's feet around the smiling green eyes.

'Hallo, Kurt, my boy,' he greeted, looking relaxed in slacks and
sweater. 'The wanderer returns, eh? Good to see you back. I'd
like you and young Georgina to meet a few friends of mine.'

The man who followed O'More in was in his late forties, with
hard grey eyes and curling brown hair that was greying at the
temples. He was wearing a hound's-tooth check jacket and faded
jeans.

'Kurt, meet Kevin Sheehan.'

Mallory was lifting himself from his seat, hand outstretched, as
he heard the name.

Two other younger men entered after Sheehan. One had dark,
smouldering eyes that looked far from friendly and the second
was a pale-skinned blond with a fixed sort of beatific smile.
Mallory was reminded of an angelic choirboy if only that smile
hadn't made him feel so uncomfortable.

'Padraig O'Donnell and Sean Waterford,' O'More introduced
easily.

Mallory's eyes shifted back to the door as a fourth man entered
the room from the shadows beyond. His movements were awkward,
slow and stiff, his arms down by his side. It took a second
for Mallory to realise he was on crutches, his right leg severed
above the knee.

O'More was saying, 'Oh, and I believe you two have met
before. Guy Thripp.'

For a split second Mallory was paralysed with shock. Thripp
was dead. High in the cuchillas, in the Andean foothills above
Cruz de Oro. Torn apart by wild cats and his bones picked clean
by vultures.

'Small world,' Thripp said.

Mallory started to pivot, to throw himself at the two younger
men as representing the most immediate danger. But as he


432

mined to face them he found himself staring into the twin muzzles
of two automatic pistols.

Savage sprang to her feet, her reaction slowed by the brandy
and the sheer shock of Thripp's reappearance from beyond the
grsve.

'Sit down,' O'More snapped, the good humour gone from his
eyes in an instant.

Savage fell back, the blood draining from her face, and her
heart like a drumbeat in her chest as she realised she had got it all
wrong. All so horribly, horribly wrong.

She turned to Kelly in a silent appeal for help, for an explanation,
but her friend deliberately looked away. The man called
Padraig lifted his automatic to point it at Mallory. 'Turn around. Hands high.'

'Good lad,' Thripp said approvingly. 'He's a tricky bastard.
Check he's not carrying a knife on his trouser belt - or any place
else.'

As Padraig O'Donnell quickly frisked his idy before pushing
him roughly into a chair, Mallory turned his head towards Kelly.
She was standing back, her long arms folded, hugging herself
with an uncertain look on her face. Not anger, not smug satisfaction
at having successfully baited him into the trap. Just sadness,
he thought, as she averted her eyes from his. 'You knew all about
this, didn't you?" he asked.

She tossed back her hair and looked at him directly. 'I'm sorry,
Kurt, it had to be done. The truth is, when it comes to it, I love
my country more than you. My duty to Ireland comes first, it's a,
simple as that.'

'What the hell do you mean?'

But she didn't seem to hear. Still hugging herself like a disconsolate
child, she stared at the floor. Her head was shaking slightly
when she spoke. It was as thou#'she was trying to unravel her
own confused thoughts and mixed emotions. Trying to justi
things to herself. 'I never knew what you and Georgie were doin
in South America. You were vague when I asked you out of inter
est- you and your goddam secrecy. It never occurred to me tha
it could be connected with our operation there. Not that I knew


433

much about it; Dad and Sheehan always keep that sort of stuff to
themselves. I just handled the above-board legal side for the legitimate
cargoes and then the financial side for investing profits. If
you or Dad had told me more of what was going on, I might have
twigged.' She glanced at Savage. 'It was only when she
approached me in Madrid that I realised it was all connected.
God, at first I thought she'd come to arrest me. It was a bloody
relief when I realised she wanted my help, I can tell you.'

Savage said: 'You of all people. Betraying Kurt and betraying
me. I was your friend, dammit.'

Kelly turned on her. 'No, you were the enemy. It just so happened
I came to like you. When we first met that time I realised
you were something to do with intelligence. For someone in the
secret service you weren't a very convincing liar. It was a hallenge
to play you along once I knew you didn't suspect.'

'Or was Kurt the real attraction?' Savage asked.

Kelly gave a short laugh of serf-mockery. 'Yeah, well, sure
maybe he had something to do with it.'

'And your affair with him was all a sham too?'

Kelly looked suddenly angry. "No, it wasn't!' Indignant. 'But I
didn't know what he did then. I should have guessed really, but
I didn't. I only realised when he killed Emilio the way he did.
Right in front of me, the bastard! And then Miguel. God knows
that man was no saint.' She turned back to Mallory. 'But at least
he wasn't a butcher, a murderer!'

O'More raised his hand. 'Okay, girls, that's enough! Don't
want you scratching each other's eyes out, do we? The point is we
have them both here now and it is time to conclude some unfinished
business.'

Mallory turned his gaze on Guy Thripp. The man was still
standing, resting easily on his crutches, clearly enjoying the
expressions of fear and incomprehension on the faces of his prisoners.
'You killed Mario and Goldie, didn't you?' Mallory
accused.

Thripp's grin widened. 'I had a hand in it.'

'And Dale Forster?' Savage asked.

The man nodded. 'Revenge, as I seem to recall you saying


434

once, Kurt, when you lot had me crucified on a fucking
very sweet. I really didn't know just how true those words
till now.'

'How did you survive?'

'I survived, old son, because you wantedyour revenge on
you'd done the decent thing and killed me cleanly like the otl
I obviously wouldn't be here now. But you wanted me to
and that was your big mistake. When you left, I was found b
Indian herdsman. He took me back down to Adoraci6n ox
mule. Christ, that was one hell of a journey! I was delirious b I passed out - mercifully. But then I'm a tough old bugger
you can see. The old Indian took me into the cathouse and
fetched a doctor from Santa Maria. It was too late to save m
but Fanny Lacera had me nursed by that little hooker c
Lucila. I learned a lot about you from her. Then I learn,
whole lot more about your operation from Lacera. Said
been informing for Cali and that they'd tried to warn Cas
what you and your friends had planned for us. But the war
came too late. That's when it was suggested that you and ,.

friends could be tracked down one by one and killed.'
"Who suggested it Guy? Who murdered them?'

There was a throaty chuckle. 'It was organised by

Edilberto Jaramillo.'

Mallory stared.

Savage shook her head in astonishment. 'The Cali cartel,'
murmured.

Their parmers in the unholy alliance to destroy the
Viper gang and the resurgent rival cartel in Medellin.


Colonel Oliver Maidment pulled over to the side of the lane
stopped the car.

Outside, the wind-driven rain was obscuring the road, re
ing visibility to a few metres, the v, dpers unable to cope wi deluge. He switched on the courtesy light and tried to focu
the fine detail of the road map of Eire.

Christ, he was tired. His eyes were beginning to water
fatigue and the strain of trying to see where he was going in


435

dark. Now the tiny print of the place names seemed to be floating
before his eyes.

It had been a long two days, the trouble having started when
his meeting in Bucharest was interrupted by a message from Kurt
Mallory. The coded words sounded innocent enough, but they
demanded urgent attention. Never in all the years they had
worked together had Mallory ever resorted to using them before.
And Mallory certainly wasn't one to panic unnecessarily.

Getting the meeting adiourned so abruptly had not been easy
and he was painfully aware that it would probably result in the
loss of the multimillion-pound contract for Portcullis Industries.
But as always the organisation came first. Portcullis may have
represented industry and commerce, big money and internatio.nal
power while the organisation was worth no more than the courageous
individuals who made up its numbers. But what he owed
them, no money could ever buy.

Forgoing lunch, he had taken the first available flight back to
Heathrow where he was met by his chauffeur. He returned to the
apartment which had been used to set up the operation against
the White Viper gang.

He entered the office suite and used the scrambled line to call
Sidney Monckton at his home. The deputy chief of SIS sounded
cautiously pleased to hear his friend's voice. 'Fortuitous you
should ring, Oliver. It would seem our recent plans have come to
nought.'

'What do you mean?'

'In fishing parlance, let's say the big one's got away. Look, I
can't say more on the phone. Could you come over for a late supper,
say around ten?'

Maidment had hung up with a growing sense of unease. Was
this the reason Mallory had sent his cryptic message? Unlikely on
the face of it, he thought. Not for the first time he regretted
involving the organisation with the intelligence service. It wasn't
that he actually distrusted them, it was just that they were too
used to doing things their way, on their terms. �

Then he had wondered if he had made the right decision in
agreeing to see Monckton. In doing so he had missed the oppor
436

tunity of catching the later shuttle to Dublin. But what the hell.
To have gone over now would have meant arriving just after dark
and being faced with a long drive in unfamiliar territory. And
Ireland was hardly renowned for its good roads and signposting
in remote areas. As it was, the postal address he now had for
Mallory was vague to say the least. Just the name of the croft and
a nearby village. No road or street name and no district. And
there was no Miggles Strand on his map.

No, he'd as well stop over in London and fly out first thing the
next day. That gave him a few hours to work on Portcullis business
before his supper with Monckton, but his mind hadn't set
tied.

Then a thought had occurred. Mallory had only finished the
White Viper job in Spain some two weeks earlier; any problems
he had were almost certainly connected with that. He had been
spending some time with Goldstein, he knew. If anyone had an
inkling about what had gone wrong, then the skinny little Israeli
would. --
He put through the call on the scrambler; Aggie answered.
Five minutes later he replaced, the receiver, chastened. Now he
knew the reason for Mallory pressing the panic button. Goldie
was dead and so was Mario. And now Dale Forster's fatal accident
many weeks earlier no longer looked so innocent.

And that night the light fish supper with Monckton had done
nothing to quell his growing fears that something had gone terribly
pear-shaped. All the White Viper drugs shipments, so carefully
dated and logged as a result of the organisation's efforts, had
unaccountably escaped detection. And Essex kingpin Stan
Summers had waltzed free waving the proverbial two fingers at
the authorities. Somehow, somewhere there had been a tip-off or
leak.

Monckton too, had been in for n unpleasant, surprise. It was
the first he had heard that two of SIS's freelancers by proxy had
been murdered.

He had murmured: 'Sometimes that is the price of not letting
the left hand know what the right is doing.'

'My guess is my man believes he'll be the next target.'


437

Monckton had nodded. 'Or even my field officer.'

'Surely the narcos wouldn't be able to reach her?'

'No, in theory. And that is assuming it is the narcos. Either way,

we cannot be complacent.'

He had excused himself then and used the telephone in
another room. He returned a few minutes later. 'I've just spoken
to our duty officer. The lady concerned is on leave. My officers
are supposed to give a number or contact address wherever they
are. I've tried her home number and there's no reply. I've left a
message on the answer machine.'

'Perhaps she's just out for the evening.'

'Let's hope so. But apparently she's had some upset with her
husband, according to office gossip. That's the trouble with
women. Throw emotion and affairs of the heart into the equation

and common sense flies out the window.'

'What do you want me to do, Sidney?'

A shrug. 'All you can do is try and locate your man. Get the

full story from him. If you think he has good reason to fear for his
life, help him go to ground. If you need backup or assistance from
us, well, you've got my direct line. I'll do what I can.'

It had been a welcome and generous offer. But unfortunately it
didn't help Maidrnent now as he sat in his car, battered by a near
monsoon, and tried to read the map.

To hell with it, he thought. He'd lost several hours and still
hadn't gained anything thanks to the atrocious weather. He'd
spent most of the day driving across Ireland in torrential rain, get
ring lost several times in the process and had still ended up in the
dark, In all respects. Now he was exhausted, all in. There was
nothing for it but to keep going and stop at the first pub or guest
house he could find. He'd resume, looking for Mallory's home
again at daybreak. Hopefully the rain would have stopped by
then.

He selected first gear and drove on.

Five minutes later it happened. Something rushed out from the
nearside hedge. A fox, a dog, a badger, maybe a small deer. He
had no real idea what. Even as he instinctively stepped on the
brake and swung the wheel to avoid it, the thought struck him


438

that it could have been a hallucination. A combination of the dazo
zling headlight reflection in the teeming rain. and the utter
exhaustion he felt. A figment of the imagination, like when driving
in fog.

As the tyres locked and slid over the greasy tarmac he braced
himself for an impact that didn't come. The little bugger, whatever
it was, had got away.

Feeling mildly shaken, he was about to steer back onto his own
side of the lane when he saw it. Having veered at an angle, his
headlights now shone into the offside hedge. There was a gap,
leading to a track just wide enough for one car. And hidden in the
brambles was a sign. To the beach.

If he'd been less tired and thinking logically, he'd probably
never have done it. But this was the one and only visible access
route he'd yet seen for this stretch of coast where he knew
Mallory lived. Before he could stop himself he'd swung the wheel
and was entering the track, hearing the brambles rustle and
scratch on either side.

It seemed to go on for ever. In the darkness and rain it was difficult
to get his bearings, but the unmade road, meandering
through fields and meadows, was definitely dipping down to
where he knew the sea must be.

He stopped just in tine. As the track appeared to widen, he
realised that it had only opened up to form a turning circle. The
tyres squealed as he braked in panic, just inches from the edge
where the cliff crumbled away to the shoreline.

Pulling a flat cap tight down on his head, he ventured out. The
wind nearly tore the car door from his grasp. He slammed it shut
and, clutching the collar Of his raincoat hard against his throat,
stared out at the rolling dark mass of the Atlantic battering its
way into the bay.

Lightning ripped a ragged fissure across the black sky. For a
second he glimpsed the beach below and the dark outline of the
croft silhouetted against a pale blur of sand.

Was that it? Was this Miggles Strand? He could hardly believe
he'd be that lucky, yet how many buildings were there likely to be
along this lonely stretch of coast? He'd come this far, he might as


439

well make certain. At the very least he owed Mallory that.

With the wind gusting around him and trying its best to wrong
foot his descent and pluck him from the narrow path, he made
his way down to the beach. He could see no lights showing as he
approached and the squat, slab-walled cottage had a distinct air
of abandonment about it.

He was gasping for breath against the wind by the time he
reached the shallow porch. His raincoat was soaked and rain
dripped fom his hat and face and hair as he banged the old brass
knocker ring without much hope of a reply. After a pause he tried
again, louder this time. If anyone was inside they might be asleep
and it was doubtful what could be heard above the noise of
nature unleashed. He couldn't remember anything like it, the
stinging lash of storm-driven rain and a screaming wind that
threw the ocean breakers at the shoreline with explosive venom.
Seawater spray filled the air in a drifting mist until even the rain
tasted of salt on his lips.

He knocked again, venting his anger. Another impatient wait,
then he lifted his sodden shoe and kicked in his exasperation.
Rain dripped through his collar and trickled down his back. Shit!

Then he heard the muffled sound of movement behind him.
Panic struck him and he turned.

'One fucken move an' I'll take yer head off, so I will!'

He was staring at the trembling twin barrels of a shotgun.
Squinting down its length was an old man in soaked striped pyjamas
and a Breton cap. The crinkled eyes above the tangled beard
were wide with anger or fear. Maybe both, Maidment thought in
an instant. He'd disturbed a hermit, a madman who'd crept out
the back door to get the jump on him.

Raising his hands promptly, he gasped: 'Please, please don't
shoot! I'm trying to find someone and I got lost!' He was having
to shout to make himself heard.

The old fisherman seemed to relax a fraction, reassured by the
words and the pathetic sight of the drenched stranger. 'Looking?
Who you lookin' for?'

'A Mr Mallory. Kurt Mallory.'

'An' who are you?'


440

The fisherman waved the shotgun. 'Come round the back.
Real slow now.'

Five minutes later they were settled by a smouldering peat fire
that offered meagre warmth, both men shivering with damp and
cold. 'Can't get a blaze going, 'cos I don't want no one to know
I'm here.'

'Wh/'s that?'

'Kurt's had snoopers awhile back. Maybe they'll come again. If

they do I want to be ready for them - like I surprised you.'
'You did that all fight, Mr--?'
'Mattie.'

'You're a bit old - forgive me - for this night-watchman stuff,
aren't you?'

Matt Rooney's eyes narrowed. 'It's my choice. Kurt u'ied to
dissuade me. But he's the only fi-iend I've got, so I do it 'cos I
want to.' He thrust a bottle of malt whiskey towards him. 'Have
a swig of Kurt's medicinal. Looks like you need it.'

For some reason Maidment declined; he felt tired enough
already without making it worse with alcohol.

Rooney snatched the bottle back. Well, I need some, even ff
you don't. Scared the friggin' life out of me, so you did!'

As he watched the old man take two generous gulps, he said:
'Kurt left a message to meet him here. Do you happen to know
where he is?'

The fisherman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'He
hasn't showed, that's for certain.'

'I'd have thought he might have got here earlier today.'
Rooney shook his head again. 'Nope.' Then he stared up at the
low ceiling as though in search of inspiration. 'But then the road

back virtually takes him past the O'More house.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Kurt's a wee bit keen on Joe O'More's daughter. And if Kurt's
not by himself or with me, the chances are always you'll find him
with her. If he's been away - sure, maybe he called in to pay his
respects.'


441

'Could I phone them?'

The fisherman gave a pained look.

'Of course, stupid of me. Is it far to the house?'
'About fifteen mile.'
'Could you take me there?'

Rooney looked aghast. 'In this weather?'

'It wouldn't take us long in my car and I'd consider it a very
great favour.'

'Well, I suppose...' He stared for a moment at the bottle.
'Just one more wee mouthful first. It's a wicked night.'


Joe O'More thought it very amusing. 'I can see you're both a
little bit shocked by that revelation. And very understandable, so
it is. I mean Ruiz Jaramillo sought your help on behalf of the
Cali cartel to destroy us.'

Neither Mallory nor Savage commented. They just watched
the man in bitter silence.

'The Cali cartel was terrified of a resurgence of their old rivals
in Medellin,' he continued. 'They'd hoped the death of Pablo
Escobar had ended political instability in Colombia. And for
good measure they'd absorbed much of the Medellin's old markets.
Then along comes Felix Bastidas with his new ideas of
rebuilding Escobar's old drug trade. And worse, he wanted it to
fuel social revolution, linking drugs with arms funding with the
socialist guerrillas. Not only in his own country, but Venezuela
and Bolivia.'

'Saw himself as the heir to Simon Bolivar,' Guy Thripp added
helpfully. 'God save us from revolting peasants.'

'We knew that, of course,' O'More went on. 'We in the
Provisionals have a history of cooperation with others fighting
for social justice and freedom against oppression. People like
ETA in Spain and the ANC in South Africa.'

'You mean other terrorist organisations,' Mallory interjected
acidly.

'Shut up, Kurt!' Savage warned.

O'More just smiled. 'You're a little behind the times, I think.
The actions of the ANC and the Palestinians have been vindi


442

cated by the passage of time. Here, in the island of Ireland, our
political arm Sinn Fein is leading the march to peace at the present
time and I'm sure ETA will soon enjoy the rightful freedom
for its people under the mantle of the European Union.' He
paused, waiting to be contradicted. When he was not challenged
he continued in his soft Kerry brogue. 'Sure, it suited us to act as
middlemen to supply arms from our old contacts in the Soviet
Union as well as use them as a conduit for cocaine into Western
Europe. After all, two-way trade means double the profits.'

'You should have guessed you'd upset the gentlemen of Cali,'
Mallory provoked.

'That's true,' O'More admitted. 'In hindsight we should have
realised we'd picked the wrong allies in Colombia. But it's firstcome-first-served
in business and Felix Bastidas was hungry for
success and he and Stan Summers were the first people Miguel
Castafio introduced us to. And once we were set up in Cruz de
Oro, we thought we were pretty much invincible. Such a rugged
and remote place and deep in traditional Medellin territory.
Friendly guerrillas in the hills and our own force on the ground
that Summers set up under Harry Morgan and Guy here. We
assumed that Cali would live and let live. And so they might, if
Vic West had not come along.'

Mallory said: 'The Cali cartel would have found a way, however
long it took. Vic West was just the first to present them with
the means.'

O'More shrugged. 'Maybe. But if we forgot how dangerous
these "gentlemen" of Call, as you insist on calling them, could
be, then so did you. You see, much as they hated our White Viper
operation, they also envied iis success. After all, the United States
market was virtually saturated with prices falling, while their
expansion into the lucrative Europe.an market had become stagnant.
It meant dealing with the Mafia - unpleasant and greedy
people - or going through old family connections in Spain. That
made it relatively easy for the European police to keep tabs on
them, to keep the pressure up. Recently there has been little
incentive for Cali to expand massively into Europe on its own
account. By contrast, we had opened up a whole network of new


443

routes through former Communist territories not subject
standards of law enforcement. Over the years we
contacts that the Call people couldn't even begin to dream of.
High volume and even higher profits, pumping the stuff into the
heart of Europe with virtual impunity.'

Suddenly Mallory knew what was coming. He wondered if
Savage did too, but she gave no sign as she sat impassively as
though none of this was anything to do with her.

'I don't know exactly when Jaramillo first thought of it.
Perhaps it was even their plan from the very start, possibly after
their first meeting with Vic West.' O'More looked directly at
Mallory. 'Did you ever meet a young lawyer called Maria
Palechor?'

'I don't remember,' he lied.

'Ah well, you'd have remembered her. Handsome woman.
Works for Cali. Anyway, I gather it was her brainwave. It was
simple enough. Get Vic West's contacts - you people - to destroy
our operation on the ground in Colombia, then as soon as it was
over, offer themselves as replacement suppliers for our European
distribution network.'

Mallory nodded. Just as he'd started to realise, they

up from the very start. Destroy the Cali's rivals for them, just
they could step into dead men's shoes.

'Maria Palechor knew Castaflo, of course,' O'More said.

they were both lawyers in the same line of business. She
him just an hour before your operation to destroy us in Colombia
went down. Too late to do anything about it, of course. Her line
was they'd picked up whispers of a secret plot - probably DF,A,
she said - to close us down. Their warning was a favour, to preserve
the status quo. Said if it was true and we lost our
in Colombia, they'd be interested in being our new suppliers.
Castaflo flew here from Madrid to tell me and Stan Summers all
about it.' He gave a mild laugh. 'When the bad news was con2
firmed I didn't know what to think at first. I mean, I was livid,
furious. But Summers was truly mad, especially at losing Harry
and Guy. We didn't know whether to take Castaflo and
Palechor's story at face value or not. And as for their offer to


444

supply, it was all too pat, too prepared, even pointing out the
overheads we'd save without our men on the ground.'

He paused, thinking back. 'That's when they played their ace.
Palechor said their informers had discovered the identifies of
your team, even had photographs. That's when Summers, Kevin
here and I decided. If they wanted a deal then, as an act of good
faith, they would have to track you down and bring us your heads
on a plate. And that's exactly what they did.'

Now Mallory understood the incident of Bogota. The Cali cartel
had put out the word, using its network of informers and corrupt
contacts in the police and immigrafion authorities. But
they'd been looking for Kurt Hulse or the cover name of Harry
Pike he'd used at his meeting with Jaramillo. No one had known
about the secret Jim Tare passport on which he'd travelled. He
realised suddenly that if he hadn't taken the precaution, he'd
have been the first victim. Even before Dale Forster.

O'More was saying: 'In fact we soon suspected that Castafio
knew about your planned attack much earlier-than he let on and
accepted big, let's say, bribe money from the Cali people to hold
his tongue until it happened and then to swing the deal with us.'

Kelly spoke for the first time. 'That's why I went over to stay
with him in Madrid. To find out exactly what he was up to. He
was supposed tO be working for us, not double-crossing us and
feathering his nest at our expense.'

'Of course, at that time,' O'More said, 'we had no idea who
was behind the raid at Cruz de Oro. Castafio told us Palechor
thought it was DEA freelancers. She gave him the cover names
you all used, but then they meant nothing to us. As I said,
Palechor's informers had secretly photographed all of your team.
She said some of the Cali people recognised Mario Dubois who
was a known emerald smuggler and Forster was identified by
their people in Miami as a former DEA" man. Those two were
easy and the American was the first target for Cali's hitmen. He
was persuaded to talk before they sunk him with his boat.'

Mallory found his knuckles clenched white on the armrests of
his chair; he didn't look at Savage but was certain she was sharing
his anger at the revelation.


445

'Forster couldn't give them much to identify Savage, but he
knew your real first name, Kurt, and where you lived. Quite a
shock when we realised it was you. Caused us all quite a panic
until we realised it was just a coincidence, that you knew no more
about our involvement than we knew of yours. But then to be in
the closed world of narcotics, such coincidences aren't that surprising,
if you think about it.'

'And Goldie?' Mallory asked.

'Ah, Goldstein. He was a mystery until you all turned up again
in Madrid. By that time we'd already decided to sever our connections
with Castafio - Kelly had discovered by then his only
real loyalty was to himself. When Savage here approached her for
help, Kelly agreed to stay on for appearances. It also gave her the
chance to alert me. Our plan was already set up for Mario Dbois
in Martinique by the Cali people, just awaiting his return. But we
had to have you and Goldstein followed when you left Spain. We
lost you, but he was fairly lax. Maybe he'd just got complacent.
Anyway, we still had some contacts with old fellow revolutionaries
in the ANC. It was easy enough to arrange.'

'And me? Was I supposed to have been killed then?'

O'More shook his head. 'No, that might have been too obvious
or got too many questions asked. Anyway there was no need.
Kelly knew you'd come back here eventually and she could lure
Savage over almost any time she wanted.'

So now he knew. But that knowledge gave him no comfort.
None at all. Because there was only one reason that Joe O'More
was telling them all this. Their death sentence had already been
passed. He wondered if Savage realised.

Even as the thought went through his mind, she looked up
from her chair. 'How long have you been involved with PIP, A, Mr
O'More?' Mallory had to smile; she sounded like a policewoman
interviewing a suspect.

'Man and boy, Miss Savage,' he replied frostily. 'My father
took part in the Easter Rising and fought in the early troubles and
I've always followed in his footsteps. I've kept discreet links with
the Provisionals since their formation in 1972. But my daughter
and I have never worn our hearts on our sleeves. There are many


446

like me and Kelly in the Republic. Respectable people of wealth
and influence who have understood the cause for which our
people in the north have fought. For equality and justice. To drive
out the invader. The movement couldn't have survived without us
beavering away in the background, particularly in the areas of
finance, government and the law. It has been largely a thankless
and unnoticed task but necessary. And now its justification and
our reward are there for all the world to see and acknowledge.'

Savage's face was a mask. 'I presume you mean by that the current
peace process?' When he nodded, she said: '.Then how in
God's name do you square the honour and integrity of the
Ireland you so fervently believe in with narcotics and trading in
human misery?' She didn't wait for an answer. 'It so happens that
I recognise Kevin Sheehan from photographs. His real name is
Thomas Dee and he was jailed for smuggling heroin for the IRA
in the mid-eighties. That's a long association in a dirty business

for the supposedly noble cause you claim you fight for.'

Well put, Mallory thought; he was proud of her.

But O'More's laugh was harsh. 'Don't and lay that on me,
lady! The movement started with its back to the wall. In order to
survive we had to turn our hand to whatever made the most
money fast. As you well know, fighting a war costs a lot of money,
especially if you intend to win as we, indeed, now have. Every
criminal gang in Britain has its finger in the drugs pie because it
has to in order to survive against its rivals. For the same reasons,
so must we, because we are pitched against the might and wealth
of an occupying nation! We do not cause misery to these people,
they bring it upon themselves. They are no different from smokers
or drinkers - they will get their supplies from somewhere.'

Savage smiled. 'You mean if you don't supply them someone
else will, is that it? Oh, yes, I understand the usual cop-out. But
as you've said, you've won your war now. Your people are supposed
to be entering the respectable democratic process.'
'Democracy needs money too!' O'More snapped back. It was
strange to witness the transformation of the man from mild-mannered,
slightly down-at-heel country gentleman to political
fanatic and active supporter of terrorism. All the time it had been


447

there, just below the surface. 'We've still got a long road ahead.
If the peace process doesn't collapse - and there's every chance it
will - then there will be elections to be fought and won. How else
are we expected to fight the big political parties with any certainty
of victory? The struggle's taken too long to risk failure now.'

Kelly added: 'Too many have died for their beliefs along the
way, Kurt. You must see that, surely?'

He turned on her, lifting one eyebrow in cynicism. 'So any
means will justify the end, is that it?'

Her eyes met his with a flinty gaze. 'In this case, yes. Just look
at the state of our house. It's falling apart because Dad has contributed
all the family wealth to the cause. But it just isn't
enough. I have never liked the fact some of our people have to get
involved in the drugs business - or bank hold-ups, kidnalSs or
protection, for that matter - but I accept that we've had no alternative.
We've been at war and in war unpleasant decisions must
be made.'

'And does that include murdering Vic West, Mario and
Goldie, my three best friends?'

'You're hardly in a position to be smug, Kurt[ Firstly I didn't
know about all that. Dad and the Army Council don't tell me
everything, you know. But anyway, your friends weren't exactly
killed at random. They put themselves in the firing line just like
you did. And who were they? An arms dealer, an emerald smuggler
and an ex-Mossad hitman. Mario and Goldie were hardly
Pinky and Perky and no one's likely to have awarded them the
Nobel Peace-Prize. They butchered our people and their
Colombian helpers. Dammit, you know because you were help:
ing them, torturing those men in the trees. But you were worse,
leaving Guy like that. God, when I heard what you'd done and
saw the state of him...' She paused for breath, her face reddened
with anger. 'My blood foze, Kurt, and I can tell you it
broke my heart. To think you of all people had done that to
another human being. It made me feel dirty, unclean. To think
that we'd...'

Savage said: 'I suppose Guy told you what your angelic team
did in Colombia?'


448

'What?'

'The murder and torture of unco-operative locals because they
stood up to your thugs. The gang rape of a girl in front of the
male villagers. In front of a troublesome priest who they then
hung naked for all to see. But then I suppose you've always
turned a blind eye to the IRA's intimidation. Regrettable but
acceptable in all-out war, is that it?'

Kelly looked momentarily bewildered, glanced at her father.
He, too, looked uncertain.

'They're talking bollocks!' Thripp said quickly. 'They know
they're for the high iump and they're just trying to alk their way
out of it.'

Mallory found Kelly looking directly at him. 'Is it true, Kurt?'
He nodded. 'That's why we have no regrets about what we did.
Thripp and his friends were worse than animals. I've never lied
to you. '

'Shut it!' Thripp shouted. 'You wouldn't know the truth if it
poked you in the fuckin' eye.'

Sheehan was getting restless. 'It makes no difference anyway.
The past is the past and we've got a job to do.'

'Where are you going to do it?' Mallory asked coldly.

Thripp allowed himself a slow smile. 'At your croft, old son. A
lovers' tiff, we thought. You kill her then commit suicide. Nice
and neat with no loose ends.'

Savage turned to Kelly, her voice quaking as she spoke.
Somehow she had never thought that the end would come like
this. 'Are you really going along with this? I don't believe it! I'm
your friend - I'd never do anything to hurt you, believe me.'

The Irish girl appeared dazed, confused by her conflicting
emotions. She'd been brought up from the cradle to believe in
the right of freedom for the whole of Ireland and of the iniquity
of the continued British occupation .in the Six Counties.
Although it hadn't often been discussed it was always there, like
the genes in bloodline stock. It either mattered to you or it didn't
- it was a belief you were born with.

In her teenage years and later Kelly had sometimes questioned
the rights and wrongs of the troubles in the North, but always


449

Joe O'More and his friends could put up the most eloquent and
persuasive arguments to justify it all. Many of the worst terrorist
atrocities appeared to be committed by renegade splinter groups
or else were the unintentioned accidents of war. Meanwhile the
British acts of violence and dirty tricks were conveniently overlooked
or brushed aside by arrogant politicians from an unrepentant
London. Joe O'More had chapter and verse on all the true
facts.

Kurt Mallory's appearance in the enemy camp had come as a
devastating shock. Theirs had been a relationship of the heart and
body; he had shown little interest in politics so it was rarely discussed.
He clearly loved Ireland and the Irish people and had
been happy enough when she sometimes strummed out rebel
songs on his guitar.

So it wasn't herself Kelly saw as the betrayer but him. For the
first time in her life she had now come face to face with an act of
the war- the very war she had so deeply believed was honourable
and totally justified. And for the first time she had to participate
in no small way and face the inevitably bloody consequences. To
surrender the man she loved to Irish history. It was not easy and
the mounting uncertainty and confusion were tearing her insides
apart.

Feeling sick and frightened, she searched for the words to
answer Savage's accusation. Words of defence and justification
that had churned around her head a million times in recent
weeks. 'I told you, Georgie, you're the enemy. The enemy first
and a friend second. You chose your job, I didn't. Like Brit solo
diers on our streets, you knew the risks when you took the
Queen's shilling. Sure I'm sorry it's you, desperately sorry, but
I'm also sorry about the other hundreds of Irishmen and women
who have died because your people refuse to leave my country.'
She turned her head away.

Even as she had spoken the words she had felt her conviction
melting away. Things had happened in South America that she
didn't know about or understand - it was gnawing rapidly at her
conscience. Mallory might be the enemy, but .her heart knew he
was speaking the truth. And what had happened was wrong.


450

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Savage tried another tack, addressing herself to Thripp. 'Why
don't you think this through? It's hardly smart to kill a British
intelligence officer in the middle of peace negotiations.'

'Stow it, woman,' Thripp replied brusquely. 'It'll look like a
crime of passion and nothing's ever going to get proved. Besides
we could kill the bloody Royal Family at the moment and
Downing Street would ignore it in their haste to wash their hands
of Ulster. And, anyway, this is one treat I'm looking forward to.
I haven't forgotten what you did to me after my last job in the
Regiment. It was your report that got me stitched, ruined my
career - bitch!'

'No, you did that all by yourself. I simply wrote what happened.
But seeing the company you now keep, I'm very glad I
didn't cover up for you.' She took a deep breath and steeled herself,
glancing at Mallory with a brief, tight smile. 'Come on then,
let's get it over with.'

A small glow of pride burned momentarily in Mallory's chest
as he heard her words. If he had to die this day, then he would
die in good company. Both with their heads held high.

Thripp turned to Sheehan. 'You and O'Donnell take the girl
down to the croft. Use the Discovery.'

The man pulled Savage roughly to her feet. Mallory began to
stand.

'Not you,' Thripp snapped. 'You're not going to have it so
bloody easy. I owe Harry and the others that. And Stan Summers
has insisted you get a taste of your own medicine. Waterford here
is a bit of an expert. From the Provos' security section.'

Mallory knew what he meant, from the kneecappers of the
IRA's punishment squads. For the first time he realised the sort
of man he was looking at. That an.gelic face and blond crew cut
and that effeminate mouth, the pumping-iron body in the tight
leather jacket resembling a Tom Finland painting.

'We'll see just how slowly a man can die,' Waterford promised.
And while he spoke the beatific smile never wavered once.

Savage tried to wrestle free of Sheehan's grip, to peer back over
her shoulder. If only she could look into Mallory's eyes once


451

more. Let him know how she felt, how she'd always felt.

As she was half-dragged and half-carried out through the door,
Kelly rounded on her father. 'Dad, you can't let them do that.
You said it would be a straightforward execution. Tell them, they
can't!'

O'More looked uneasy. He knew what she meant. He too had
thought Mallory would just be made to kneel while the bag was
pulled over his head. Maybe not shot from behind, but this time
through the mouth so it would look like suicide when the body
was washed ashore. 'It's out of my hands, child. This is what
Summers and the others want and Guy has every right to demand
an eye for an eye after what Kurt did to him.'

Exasperated, she turned to Thripp. 'Don't do it, Guy. Two
blacks can't ever make a white! Just take him and shoot him with
Georgie. Don't make him suffer.'

But Thripp had endured enough delay and he wasn't going to
be deprived of this. 'No one's asking you to watch. We'll take him
out to the stables.' He turned to Sean Waterford. 'Let's go.'

'Just up here on the left,' Matt Rooney
said. 'You can see the twin pillars by
the gate.'

Maidment slowed and squinted, his view through the windscreen
distorted by the near-horizontal rain. Then he saw th
crumbling brick columns and the rusty iron gates.

He braked. 'Could I ask you to jump out and open them
Mattie?'

'What?'

'Sorry about that.'

But Rooney was hardly listening. 'Sure I've never seen 'em
gates closed in all my days. Damn me if I have.'

Grumbling he climbed out and Maidment watched impatiently
as the old fisherman fumbled about, then returned. He opened

the door. 'Bless me if I know why, sir, but it's padlocked, so it is.'
'Maybe Kurt isn't here. Maybe the people are away.'

Rooney shook his head, rain dripping from the peak of his

Breton. 'There's lights on in the house.'

'Is there another way in?'

'Not with your car, sir. But I'm sure we can get through the
fence. Old Joe hasn't had it repaired in years!' He sounded
breathless as the wind snatched at his words.

Christ, Maidment thought, this is all I need. 'Okay, Mattie,
shut the door and let me pull over.'

Rooney watched miserably as Maidment drove the car past the
gates and tucked it under some trees before dousing the lights.
He then hurried back, clutching his raincoat collar tight against
his throat.

Gaining access to the grounds was not as easy as Rooney had


453

predicted. They sank to their ankles in mud and Maidment
tipped his trousers on a nail as he clambered over fencing that
had been brought down by the gale. There then followed an
undignified scramble through overgrown brambles until they
eventually reached the lawn.

They were halfway to the house when the front door opened

and light flooded onto the portico and the Discovery parked in

front of it.

Maidment could make out two men and a woman. From that
distance it wasn't easy to be certain, but neither had Mallory's
stance.

'What's going on?' Rooney said, as though suddenly reading

the other man's thoughts.

The woman appeared to be struggling, the men restraining hdr

and pushing her roughly into the vehicle. It was then that
Maidment felt an awful sinking sensation in his gut. God
Almighty, it was Georgina Savage.

'HEY!' Rooney bawled, but his yell was mued by the gusting

wind.

Maidment pulled him off balance. 'Shut up, Mattie, they're

armed! Look!'

The old fisherman stared. 'Bloody IRA,' he decided. 'They're

still around, you know. Tumin' to crime, a lot of them now.'

There was nothing they could do. Maidment felt an immense

sense of impotence as he watched the men climb into the

Discovery and heard the engine start up.

'What shall wedo?' Rooney asked.

'Wait till they've gone,' Maidment replied tersely.

Both men watched as the vehicle backed and turned. They
ducked instinctively as the headlight beams arced across the lawn
before settling on the drive. On reaching the gates, one of the
men climbed out to open them, allowing the vehicle through.
Then the gates were locked again. Someone clearly didn't want
unexpected visitors.

'I don't understand,' Rooney said, scratching his beard. 'That

lass is a friend of Kelly, Joe's daughter. Who'd want to kidnap

her? Perhaps Joe's in some kinda trouble.'


454

Maidment couldn't make sense of it all, didn't know what to
believe. Had they really stumbled across a kidnap? And was
Mallory somehow involved? He couldn't think how or why.

Rooney interrupted his thoughts. 'Shall I be getting my shotgun
from your car?'

'You brought it with you?' He hadn't noticed.

'I always like to keep it with me. Ever since someone broke into
the croft. Kurt said it was a good idea.'

The colonel grinned; it would be useful insurance. 'Mattie.
you're a genius.'

He waited anxiously in the shadows for five minutes while
Rooney returned to the vehicle. It had been a long time since
he'd had to make quick tactical decisions of a military nature and
he found the logic of his thinking positively rusty. What had tha!
bastard RSM once told him whenhe was a wet-behindthe-ear�
subaltern? 'Always make a decision, sir, even if it's the wrong
one. And with you being' an officer, it probably will be. But i!
doesn't matter because any decision you--make can force the
enemy to make an even bigger fuckin' mistake of his own.'

Over the years he wasn't sure he'd ever proved the wisdom of
those words, although he'd made plenty of quick decisions tha!
he'd later come to regret.

An outside light flickered on at the side of the house. Then ;
group of men appeared briefly in the globe of illumination. A
that distance it was impossible to tell how many or who the
were. He thought he cbuld make out three of them, but then they
disappeared into the shadow of what appeared to be some type o1
outbuilding.

'I've got it!'

Maidment jumped. Rooney's returning footsteps across the
squelching lawn had been hidde.n by the hiss of rain.

'Right, Mattie, I think I know how to handle this. We'll assume
we're not mistaken about this. That something strange is going
on and that Kurt is in there, probably in danger. If we're wrong
about it then the only problem we have is profound embarrassment
and a lot of explaining to do.'

Rooney saw the sense of that and nodded. 'As long as we don'!


455

give old Joe a heart attack.'

'Do you mind if I take the shotgun?'

It was handed over. 'Know how to use it, do you?'

"Grouse shooting is my sport, Mattie.' He checked the weapon
over and inspected the cartridges. He'd have preferred solid shot
to pellets, but even they could be lethal at close range. 'They've
gone into that shed at the back, so maybe there's no one left in
the house.'

'Them's the stables,' Rooney corrected.

'Right, okay. But the likelihood is they've left the side door
unlocked. I'll slip in there while you knock at the front. They
know you, so if O'More or his daughter answers they won't be
alarmed. Just say you'd heard Kurt is back and wondered ff he
was here.'

'What if they - or whoever answers - say no?'

'There's not much you can do. But if you do get inside and
there is something amiss, then you could be in danger, Mattie. If
I have to use this thing, then hit the deck fast. I don't want you
getting hurt. Now, have you got a watch?'

'No, sir. I just need to know sunup and sundown nowadays.'

'Well, try counting to - say, a hundred and twenty from now.
Then knock.'

'Right you are, sir.'

Maidment wished him good luck, then disappeared into the
darkness in the direction of the house. The old fisherman took a
deep breath, remembered to start counting, and began walking
towards the portico. A porch light snapped on as he approached
and made him start. Of course, newfangled sensors, he remembered,
but it had still set his old heart thumping. He stood by the
door, muddled up his counting at somewhere around the late
seventies and began again at one. He reached fifty and thought to
hell with it. He tugged at the bell pull.

Voices were raised behind the door. He thought he recognised
Joe O'More, apparently arguing with someone. Probably an eye
was looking at him through the tiny glass spyhole. He did his best
to look unconcerned and innocent; it wasn't easy. After some
delay the door inched open.


456

It was Kelly. 'Mattie? What on earth are you doing here?'
'Getting drenched, Miss O'More.' He forced a smile.
'Someone in the village told me Kurt was back. I wondered if he
was here?'

'Er- no.' She looked flustered. 'Well - er - I haven't seen him.'
Suddenly the door was pulled open, Kelly stepping to one side
as Joe O'More appeared in the opening. 'Hallo, Mattie, come on
in and dry yourself off.'

'No, Dad,' Kelly protested. 'You can't.'

'Nonsense, child. C'mon in, Mattie.'

He hesitated, unsure. Something most definitely wasn't right.
'Ah, well, sure thank you kindly, but I'll be on my way.'

The automatic pistol had appeared as if by magic in O'More's
hand. 'I'm sorry to do this to you, old friend. Now come in slowly
with your hands raised. You know, just like in the cowboy
movies.'

Rooney blanched, not believing what he was seeing. He threw
his hands up with almost comical speed and-huffied in. The
door was slammed behind him.

'You should have just told him to go,' Kelly said. 'It's crazy to
involve Him.' She sounded distraught.

'He might have seen the others take Georgina away.'
She looked at the fisherman. 'Did you?'
'Sure, I've seen nuthin', Miss O'More.'

'See!' she said turning back to her father. 'This is stupid!'

O'More looked uncomfortable. Well, it's too late now,' he
replied irritably.

'Are you going to shoot me?' Rooney asked plaintively.

'You can't!' Kelly implored.

Her father looked confused. 'I don't know. I'll have to ask Guy
what he thinks.'

She glared daggers. 'We both know what Guy will say.'

They all heard the door creak behind them. O'More turned to
look across the hallway and found himself staring at the twin barrels
of a shotgun.

'Who the devil are you?' O'More demanded as he overcame his
initial shock.


457

Maidment ignored him as he inched forward. 'Put that gun
very gently on the floor in front of you. Mattie, pick it up will you
and come and stand over here with me.' As the fisherman
obeyed, the colonel added: 'I am a friend of Kurt Mallory, Mr
0'More. And a friend of Georgina Savage.'

Kelly's eyelids fluttered with involuntary relief. 'Thank God for
that.'

'What's happened to them?' Maidment demanded.

She made her decision and immediately it felt as though a
crushing burden had been lifted. 'They've taken Georgie to the
croft - they're going to kill her - and Kurt's in our stables. They
plan to kill him too.'

O'More rounded on her. 'For God's sake, child. Keep your
mouth shut!'

But she stood her ground. 'No, Dad, this is all wrong.'
She shook her head, repeating the words. 'It's all wrong. We
shouldn't be doing things like this. Not now, we've no reason,
no excuse. Kurt and Georgie were right. I've been so stupid
listening to you and the others, carried along. Maybe there wa
justification for such actions once. But times have changed, and
our people haven't.'

Rooney said: 'I'll take you to the stables, sir. Before it's too
late.'

'No,' Kelly interrupted, 'if you just walk in there you'll get
Kurt and yourself killed. Let me go in first, it'll act as a distraction.'

Maidment Shook his head. 'So you can warn them? I don't
think so, lady.'

'Please - I/ore Kurt. I don't want him hurt.'

Rooney said: 'It's true they're, lovers, sir. For the past two
years, so they are.'

The colonel hesitated. 'All right then. But if you alert them,
you'll get the first barrel.'

She gave him a strange look. 'I understand. Come on, I'll show
you the way.'

Maidment took the automatic from Rooney, made sure that a
round was chambered and the safety off, then handed the fisher458


man back his shotgun 'If Mr O'More so much as breathes too
quickly, Martie, let him have it. Aim for the centreof the body.'

Rooney said: 'I will, sir, have no fear of that. Kurt is the only
end I have in the world.'


Mallory was ready to die. Many years earlier he'd recoguised that
death normally came unannounced and rarely in the way it was
expected. In his curious line of business it had always seemed
probable it would come earlier rather than later. During his two
years of retirement he'd reviewed that philosophy; premature
death was only likely to be due to a fishing accident or a dnmk at
the wheel of a car. Death in old age had become more of a possibility.
WTith his return to the fray, the mental readjustment back
to acceptance that it might come any day, at any moment, had
not been so easy. But the murders of Vic Test, Dale, Goldie and
then Mario had finally completed the process. He was at peace
with himself.

As Sean Taterford strapped his wrists above his head and
secured them to an overhead beam in the lime-washed stable
block, Mallory had fully accepted that he was going to die. Had
he been alone he might have tried something in the house.
Although it would have been futile, at least he could have taken
someone with him as he died. But Savage's presence had robbed
him of that. Any challenge would have ensured her death as well
as his own. At least now she was left with a chance of escape on
the journey to his croft. He knew she'd snatch at any opportunity
and he felt proud of her.

No, it wasn't death that scared him, it was the dying. He was
no newcomer to pain. Long before his SAS training in anti-intero
rogation techniques, he had developed a high resistance to pain.
And pain, he knew, was so much .more endurable when you
accepted that you were going to die. Because ff you believed for
one moment that you were going to survive, the breaking of each
bone was unbearable, worsening with each act of violence until
you knew that your body would now and for ever be beyond
repair.

Waterford had removed his leather jacket and stuffed his pistol


459

into the waistband of his trousers. He'd stripped down to his cutaway
bodybuilder's T-shirt for comfort and so that he could
enjoy his work. Mallory could smell the rankness of the man's
armpits as he reached up to secure the bindings, the odour mingling
with that of a cheap and sickly sweet cologne. There was
something sinister about the white-blond hair and the choirboy
face with its knowing secret smile. Those bright and dancing eyes
so full of manic imagination and that softness of touch that made
Mallory cringe. Homosexual almost certainly; fully paid-up sadist
without a doubt.

The archangel Waterford was clearly going to enjoy this and
would probably throw in a few ideas of his own.

Meanwhile Thripp watched thoughtfully, hunched over his
crutches. His eyes had narrowed like a cat's, burning with ititensity
as though already seeing how Mallory was going to suffer.
Already relishing it in his mind. He leaned against the post where
Mallory's two creollios were stalled and rhythmically slapped a
length of .rubber hose-piping in the palm of his left hand.

The mustangs sensed that 6omething was happening, that
something was wrong. Animals instinctively knew. As he heard
them stamping and shuffling, Mallory realised they would have
smelled his presence, have seen and recognised him. Would be
wondering why he did not come to them. And they would be feeling
the fear and anger in the confined atmosphere of the place.
Waterford took a step back to admire his work.

'It's your lucky day,' Thripp said. 'Fortunately for you I can't

do what I'd really like. Chop your bloody leg off and see how you
like it.' He slapped the hose-piping in his palm again. 'But as
we've now decided to drive your car over a cliff, your injuries are
going to have to be consistent. Stil!, that gives me a fair bit of leeway.
Broken ribs from the steering wheel, shattered knees from
the dash. Even a broken neck.' He grinned then. 'Fancy your last
few hours alive paralysed from the neck down, do you? And I'm
sure I can arrange for the car to catch fire. If you survive the fall
you can wait to be burned alive knowing you can't move a muscle.'

Mallory said nothing, just stared through Thripp to some point
beyond him.


460

'Let's start,' Waterford said in a soft but eager voice. He
reached out his hand for the piping; Mallory realised then that,
much as he might like to, Thripp couldn't do the job himself on
crutches.

At that moment the two-part stable door opened at the end of
the passage between the stalls and the stone wall. The rattle of
rain increased suddenly as though someone had turned up the
volume. A tiny whirlwind rushed in, eddying strands of hay
across the floor and causing the hurricane lamp to sway on its
hook.

Thripp and Wateford turned round.

'It's only me.' Mallory recognised Kelly's voice but couldn't see her features beneath the waterproof jacket and hood. 'God,
it's a filthy night.'

'Get that bloody door shut!' Thripp demanded irritably and
turned his attention back to his victim.

Mallory heard Kelly struggle against the wind to close both
halves of the door and watched as she cmcrgd from the shadows.
Why was she here? llot to gloat, surely? He'd got her wrong,
that was for certain, but surely not that wrong?

'Don't try talking me out of this,' Thripp warned. He sounded


Her laugh was harsh. 'Far from it. I must be going soft. For a
moment back there I'd forgotten what he'd done to you and the
others, and how he'd killed Migucl. No, I've come to see you
make a proper job of it.'

Io fear on that score, dear,' Waterford assured.

For a moment Kelly's eyes. met with Mallory's. He tried to read
her expression for signs of hatred or loathing or sorrow, but she
seemed oddly devoid of any emotion.

Yet there was something in the twitch of her mouth, the slightest raising of one eyebrow, as though she "were trying to tell him
something.

And then he realised.

'STOP EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE!' The voice had the
clipped and authoritative tone of a British Army officer.

Colonel Maidment stepped out of the shadows, the automatic


461

held in a professional double-handed grip. Mallory was
astounded, wondering instantly how the man had found his way
to this place and how he had managed to enter the stables undetected.

'Step back,' Maidment ordered Kelly. 'Don't want you in the

line of fire.'

Now he understood: the girl had been the colonel's accomplice,
had let him crawl in and hide behind the first stall while

she'd been battling to close the stable door.

'Who the hell... ?' Thripp began.

But Sean Waterford was faster. Young, quick-witted and a veteran
frontliner of the Provos, he knew better than to stand
around asking dumb questions. Sizing up the situation, he
grabbed Kelly before she could move away and pulled her back
with his left forearm locked around her throat. The pistol in his
right hand was pressed against her temple.

'Drop the gunl' he snarled at Maidment and backed towards
Mallory.

'Okay, okay,' the colonel replied quickly. He lowered the automatic.
Mallory's fingers curled around the bindings above his head;

he tested his grip, and pulled himself off the ground by bending

his elbows.

Thripp saw what was happening and yelled to Waterford.

But he was too late. The heel of Mallory's left boot thudded

into the Irishman's fist, knocking the gun from his hand. Then
Mallory's entire leg followed through over Waterford's shoulder
while his right leg completed the pincer movement around the
Irishman's neck. He snapped his knees, closing his calves around
the offered neck like a vice and dragging the body back down
onto the floor. Kelly stumbled sideways, propelled by Mallory's
thigh. Maidment raised his pistol again, moving and body-swerving
to bring it to bear on Thripp. But Thripp had been given a
split second's reprieve and enough time to tug the revolver from
his own waistband.

The two shots were simultaneous. Kelly screamed and threw
herself to the ground. Another shot, two, three... Suddenly the


462

stable was full of smoke and the acrid stink of cordite. The horses
were startled, whinnied and kicked at their stall gates. Maidment
stumbled and fell back against the wall like a prizefighter going
down for ten.

Thripp had fallen from his. crutches and lay motionless on a
pile of straw.

Waterford grabbed his opportunity. He bit into the denim-clad
thigh pressed into his face. As Mallory yelped, the Irishman used
the moment to wriggle free. He didn't hesitate, just grabbed his
automatic from the ground, sprang to his feet and rushed past
Maidment, through the passage and burst out of the door. As he
disappeared into the night, the wind and the rain howled in.

Maldment sat with his back propped against the stone wall and
clutched his left bicep. Blood seeped through his fingers. He
shook his head like a man coming out of sleep and looked at
Kelly: 'Are you all right?'

She was still crouched on the floor, gulping in surprise, unable
to speak and just managing a thankful nod of the head.

The colonel gave her a painful but reassuring grin before crawling
weakly across the cobbles to where Thripp lay. He turned the
body over. It had no recognisable face, the nose and much soft
tissue reduced to a bloody pulp.

'That's got to have been my luckiest ever shot,' he breathed. 'I
never even had time to aim. All my years in the army and I never
once fired in anger.'

Kelly had staggered to her feet. She glanced at the ornamental
display of farm tools on the wall and reached for an old scythe. It
took some fifteen seconds to hack through Mallory's bonds with
the rusty blade.,

He grinned at her as he rubbed some feeling back into his
hands. 'I thought you were going to use that on me.'

She looked at him, unsure. Of him, of herself. "For a moment,
so did I.' She smiled lamely. 'I'm sorry, Kurt, I've been a bloody
fool.'

By now Maidment had limped to the door. He still had the gun
in his hand and his blood was up. He squinted into the squall and
shouted back. 'The bastard's taking a Land-Rover!'


463

Then they heard the shots. Two, three, four. Mallory sprinted

to the door with Kelly. They were just in time to see Waterford
driving hard down the puddled drive, plumes of spray in the
vehicle's wake.

Maidment said: 'The bastard's shot out the tyres on everything,
including that Healey.'

Kelly said: 'He can't get away. The gates are padlocked.' Even

as she spoke the twin orbs of the Land-Rover's headlights picked
out the ornate brick pillars. Vaterford appeared to hesitate; the
vehicle slowed. Then abruptly it surged forward, accelerating in
a fury of unleashed power. The noise of the impact was enormous,
the crescendo of breaking glass and crumpling metal quite
distinct above the moaning wind. Sparks flew in the darkness like
shorting electricity as the gates were torn from their mountings in
the crumbling brick and folded over the front of the Land-Rover
like giant butterfly wings.

Kelly gave a gasp. Waterford crashed into reverse gear and
backed off until the gates fell free.

Only Maidment realised what had happened as the indistinct
figure of the Irishman was seen climbing from the Land-Rover

and firing two shots at something out on the road.

'Sod!'

'What?' Mallory asked.

'He's seen my car. It's parked out there.'

All eyes went back to the gates as Waterford returned to his
vehicle and drove off, swallowed up by the night. Heading in the
direction of Mallory's cottage.

'He'll be going to warn the others,' Kelly said.

'They're holding George at the croft,' Mallory added. 'They
might already have killed her.'

Maidment said: 'Maybe they'll change their minds.'

'I don't think so,' Kelly interrupted. 'Look, that man who calls
himself Sheehan, he was waiting for Kurt to be taken to the croft
before Georgie was ex--' She blushed, shaking her head as
though waking from a bad dream, 'murdered. He wanted to set
it up to look good for forensic evidence and to get the times of
death right. But now it's all gone wrong for him. He's a hard case,


464

Kurt, even Dad calls him a psycho. I'm sure he'll kill Georgle
anyway because she's a witness, then come back for you. Maybe
even Dad and me. He's likely to kill everyone who could give evidence - enemies and friends. He's done two long stretches and
he's paranoid about going back inside.' She looked pleadingly at
Mallory. 'We've got to do something!'

Maidment looked out at the remaining cars, a Metro and
O'More's Healey 3000, each with at least one tyre flat 'Maybe
we can change the wheels,' he thought aloud.

Kelly shook her head. 'Different sizes. Anyway,. it'll take for
ever,'

Mallory glanced across to the first stall. 'The horses,' he said as
an idea began forming in his mind, visualising distances and the
lie of the land between the O'More house and his croft. 'I could
cut across country.'

'You'd never get there before him,' Kelly protested.

Mallory snatched up a bridle from its hook on the stall post.
'I'll just have to try.'

She understood what he meant and made a sudden decision.
TII come with you. There's a back way out of these grounds
that'll save a few minutes.'

Already Mallory had slid the bridle and bit onto the sturdy stallion
he called Sabre. 'There's no time to saddle up.'

'I can cope,' Kelly replied, already moving quickly to bridle
the bay mare. 'You were a good teacher, Kurt, and Dolly's got
the sweetest nature.'

Maidment was leaning against the wall, clutching his arm and
fighting back the waves of nausea and giddiness. He watched as
Mallory and the girl began backing the mustangs from their stall
with a sense of hopelessness. 'This is madness. You'll never get
there in time and probably kill yourself in the process.' He stared
down at his blood-sodden arm. 'Christ, I:m going to be dead if I
don't stop this bleeding and I really don't want to call an ambulance.'

Mallory said: 'Tampons. They'll expand to fill the wound.'

'There are some in my bedroom,' Kelly added, starting to
move.


465

'No, no,' Maidment said. 'I'll find them. You just get down to

the croft. As long as the bleeding stops I'll wait fill you get back.'
Kelly handed Waterford's abandoned leather jacket to
Mallory. "Wear this against the rain; it should fit.'

He slmagged into its comforting warmth and used a stool to
spring up onto Sabre's bare back. As Kelly mounted Dolly and
took up the reins, Maidment handed Mallory his automatic. 'I
only used one round. There's nine left in it. Make 'em count,
Kurt, for Georgina's sake.'

The hooves clattered loudly on the cobbles, Kelly following
Mallory as he ducked to clear the stable doorway and Sabre trotted
out into the screaming night.

'GOOD LUCK!' Maidment called after them, watching for a
moment as Kelly led the way towards the back gardens. Theft he
lurched painfully across to the house.

At the rear of the building a flagged stone path dropped away
across a rough and sloping lawn, which Kelly took at a gentle
canter. The sodden ground was easily torn beneath the steel
shoes, giving Mallory a clear route to follow even when he lost
sight of horse and rider in the sweeping sheets of rain.

The instant they had left the shelter of the stable, Mallory's
hair had been flattened against his scalp and his jeans soaked,
beginning to steam with body heat. Wind and rain cut into his
legs, whipping like a cat-o'-nine-tails. Hard droplets of water
stung his face and eyes, thrown out of the sky with such velocity
that they felt like tiny steel pellets. Visibility was almost nil; he
squinted through the squall, trying to follow the tracks and melting
shape of Kelly and her mount as they proceeded towards the
ornamental rose garden.

He ducked beneath the trellised arch and heard the reassuring
clip of steel on stone as he passed the fish pond and the walled
enclosure with its rows of barbed standards and straggling
climbers, where the few remaining leaves had been blasted off
into a scurrying whirlwind.

Ahead of him, Kelly picked her way through to a neglected
vegetable patch that was running to weeds, past dilapidated
greenhouses and a tool shed, the stench of compost and horse


466

manure thick in the air. Then she and Dolly picked up speed,
trotting through banks of tall withered nettles along a muddy
track. After fifty metres he saw her dip her head to avoid the
swaying low bough of a tree before she dug her heels in, urging
the mustang on. Clods of mud flew from her hooves as the mare
accelerated, her back legs sliding as she tried to gain purchase on
the slippery surface. Then both horse and rider rocketed from the
ground, the powerful muscles on the beast's haunches glistening
with rain as they cleared the strands of rusting barbed wire.

Mallory spurred his own horse on, leaning forward to whisper
harshly in its ear, knees gripping against the slippery wet pelt of
its flanks. The animal recognised the instruction and reacted to
Mallory's body pressures. Then they too were airborne, the wire
boundary fence of the O'More estate passing beneath them. It
was a good landing on the tufty grass and now the meadow fell
away unseen before them, dipping towards the coast.

Kelly had stopped some distance ahead, clouds billowing from
the mare's nostrils like dragon smoke as she was reined in tight,
waiting for Mallory before heading off again at speed.

The two of them had never ridden so hard and fast. Even the
horses seemed to pick up the vibes, their riders' sense of urgency;
together they powered on, sturdy and sure-footed beasts, eager to
please and seeming to enjoy the run. They leapt two drystone
walls dividing the patchwork of farm fields before reaching a
woody glade. There the trail slowed slightly as they negotiated
the puddled muddy track. Out again on the far side, the ground
opening up to rough pasture dropping away, ever closer to the
beach.

To his left Mallory onde glimpsed car headlights flickering
between the roadside hedgerow on higher ground. The Land
Rover, he guessed; it was moving at speed, but it was not a road
that a driver could take liberties on. Strewn with tractor mud at
the best of times, tonight it would be like an ice rink with fallen
leaves and slicked with surface water unable to drain faster than
the elements were hurling it down. If Waterford panicked, it was
a dead cert he'd skid offthe road, lose it on some sharp bend. But
the man was no callow youth on his first job for the movement;


467

he'd undoubtedly been in fighter spots before.

So if he kept a cool head - and the fact he'd troubled to shoot

out the tyres of vehicles back at the house suggested he was then
he'd take it steady. And that would give the horse riders the
glimmer of a chance.

Mallory heard the high-voltage crack of lightning far out over

the sea. Momentarily the huge and angry waves were lit in an
electric blue radiance, pounding along the shoreline to explode in
foaming white wrath. Ahead Kelly and her horse were clearly
defined for one fleeting moment along with the ragged tree line
that shook and trembled in the gusting Adantic blow. For a second
he saw the bruised underbelly of the storm clouds pressing
down before the entire landscape disappeared again, and the
thunder rolled. Horse and rider charged blindly on.

He hadn't been expecting her to stop. It was Sabre who
swerved to avoid his stable mate as Kelly reined her horse tightly

in. Dolly rose on her haunches, fetlocks thrashing in the air.

'What is it?' Mallory shouted above the wind.

Kelly turned towards him, her small fists white as she fought to
control the horse. The hood of her waterproof had blown free
and her long hair was sodden and matted, her face dripping with
rain and smudged grey with mascara. 'It's no good, Kurt, we
can't do it!' She pointed up towards the road. Headlights were
flickering through the hedgerow. 'He's ahead of us and we've got to divert to avoid the stream! We're too late!'

He knew what she meant. The stream cut a deep clef through

the rough pasture; millions of years of Irish rain pouring almost
constantly off the coastal high ground had eroded a sharp-sided
chasm lined with wind-stunted trees. The banks were too sheer
for a horse to descend without falling and even ff it didn't injure
itself, it would be unable to scramble up the far side.

Mallory glared at the row of trees and bush gorse that marked

its edge and cursed beneath his breath. It felt as though the gods
had conspired to defeat him, had planned it all those centuries
past, had decided even then that he would fail and that Savage
would die. Some things were predetermined and there was
absolutely nothing you could do about it.


468

Up on the road the lights were receding, his quarry slipping
away. He was filled with an unreasonable and boiling anger. It
was as though he had betrayed her as she had never betrayed him,
had let her down in her hour of greatest need.

He wheeled the big stallion round and edged towards the
stream. How wide was it? Eight feet? Nearer ten.

Kelly saw what he was thinking. 'You can't do it, Kurt!' she
shouted. 'You'll kill yourself and the horse!'

But there was a mad light in his eyes now and his lips had
formed into a thin and determined line. He circled Sabre wide
once more, leaning low over the mane and whispering encouragement
in Spanish. Its ears pricked in response.

'No!' Kelly warned.

His heels nudged hard into the rain-sodden flanks and he
yelled at the horse, who lunged forward with muscular legs
thrashing at the soft ground. His build-up of speed was impressive,
his course straight and determined as he thundered towards
the narrow strip of gorse at the narrowest stretch.

Mallory urged him on, leaning his body forward, chest pressed
down towards the shaggy mane at the moment Sabre's hooves
left the ground. It was like slow motion, flying through space,
leaving solid ground behind, launching into an abyss.

Christ, you're a fool! The self-abuse spun through Mallory's
mind in that one split second of lunacy. It was a ghastly mistake,
one that would kill his horse for certain and probably himself. In
midair he shut his eyes, his body hunched low, awaiting the
stumbling crash and the animal's cry of pain and shock.
Visualised the reeds and swirling, gurgling water rushing over the
stone bed towards the sea. Planning to throw himself clear, praying
that half a ton of horse flesh didn't land on top of him and
crush his chest to a pulp.

Sabre's front legs hit the far sid with a thud, The force of it
nearly catapulted Mallory clear over the horse's head. But it was
an untidy landing, one rear hoof missing the chasm edge and
kicking wildly at thin air. The horse slid back, startled, its back
leg falling down the drop, the sudden backward momentum
reversing the pull of gravity. Mallory slipped quickly from the


469

animal's back to allow it to struggle free.

'Chico bueno!' he shouted encouragingly. 'Chico bueno! Steady,
steady!'

When the bewildered stallion dragged its fallen back leg up

onto level ground, Mallory remounted. Sparing a glance over his
shoulder, he was aware of, rather than actually made out, the
dark shape of Kelly and her horse amid the sweeping curtain of
rain. Caught the pale blur of her wave, realised she was turning,
taking the detour down to the bridge by the beach. Taking the
longer, safer route and he was glad she had.

He urged Sabre on. There was no point in allowing the horse

time to Spock. With a whoop of triumph he spurred the animal
into a gallop, pounding across the sloping pasture to a point, on
their right where he knew a field gate opened out onto the road.
To his left he could just detect the glimmer of headlights advancing.
Both horse and rider and Land-Rover were converging. It
was just a case of which arrived first.

A flock of startled sheep loomed out of the darkness, breaking

like a starburst to avoid the thudding hooves. By now the big stallion
was breaking sweat, foam whisked from its flanks by the huffing
squall that blasted in over the shoreline.

Now Mallory could see the ragged outline of .the roadside
hedge, saw the smooth horizontal edge that marked the gate.
Barely fifty metres to go. He dug in his heels and, leaning forward,
yelled encouragement, gasping for breath as the wind
snatched away his words. Forty-five metres, forty, thirty-five,

thirty. Another urgent kick of the heels. Twenty-five.
The Land-Rover shot past the gate.
Fifteen, ten, five.
'UP!'

Sabre launched himself skyward, his magnificent frame outstretched.
Without a trace of fear, trusting his master to the
utmost.

Allowing for the narrow tarmac road beyond the gate, Mllory

had taken the jump at a sharp angle to give them.a run-out before
they reached the ditch on the far side. Even so it was barely
enough. The horse was shocked by the severity of landing on the


470

hard surface. He jolted and pulled back as his front hooves hit,
then began to slide all over the place. He whinnied in pain as his
legs spread and the tendons strained, the animal scrabbling like a
cartoon character on ice.

'Easy, chico, easy!' Mallory intoned as Sabre cantered uneasily
on, his head held high, alert and wary, eyes wild with flight.
'You're okay, chico. C'mon let's go.'

They gathered speed. Farther down the road he could see the
vehicle's lights blink red, Waterford touching the brakes before
the Land-Rover disappeared round another bend.

Twenty metres. No more. Mallory could scarcely believe his
luck. They were still behind, but so, so close.

Even Sabre seemed to sense that his job was nearly done, that
it was just another furlong to the winning post. He strode out,
stretching every last sinew as though driven by a turbocharger,
reaching for his last reserves of energy and power. Rain lashed
painfully in Mallory's face till he could have sworn it was drawing
blood. But he became oblivious to the eliscomfort, his eyes
and mind focused on the closing distance between himself and
the Land-Rover.

Ten feet, seven, six. His heels dug in, the horse inched closer.
Three, Two - Now they were alongside, Waterford suddenly
noticing and swerving as he glanced back over his shoulder.
Mallory might have laughed at the expression of shock on his face
had he not been concentrating on exactly what to do next.

But the driver quickly recovered. He began veering deliberately
to the offside of the road, trying to force horse and rider into the
ditch. Steel slapped against Sabre's side, but Mallory edged him
clear so the impact was minimal.

A bend loomed. Waterford had no alternative but to slow.
Mallory gained the necessary inches and seized the moment. He
launched himself from the horse'sback, pushing his left heel into
its flank to propel himself across the gap. His hands clasped
around the rails of the roof-rack and his body slammed against
the vehicle's side, his legs scrabbling.

Sabre trotted to a halt, muscled body steaming in the rain, his
task done.


471

Waterford began swinging the Land=Rover violently, so much
so that it began to rock, in the attempt to throw Mallory off. But
the steel rails of the rack offered a firm and unshakeable grip.
With enormous effort he hauled his body up until he was able to
swing one leg onto the roof and roll himself over. (asping for
breath he looked ahead in the vehicle's twin beams. Despite the
silvery veil of rain, he recognised where they were - just as
Waterford swung the wheel to take them down the side track
towards Mallory's croft. Brambles whipped viciously at his face
and back as it passed through the gap in the roadside hedge. He
felt his skin and the material of his jeans tear as the tiny barbs
ripped free. The vehicle began to bounce violently on the rough
and pot-holed surface.

Recovering, Mallory yanked the automatic from his walstbafid
and knelt on the roof, jamming his calves hard against the metal
rack for stability. Like a praying man he held the weapon in both.
hands between his legs, pointing the muzzle at the tin roof above
the driver's seat.

He fired four times in rapid succession. The rounds spat contemptuously
through the mild steel, a ragged cluster of holes
appearing beneath him.

The effect was instant; the vehicle slewed left, then right and
ploughed through the old wooden fence. There was a sickening
accompaniment of splitting timber, shattering glass and buckling
metal. The front tyres sank into the boggy ground, the fender
thudded into a grassy mound and the engine stalled. Mallory lost
his balance. The abrupt halt propelled him forward, just missing
the bonnet. For a second he was like a man in space, bringing up
his arms to protect his face, but not knowing which way up he
was as he tumbled through the air..

Had it been high summer, he might have broken his spine on
hard-baked ground. But the grass was long and tufty, the ground
as soft as sponge. He thudded onto his back, shocked and
winded, and rolled over. Pointing the gun back at the vehicle's
windscreen, he gasped with relief that he was still alive. A little
bruised and very shaken, but that was all.

He scrambled to his feet and half-walked, half-staggered back


472

to the Land-Rover, his weapon pointing all the time. Jerking open
the driver's door, he stepped back. Waterford's body fell towards
him, the face white and lolling. The eyes were wide and staring
and blood ran freely from his gaping mouth. Three rounds had
found their mark. The right knee was shattered, the blood dark
around the torn material of his jeans; a similar messy patch was
bubbling around his crotch and the third had passed down
straight through his cranium and scrambled his brains.

Mallory heaved in a lungful of air, turned away and fell with his
back against the Land-Rover's side. He closed his eyes and let the
sweet, cold rain devour him, sting and revive him, his mind blissfully
blank for a few precious seconds.

At the sound of hooves clacking on the roadway he looked up.
Kelly emerged at the junction with the track, riding Dolly and
with his stallion in tow. She dismounted at the broken fence, tied
the horses to a snapped post and picked her way down through
the debris. She stared aghast at Waterford's body slumped out of
the open door. --

'God, Kurd, are you all right?' Her eyes were anxious in her
pinched, rain-streaked face. Mercifully the wind had dropped a
little and the rain was easing.

He stared at her. 'There speaks the woman who was happy to
see me executed."

Her eyes were very bright and clear and close to his. 'But not
tortured, Kurt, never that.'

He tamaed away, sensing her disappointment as he rejected
her. 'We've got to ge on. George is still in deep shit.'

Kelly fought back her tears, tried to appear as calm and cool as
her crumpled face would allow. 'She'll be okay until they get the

word.' She looked at the Land-Rover. 'Is this rng drivable?'
'Probably.'

'Let me go to the croft. They'll let me in. I could tell them
there's been a change of plan.'

It made sense, if he could really trust her. Mallory nodded.
'Could you lure them out on some pretext, away from George?'

'I could try.' She glanced down at Waterford's corpse. 'You're
wearing Sean's jacket.'


473

He saw her point. The leather blouson was expensively cut, quite

dis "tractive. 'We'll leave the horses here. They've done their bit.'


It took ten minutes to coax the Land-Rover out of its muddy bed,
even with the four-wheel drive. Easing back and forth over the
boggy ground to avoid sinking to its axles in the mire, Mallory
finally pulled dear, circled and returned to the track. There he
turned left and drove down towards the turning circle on the cliff
where the Discovery was parked.

Scudding charcoal thunderheads moved like vast and godly
chariots towards Ulster and the Scottish mainland. They left
behind a clearing pre-dawn sky.

'I'll go first,' Kelly said, opening the door. 'You keep a bit
behind, they'll have seen the headlights.'

Mallory watched her go, moving easily down the rough path.

He felt a great sadness begin to swallow him. He'd built his hopes
too high, built them on shifting sand. Things would never be the
same again between them, could never be. Suddenly he felt very
lonely.

He shivered, then plunged his hands into the blouson pockets

the way he'd seen Waterford do it. Also he copied the man's
light-footed manner, half-stepping half-dancing down the path to
the seashore and the dark outline of his croft.

Padraig O'Donnell had been looking out from the side window.
He peered through the gap in the musty felt curtaining, the
barrel of his Armalite assault rifle resting on the foot-deep sill. He
had spotted e headlamp beams shining like searchlights from
the turning circle. Chewing on his spearmint gum, he waited for
Waterford to appear from behind the rockfall spur.

'It's Kelly.' There was a hint ofsurprise in his voice.

Sheehan was sitting on a dining chair, riding it back to front

like a horse, his forearms crossed over its back, a pistol in his right
hand. He was irritable after sitting guard so long over the rope
bound girl who was slumped on the mildewed sofa. The place
was so damp and cold it was seeping into his bones. He longed
to light some turfs in the big fireplace, but that just wasn't on.
Security before creature comforts, that was always the rule.


474

He turned his head towards the window. "What's she doing
here?'

'How should I know? Perhaps there's a change of plan?'
Sheehan scowled. 'I bloody hope not. We're running out of
time. It'll take a while to set up the car smash and we've barely
an hour before it's properly light.'

O'Dormell chuckled. 'Sean probably couldn't bring himself to
stop, sadistic little bastard. Still, perhaps Guy thinks he can
squeeze some new info out of Mallory and wants to delay until tomOTOW.'

'I don't fancy another day in this bleedin' fridge.'

'A-h,' the other man said, 'I think that's Sean coming now. He's
stopped up on the path - what's he playing at?'

Kelly knocked on the door. O'Donnell left his seat at the window,
Armalite still in his hand.

Savage had been dozing restlessly. She'd tried to keep awake,
but the fear had drained her and sleep had come unbidden to the
rescue. But the cold and discomfort kept her hovering on the
verge of consciousness. Hearing the knock, she became instantly
awake, her heart already hammering in her chest.

They'd been awaiting instructions; now her time had come. So
it hadn't all been a most terrible dream. God, how she wished she
was curled up in her Bartersea flat with Giles.

O'Donnell oi)ened the door; 'What is it, Kelly? Come to say
goodbye to your friend?'

'Very funny,' she replied caustically. 'No, Sean wants to talk to yotL '

The Irishman peered out at the distant figure in the familiar
leather jacket outlined on the path. Waterford was kicking his feet
impatiently. 'Why doesn't he come down?'

'Why do you think?' Kelly indicated Savage. 'He doesn't want
her to hear.'

'What's happened?'

She gave a brittle laugh. 'How should I know? This is big boys'
talk and I'm a mere girl.'

O'Donnell smiled, wicked. 'Sure you shouldn't put yourself
down.'


475

Kelly aimed a friendly swipe at his shoulder. 'Get on with you,
Padraig. Sean doesn't like to be kept waiting.' She glanced across
at Sheehan. 'He wants to speak to you too, Kevin.'

The other man climbed to his feet, rubbing his leg where the
cramp had set in. 'I'm lookin' after the wee girl.'

Kelly looked at Savage's trussed form on the sofa. 'I'll keep an

eye on her. Give me the gun.'

'And have you shoot yourself in the foot?' He walked past her.

'I guess she's going nowhere. Shout if she gives you any trouble.'
Damn it, Kelly thought, but at least it had been worth a try.
As Sheehan followed O'Donnell out the door, she sped to the
kitchenette, took a sharp knife from the drawer and approached
the sofa.

Savage froze. Anticipated the hot burning thrust of the blide.

'Don't look so worried,' Kelly reassured with a grin, and sliced
through the cord at her wrists. 'Kurt's outside.'

The landscape was lightening by the minute. Inky shadows

were melting to grey and there was now definition to the silky
hump of the waves as they broke along the seaweed-strewn
beach. Mallory stood hunched with his back to the croft. His
right hand was concealed in the front of the leather blouson, his
fingers around the butt of the automatic.

He heard the scratch of boot leather on shale and O'Donnell's
laboured breathing as he scaled the rockpile. 'What the bell's
happening, Sean?'

Mallory knew he could wait no longer. O'Donnell and
Sheehan were closing, daylight was breaking and they'd see that
although wearing Sean Waterford's jacket, his hair was the wrong
colour.

So he turned, very slowly, casually, extracting the gun in one
relaxed, fluid movement.

O'Dormell was barely ten feet away and was already drawing to

a halt as he realised something was wrong. His mouth fell open,
the Armalite began to rise. Mallory lifted his gun in a doublehanded
grip and fired two shots at the man's body centre. He was
blown backwards by the close-proximity force, rolling over to
land at Sheehan's feet.


476

The older man barely had time to register what had happened
before the second two rounds slammed into him..

Echoes of gunfire reverberated out across the bay, fading gradually
like dark spirits leaving the dead. The storm had passed and
the first gulls of the day were out searching for food, dark and
bat-like shadows against a clear pearl sky. Tranquillity had
returned. The wind had dropped leaving the changing tide to slap
lazily along zhe shoreline.

Mallory checked the two bodies before staring out at what
promised to be a Canaleto sky when r-he sun rose. He drew
deeply on the crisp and salty air with its pungent tang of bladderwrack.
Suddenly he felt deeply weary and wondered if the
fight would ever end.

He gave a wry smile; somehow, despite everything, he knew the
answer to that. Life without justice, however rough, was meaningless.
And, as he looked down at the two men who had intended
to kill Savage and himself, he savoured the sweet and heady taste
of revenge. For the last time? He shrugged. Some things in life you
never could tell; fate had a habit of picking the right man for the
job and when fate called you had no option but to answer.

As he made his way back down to the croft Savage and Ketly
appeared cautiously at the door.

'It's done,' he said. . 'Dead?' Savage asked.
He nodded.

Kelly pulled a tight smile. 'You wesn't hurt?'

'No.'

Savage took a deep breath of resignatiou as she observed the
grotesque postures of the two bodies; it was back to business. She
took a cigarette pack from her shirt pocket, offered me to Mallory and lit them. 'You'd better, make yourself scarce,

Leave the idying up to me. Are you okay for cash?'

'Enough to get by.'

'There'll be a cheque sent to your account within the week.'
She sighed, and exhaled a long stream of tobacco smoke. 'It's
probably best ff we torch the croft. Destroy all evidence of your
existence here.'

477

'Sure.'

Kelly looked aghast. 'But your books, Kurt, and your mereoils.
'

He smiled without humour. 'The baggage of time. I prefer to
travel light.'

Savage glanced up to the turning circle. 'Is that the LandRover
you came in?'

'Yes. Waterford's body is in the back. Shot with this.' He
handed her the still-warm automatic, butt fast. 'The colonel
turned up at the house with Mattie. He was wounded but not
before he killed Thripp.'

She had to smile at that. 'This is beginning to seem like the last

act of a Shakespearean tragedy.'

'Perhaps it is.'

'Did they hurt you?'

'Only my pride.' He glanced at Kelly. 'Our friend had a timely
change of heart.'

Savage made a decision. 'My priority has to be to get you and
the colonel out of here. Is he fit to travel?'

'I think so, but he needs medical attention as soon as possible.'
She said: 'As soon as we get back to the O'Mores' place, I'll
assess the situation and contact our man in the Dublin Embassy.

He'll arrange a doctor and a safe house for you both.'

'Safe house?'

Savage gave a smile. 'As I'm sure Kelly would be only too keen
to point out, Kurt, this is foreign soil. So the usual precautions
apply.' She took a few steps forward to Sheehan's body, prised
open the stiffening fingers, removed his gun and replaced it with
Mallory's automatic. 'If you could bring Waterford's body down
and dump it here, it'll look like a Provo shoot-out. At least that'll
give the Garda something to puzzle over.'

Mallory realised time was short and set off up the path to
retrieve Waterford's corpse.

Kelly thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her waterproof.
Her tangled copper hair was drying into tightly sprung ringlets.
'What'll happen to Dad and me, Georgie?' She sounded miserable.


478

Savage regarded her with scarcely disguised hostility; she tried
not to he emotional, but it was hard to forgive the. betrayal of a
friend. 'That's largely up to you and him. I take it it was you who
tipped off Sheehan and Stan Summers and arranged for the

White Viper consignments to have their routings changed?'
The other girl nodded. 'It was the obvious thing to do.'
'Then your future will depend on whether you and your father
co-operate with us, help track down the consignments in the UK
and Europe.' She stared out across the bay. 'Otherwise, I imagine
the British Government will apply for your extradition to
stand trial. Dublin's never been very co-operative in such matters,
especially when it involves the IRA. And no one wants to
unsettle this tenuous peace process. If I had a crystal ball, I'd say
Irish Special Branch will be breathing down his neck so closely,
your father and his friends will have to forget the cocaine business.
That's Dublin's usual fence-sitting stance. And my people
will make damn sure your career as a lawyer is over for good, one
way or another. In fact I'll see to it myself.' --

'Thanks,' Kelly replied stiffly. 'But I can tell you Dad would

never co-operate, wouldn't raise a hand to help you Brits.'
'But you will?'

'I told you, we've won. You're not the enemy any more. I was
wrong.'

Savage wasn't sure she believed her, but had no way of knowing.
But then it was a well-known truism in the intelligence business
that fanatics were the easiest people to convert to the
opposite cause. 'Help us and we'll help you.'

'There's no future for me here. Dad will never forgive me and
word will soon get out that I was involved in all this, that I
became a grass. For all your professional cover-ups, there'd still
be rumours and Ireland is just one b!g village really.'

Up above them Mallory appeared, clambering down the rocky
path with Waterford's body slung across his shoulders. He
dumped the corpse unceremoniously between the bodies of
O'Donnell and Sheehan.

Savage turned to Kelly. 'Thanks anyway for the change of
heart, for helping to save Kurt and me.'


479

Kelly's green eyes pleaded to be believed and forgiven. 'I'd
worked for the Provisionals' cause for too long - I'd got too close
to it. I went along with Dad like I always had. I just stopped questioning
the rights and wrongs. Dad always seemed so sure--'
'But?' Mallory asked.

She smiled weakly. 'But now we've won. If the peace process
holds, we've got what we want. We'll have a reunited Ireland in

all but name and justice will have been done.'

'Hallelujah,' Mallory said acidly.

Kelly smiled at his sarcasm. 'I don't expect you to understand.
But we have won, Kurt, and it's time to mend our ways. I can't
blame Dad and the others - I'm only just recognising it myself.
It's one thing using narcotics money to fight for the cause - we

had no option - but not for political funding.'
'You'll have to have an IRA flag day.'
She smiled. 'I still love you.'

Savage interrupted. 'Take the Land-Rover, Kurt. We'll follow
on in the Discovery as soon as I've finished here.' She found a
pencil stub in her pocket and scribbled a telephone number on
her cigarette packet and gave it to him. 'That's my mobile. Pick
up the colonel from the house and get on the road to Dublin fast.

Call me in a couple of hours for further instructions.'

'I always said you were the best.'

She ignored that, but would remember it. 'When you finally
dump the Land-Rover, burn it.' She glanced towards the croft.
'Talking of which--?'

He understood. 'There's plenty of paraffin and petrol round
the back. No problem.'

Kelly touched his arm. There was a look of uncertainty on her
face. 'I'll take care of your horses, Kurt, for as long as you want.
Whenever you want them back - or me - just say where.'

There was just a glimmer of humour in his eyes. 'And the
bees?'

The Irish girl wrinkled her nose. 'Mattie can look after them.
He'll miss you.' Then she added, scarcely audible: 'So will I.'

Mallory turned to Savage. For a moment she thought he was
going to kiss her, but he didn't. That man would never change.


480

'Ciao, pardner.'

'Ciao, Kurt. Take care.'

Both watched as he scrambled back up over the rocks, leaving
his life of the past three years behind without even a backward
glance.

'Who was that man you called the colonel?' Kelly asked. 'Is he
one of yours?'

A ghost of a smile crossed Savage's face. 'No, he's not one of

ours. Just a man with a mission.'
'Kurt worked for him?'
'I've no idea.'

Kelly listened to the sound of the Land-Rover's engine growling
into life up on the turning circle. 'All the time I thought I
knew Kurt, I really didn't know him at all. Who is he really? Just
a stranger.'

Savage felt the hot prickling sensation behind her eyes, and
sniffed heavily. 'Not just any stranger. He's the last of the
strangers in the white hats.' --

She turned away then, back towards the croft. There were
things to be done, a can of petrol to be found, a fire to be started.
As Mallory used to say, a jaguar always buries its shit.

Kelly hurried to catch up with her. 'After I've helped your
people, would you help me change my identity?'

'Will you tell us everything you know about the Cali cartel?'
'Of course.'

'Then the answer's almost certainly yes.' Savage paused at the
door. 'Would you want to relocate?'

'I think perhaps I'd have to after all this. But somewhere I can
keep the horses.'

'Any thoughts?' Savage asked absently. She really didn't care.

Kelly O'More stared out across her beloved bay, so calm and
silvery in the gathering light. 'Paraguay.'

Epilogue

Stan Summers considered himself to
be the luckiest man alive.

He sat in the back of his chatrffeurdriven
Bentley and watched the passing crowds and Christmas
lights of London's West End. Then he glanced at his wife, Lynn,
who sat beside him. Her rapt and smiling face pleased him - how
she loved the glitz and glamour of the capital.

Blonde and blowsy, she was twenty years his junior and a former
nightclub hostess. As such she appreciated the good life he
had shown her, burying her earlier loss of self-esteem by becoming
one of the nouveaux riches she had at one time so despised,
before she'd ever dreamt she might become one of them.

Shopping at Harrods, eating at L'Escargot or Langan's
Brasserie and dancing the night away at Stringfellows was Lynn's
idea of paradise. Her enthusiasm for the opera, ballet and the
theatre, he knew, was an affectation to give herself a semblance
of being cultured. Nevertheless, he applauded her efforts at selfimprovement
and actually felt quite proud of her when she talked
knowingly of Wagner, Mozart and Verdi - even if she did tend to
get mixed up.

Summers himself would have preferred to have spent the
evening at one of the unlicensed boxing matches in Billericay or
Berrnondsey, but the consolation for him of a night of enforced
culture was to rub shoulders with the stars of stage and television.
With his money and contacts that was never a problem. He especially
enjoyed first nights like this and hobnobbing with the
famous in the green room afterwards. Lynn would love tonight;
that dashing young actor, destined for Hollywood, had the starring
rtle. He'd have to keep a careful eye on her.


482

As they slowed in the traffic, he reflected that it would shortly
be New Year. It had been a funny old twelve months.

He'd done nicely out of it, although not as nicely as he should
have done. It had all gone wrong when his team had been wiped
out in Colombia and only Guy Thripp had escaped.

But the IRA - if that's really who they were - knew their stuff.
Joe O'More told him the whole thing had been some sort of black
intelligence operation, probably with the DEA, using hired assassins.
He reckoned the same about Miguel Castafto's mysterious
crash outside Madrid, but refused to say how he knew.

No matter. They and their new allies from Cali had wreaked
revenge and no mistake; he'd heard at least three of the assassins
had been traced and killed.

Then there had come another shock. A shoot-out at O'More's
house in Kerry and on a beach nearby. Four people dead, including
poor old Guy. A clash between rival factions of the IRA, the
small television news item had said. It made him sweat when he
saw that, but it made sense to him. Everyone knew the peace
process in Northern Ireland wasn't universally welcomed.

It had been enough to persuade Summers to sever all connections
with them. He'd hurriedly packed his bags and taken Lynn
off for an extended holiday in Marbella. There was a raid on the
warehouse of one of his shell companies in Manchester where the
main White Viper consignment was being stored. He was able to
deny all knowledge and drop the warehouse manager in the shite
from a very great height. Summers's solicitor told him the police
wanted to prosecute, but that the GPS didn't think the case
would stand up. Summers was untouchable.

The news of Joe O'More's suicide at his country home had
come as a further surprise, but it no longer mattered to him. Now
he had secured personal connections direct with Jaramillo
through the lovely Maria Palechor and with the man called the
Captain in Budapest.

Of course, without the muscle of the Irish to enforce the distribution
routes, the White Viper brand couldn't be sustained.
Now it was just diluted coke like all the rest. Profits weren't so
high but at least it was set to run and run. And, frankly, he was


483

quite relieved to have the Irish connection off the scene. He was
happier dealing with straight criminals. Honour amongst thieves
and all that. At least you knew where you stood with them.

As Stan Summers's Bentley joined the queue of limousines
awaiting their turn to drop off their celebrity passengers outside
the theatre, it was watched from across the street by a man called
Jimmy Hardacre.

Jimmy had been a dosser for nearly ten years and was well
known to both the police and the long-suffering public in
theatreland. Now in his fifties, he was a failed actor. This sorry
state he attributed to the cigar-chewing Jews who ran the business
and the clique of successful 'luvvies' who conspired to keep newcomers
out of their charmed circle. It never occurred to him that
his lost career, marriage and home was anything to do with the
fact that he was an alcoholic, unreliable and had all the acting
ability of a ventriloquist's dummy.

'Bloody toffee-nosed tart!' he shouted from his little cardboard
house in the alleyway opposite when he recognised a well-known
actress glide from her limo to the foyer.

He raised his bottle - a little whisky topped with meths - and
shook it in the air, but that night he was too drunk to bother
crossing the street and creating his usual nuisance.

His fellow dossers ignored him, stuffed more newspapers into
their clothes and sleeping bags and curled up more tightly against
the cold and Jimmy's rantings.

That annoyed him. He turned to the man sitting nearest him.

'Bloody toffee-tarted nose!' he shouted. 'Don't ya think,
Kermit?'

Kermit the Kraut, Jimmy had named the younger man who
had only dossed here for the last three days and who at least
talked to him occasionally. Had a funny name that Jimmy
couldn't remember and a funny accent that sounded German.

'A lotta toffs tonight,' Kermit observed, huddling in a filthy
woollen overcoat that was several sizes too large. He scratched at
his thick tangle of beard. 'Must be a first night. I reckon the punters
might have a few bob. Feelin' lucky, Jimmy?'

Jimmy belched; he was past feeling anything. But the talk of


484

punters reminded him of the smart gent of military bearing who
had come and spoken to Kermit for a few minutes on each of the

past two days. "Ow much your Mr Blimp give you today, then?'
'Price of a cuppa.'

'Bloody liar. Not enough for a miniature Bell's?'

'Afraid not.'

'Wanna swig of this?'

Kermit shook his head and stumbled to his feet. 'Nah, thanks,
Jimmy, but if I get lucky with the punters I'll split you fifty-fifty.'

Jimmy made the effort to stand. 'I'll earn my own, thank you,
Mr Kraut!'

Kermit was already shuffling between the slow-moving traffic
as the older man followed.

'Spare ten pee for a coffee, sir?' Kermit asked the first of the
rubberneckers behind the crash barrier; he held out his soiled and
battered hat like a begging bowl.

He moved down the line, getting the usual mixed response. On
the opposite side of the foyer, Jimmy had far less luck, mostly
because no one understood a word he said. lie looked across at

Kermit, envious at the sound of jingling change.

'God, cheek of the bleeder,' he mumbled.

Kermit was actually approaching one of the first-night guests, who was crossing the pavement from his Bendey with a tarty

young thing in a slinky blue dress, liolding out his hat.

'Get the fuck out of my way,' the man hissed.

The Kraut had pushed his face close into the other man's, the
thick shabby overcoat blocking Jimmy's view. lie heard the voice;
it was definitely his friend's. But he wasn't sure of the words.
'Remember me?' A question. Then what sounded like: 'I'm
doing this for gold.'

Then Kermit moved away and the man stood white-faced, sort
of surprised, holding his hands across the front of his tux. lie
didn't say anything, but began a sort of staggering walk for a

few paces, then collapsed on the steps.

Heart attack, Jimmy thought.

By the time he reached the man, his girl was kneeling by his
side and a circle of people had gathered around. Jimmy peered


485

over their shoulders, gaped, then suddenly drew back. Shocked.

The shaft of a strange-looking knife was protruding from the
man's blood-sodden shirt. And he looked distinctly dead.

Jimmy turned round to see where Kermit was. He had vanished
into the night.


Redheads were a rare sight in Cali.

Obviously a tourist, the waiter decided as he took the bottle of
wine to her table. The camera and guidebook beside her plate
confirmed it.

She gave him a generous smile as he poured a glass for her
before he turned to the dark-haired young secretary at the adjacent
table. 'Hello, Juanita. Is it the fi la carte or the special today?'
'The special, of course. I can't afford those fancy prices.'

He smiled in sympathy and turned away, scribbling on his pad.
Such youth, such beauty, but such sad, faraway eyes. What a
shame, he thought and wondered why?

As he walked back to the kitchen he failed to observe that both
women had identical Dior plastic carrier bags beside their chairs
at the adjacent tables. Later he was not surprised to see that the
two lonely diners had struck up a casual conversation.

'I've heard a lot about you, Juanita,' the redhead said in faltering
Spanish. 'How's the job going?'

The girl shrugged. 'Tolerable under the circumstances. Maria
Palechor can be a real bitch. Still, I'm grateful you got me the
job.'

'Not me. Friends of friends, your friends. It took a lot of
patience and planning - and luck.'

Juanita smiled. 'And time. Well over a year.'
'As long as I've been studying Spanish.'
'You're really very good.'

'Thank you.' The redhead glanced casually round the room,
ensuring no one could overhear. 'Now tell me. You are sure Ruiz
Jaramillo comes to your office today?'

'Yes, it was confirmed this morning. There is a big crisis. It has
just been discovered that one of the Caribbean banks that
Jaramillo uses was a fake set up by the British police. To track


486

down narco money, I think. Over two hundred people have beer
arrested in America and Europe. Everyone is very worried.'

The redhead knew about the crisis. She had only recently beer
told how Cali had been craftily baited into using the bank, s�
exposing its complex laundering network. It had been a masterstroke
and was reckoned to mark the start of the cartel's eventual
collapse.

Years of courtroom drama was set to follow. That was the official
way of things. But this was the other way. 'What will happen
when Jaramillo arrives at the office?' she asked.

'As always I will show him in and as always Sefiora Palechot
will ask me to leave my desk until he goes,' Juanita replied. 'To
make coffee, run an errand or do some filing. Their meetings are
always secret. I will just leave the bag in the drawer of my desk
when I leave.'

The redhead nodded. 'Is there a danger to other staff?.'

'No. I have an idea to empty the adjoining office. What do I
have to do?' --

'You'll find the device has a dial timer for up to five minutes
only so that you can control the situation. You'll see a simple onswitch
and an off that will override at any time in case of problems
or innocent people in danger. You can then reset it.'

Juanita looked relieved. 'So I can leave it for another day if
things go wrong? That is good.'

'You'll find something else in there. A lot of money in used
dollar notes.'

A perplexed look appeared on the girl's face. 'Money? I don't
want money.'

'It's what was due to Mario. His closest friend believes he
would have wanted you and your family to have it. We look after
our own.'

'I am learning that. And if I can help again in the future, just
let me know.'

A few minutes later the redhead settled her bill. She picked up
the bag beside Juanita's chair and rose to her feet. 'Nice chatting
to you.'

The girl smiled nervously. 'I don't even know your name.'


487

'It's best that way.'

'Who do I ask for ff I phone?'

'Just Kelly. That will do.'

Then the redhead turned and walked out. The waiter watched
the languid sway of her hips and admired the long legs and the
careless toss of her copper locks.

She crossed the road and, to his surprise, climbed into a beatup
old Cadillac that had just pulled up.

He shook his head with disapproval when he saw the dishevelled
individual at the wheel. Looked like a tramp.

'El vago tmqueFto,' he muttered with disgust. Some people have
all the luck.