41

If you want to survive, act more native than the natives. It was advice from basic training that had saved his skin many times from Luanda to Kabul. Wearing a fake Dodgers baseball cap bought from a market stall, Black walked quickly through the slow-moving crowds, shaking off the emaciated beggars with a gruff ‘¡Lárgate!’ – get lost – and ignoring the dead-eyed gazes of the young men he took to be lookouts for the local street gangs stationed on the corners of each block. Harder to ignore were the beckoning smiles of the beautiful bare-legged prostitutes who were never far from them. He quickly realized that the outward impression of a feral free-for-all was an illusion. This was a neighbourhood carved up into small, strictly controlled territories watched over by eyes both visible and invisible.

Black’s intention had been to book a room in a small out-of-the-way pensíon where he could hole up while he made his deal with Cordero, leaving Riley and Fallon to concentrate on keeping out of sight, but after only a few minutes on the teeming streets he concluded that nowhere outside the centre of the city would be safe. A stranger stood no less chance of passing unnoticed here than in the remotest upland village. Aside from its unrivalled homicide rate, Caracas was also a world leader in kidnappings for ransom and now he understood why. He needed to head west but to turn down the side streets that would take him in that direction would mean leaving himself exposed and isolated. For the present he was best sticking with the crowds. Safety in numbers.

He continued to move confidently with the flow, pausing here and there to look at the stalls, playing the part of a shopper hoping to find something in particular. He had made it almost to the end of the street and could see a wider thoroughfare up ahead where he might stand a chance of catching a bus or a taxi, when a slightly built young man, little more than a teenager, fell into step behind him.

Black pretended he hadn’t noticed and pressed on, manoeuvring between the shoppers and through a small crowd that had stopped to listen to a pair of street musicians playing samba. Forty yards to the main road. He saw a taxi go by and resolved to hail the first one he could find.

He was almost at the junction when a beaten-up white Chevrolet, a gas-guzzling relic from a previous era, pulled across the end of the market street. The two shaven-headed figures who climbed out of it were no corner boys. Black altered course to pass the rear end of the car. They stepped in front of him.

The shorter of the two greeted him with a gap-toothed smile. His sunburned scalp was covered with a sheen of sweat as if he’d been in a hurry to get here. Black realized that he must have been spotted and claimed as booty the moment he got out of the Hilux. The boy who had tipped off these two had been marking him all the way along the street.

‘American?’

‘No. Perdóneme –’

Black stepped to the side and immediately felt a hand placed firmly to his chest.

‘Uh-uh. Billetera.’

The man wanted his wallet.

The smile evaporated. His companion stepped up close behind his left shoulder. His face was lined and scarred and his thick neck decorated with a badly inked spider’s web. A thug. Passers-by quickened their pace and averted their eyes. It was more than their lives were worth to challenge these petty tyrants.

Black had no option. Number two was already reaching around to the back of his jeans. He stepped forward, spun on his right foot and swung his full weight behind his left elbow, which he slammed into the gap-toothed gangster’s throat. It was a clean hit straight to the larynx. Enough to crush it. A fatal injury unless a paramedic arrived in time to cut open his windpipe. The man dropped to his knees. Black caught Spider’s right arm as it came up with a handgun and drove the heel of his right palm upwards into his already flattened nose. His head jerked back, rocking him off balance. Black rammed a knee hard into his groin. The double shock caused the gun to drop from his fingers and he folded at the waist. Black took a half-step back and chopped hard into the back of his neck, midway between his skull and shoulders. His legs splayed. He staggered forward in the comical way of a baby giraffe taking its first steps, then, as all nervous activity ceased, toppled face first into the tarmac.

Under the stares of the astonished onlookers Black grabbed the gun from between the two prone bodies and jumped behind the wheel of the Chevrolet. He fumbled the ignition, selected drive and stamped on the throttle, leaving behind the smell of scorched rubber to mingle with the street’s aroma of rotting fruit and roasting coffee beans.

Black drove several blocks on the busy road, checking his mirrors for pursuers. None came. He cut left through side streets, found another main road and followed a sign to CENTRO URBO.

Block by block, the pervading sense of poverty diminished. After several miles he had left the ramshackle tenements and apartment buildings behind and found himself in a leafy neighbourhood that could have been a suburb of a Mediterranean city. There were bars and cafés and shops with goods in the window. The traffic was of a better class, too; most of the vehicles were less than twenty years old. The Chevrolet began to stand out. Time to dump it. He turned into a quiet street of low-rise villas and pulled over. He left the keys in the ignition as a small act of charity for whoever found it, crammed the pistol into the money belt he wore under his shirt and made his way back to the main road, where he joined the huddle waiting at the nearest bus stop.

Half an hour later Black was sipping a cold beer and eating a swordfish steak with a side of mango and pomegranate salad in the air-conditioned comfort of a downtown restaurant. He had chosen one a short walk from the National Assembly building, working on the assumption that it was likely to be the safest part of town and the last place anyone who might be searching for a desperado would be likely to look. The surrounding tables were occupied by suited professionals engaged in animated discussions over working lunches. He counted two other pale-skinned foreigners in the room, which meant that for the first time since setting foot on Venezuelan soil he passed unnoticed. Here he was just another member of the small privileged caste insulated from the harshness of the streets beyond. Relishing his welcome anonymity, he blanked the memory of his unfortunate encounter at the market and savoured his meal.

Dessert or just a coffee? A WhatsApp message from Fallon interrupted his dilemma: Hotel Ávila. Avenida Este 3. $s talk. Cocktails by the pool. Missing you already.

He messaged back: No problems?

All good.

Enjoy it while it lasts. ETA 20.00.

The waitress reappeared and greeted him with a smile. ‘Señor?’

‘Espresso, por favor. Y un gran cônac.’

What the hell? He had more than three hours to kill before meeting Cordero. He would linger over his digestif, then maybe take in a sight or two.

Black emerged from the National Museum of Architecture on to the Avenida Bolívar to find that darkness had descended. The short tropical days always took him by surprise. In Caracas the sun vanished from the sky at roughly six p.m. and rose precisely twelve hours later from January through to December. There was no winter, spring or autumn. Just one long sweat interrupted by the occasional deluge.

To the steady drumbeat of cicadas he made his way two blocks north and four to the west through the government district, towards the Plaza Bolívar. There, in the tree-lined square, families had gathered to enjoy the relative cool of the evening. Children scampered and fat old women sat gossiping on benches while the men played cards and dominoes at fold-up tables, smoking bitter-smelling cigars.

Black checked his phone. There was no message from Cordero.

He proceeded across the square with caution, appearing casual but alive to every possibility. He could only guess at Cordero’s appearance, whereas he was sure that Towers would not have left his contact at the same disadvantage. He stood back in the shadows and scanned the square in search of a likely candidate. Seven o’clock came and went. Several minutes passed. Still no sign. There was nothing for it but to place himself in view. He approached the white façade of the colonial-style cathedral that stood at the head of the square and waited to the side of the large central door.

Three more minutes elapsed. Black began to fear that their tail from the airport had sparked a bigger search and that Cordero had got wind of the fact that they were already wanted fugitives. A police officer armed with a semi-automatic rifle wandered past. Black tensed in anticipation of being spotted. The cop glanced vaguely in his direction and moved on.

Cordero was now fifteen minutes late. Black brought out his phone, ready to take the initiative and risk a text to his number.

‘Mr Black?’

He looked up from his screen to see an earnest-looking man in his late fifties. He was respectably attired and was clutching a small hardback book.

‘Mr Cordero?’

He gave a sideways flick of his head, gesturing Black to follow him inside.

They entered the cathedral where mass was underway. The congregation, concentrated mostly in the front pews, was singing responses while a priest prepared the host at the high altar. The air was thick with incense that hung in ghostly layers around chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceiling of the nave. Black noticed that otherwise it was strikingly devoid of ornamentation for a Roman Catholic church. A pared-down building that belonged to the New World.

Cordero led the way to a pew at the rear of the right-hand aisle. A few worshippers, absorbed in their devotions, were scattered throughout the rows in front of them. Once installed, Cordero stooped briefly to his knees and crossed himself in what Black took to be a genuine act of piety, or perhaps a plea in advance for absolution.

‘I have spoken to Colonel Towers,’ Cordero said in the excellent English of an educated man. ‘I am assured of your credentials and I trust he is assured of mine.’

‘You were recommended by impeccable sources,’ Black said, engaging in what he felt was a necessary dance.

Cordero nodded and pensively fingered the corner of his book, the cover of which Black could now see bore an embossed gold cross. ‘You must understand that this is not my normal line of business. Until recently I was a respected economist in the Ministry of Finance. I hasten to add that I saw it all coming – oil could not hold its price for ever. That was my sin – to challenge the orthodoxy. Sadly, this was not considered a virtue in my country.’ He let out a regretful sigh. ‘So I am forced to find other means to support my family, although, I assure you, I am not without principles.’

Black felt like a priest hearing the confession of a sinner. ‘And I can assure you, Mr Cordero, nor am I. I’m not at liberty to discuss details, but this is not a matter that need trouble your conscience.’

‘My country is vulnerable, Mr Black. It has many problems, but its ideals, however misguided, are at least proof of its soul.’

‘What can I say, except that I’m here on the side of the angels?’

A smile broke through Cordero’s expression of unease. Then he fell quiet, as if he were wrestling with a dilemma. ‘I have two names and two numbers for you. The first is that of the man who will provide your hardware. He is an old acquaintance and no friend of our government. You can trust him absolutely. The second is that of a pilot. In other times one of my duties was to arrange shipments of American dollars to foreign territories on behalf of our esteemed politicians. Alas, like all good Marxists, their true love was what they professed to despise. I used this man because he could not help but give the impression of being a criminal. No one would believe him to be in the employment of a government, not even one as disreputable as ours.’

‘Did he make his deliveries?’

‘He did. But I cannot vouch for any other aspect of his character.’

‘Then that’s good enough for me. Has Mr Towers wired your payment?’

‘Yes. I am much obliged.’

Black waited for Cordero to deliver, but his attention seemed to have been caught by proceedings at the altar.

‘Are we ready to conclude business?’

‘Of course.’ He snapped back from his reverie and handed Black his prayer book. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’ He stood up from the pew and made his way forward to join the queue for communion.

Black opened the book at a page that had been marked with a folded square of paper. He opened it out to see two names with accompanying mobile phone numbers: Colonel Emmanuel Silva and Gregori Buganov.

A Russian.

As if he needed any more excitement.