43

Black woke abruptly to the alarm on his wristwatch. The illuminated display read three thirty a.m. He swung out of bed and felt the welcome cool of the tiles on his bare soles. Only once he was upright did he remember the purpose for getting up in the middle of the night. He was going to steal a car, alone. Unseen. He couldn’t afford for the three of them to be seen together. Not by anyone.

He stood under a cold shower and stepped out feeling sharp and alert. He dressed in hiking shorts, desert boots and T-shirt and fetched a small LCD torch and his Leatherman multi-tool from the pocket of his rucksack. Using the tool’s wire-cutting jaws, he snipped the hook from the solitary coat hanger in the wardrobe, wound the remaining length small enough to fit in his hip pocket and silently exited the room.

He descended the stairs and opened the door to the lobby, prepared to make small talk with Joachim and play the dumb tourist who couldn’t sleep. He needn’t have worried. The TV was off, the lights were dimmed and Joachim was slumped in a chair behind the desk snoring like a sow. Black padded across the floor, turned the handle on the inside of the door, secured the latch so that he could let himself back in and stepped outside. He glanced back through the glass to see Joachim still dead to the world.

The hotel stood on a wide street that would once have been a prosperous commercial area on the edge of the central business district. The traffic had thinned to no more than the odd car and delivery truck. Save for several sleeping bodies in nearby doorways there was no one to be seen. Sticking to the shadows, Black walked a block to the east, then turned north into narrower streets lined with apartment buildings.

In the still of the pre-dawn the city seemed almost content. The only clue to its troubled soul was the odd daub of graffiti and the state of the cars. The crashed economy and cheap fuel had made Caracas into a museum of large and ancient American models that reminded him of old movies. In among the battered compacts and pick-ups were Fords, Lincolns, Chevrolets and Pontiacs, with bonnets that stretched six feet in front of their windshields and with boots to match.

He pressed on for three more blocks and spotted the car he wanted on the far side of the street: a mid-brown Pontiac Parisienne. An ’85 or thereabouts. Dented, scratched and with missing hubcaps, it was suitably anonymous and big enough to carry three men and their kit. The windows in the surrounding five-storey buildings were unlit. The coast was clear. He stepped out of the shadows and crossed the road.

Arriving at the driver’s window, he reached the coil of wire from his pocket, bent the end into a small hook and forced it between the rubber seal and the glass. He worked it up and down, fishing for the lever mechanism that would spring the locks. It was trickier than he remembered. Precious seconds ticked by without any joy. He tried to remain patient. Slowly, the vibrations transferring to his fingertips began to form a picture of what lay inside the door. He isolated the horizontal rod he was aiming for and twisted the hook inwards to catch it underneath. It snagged, then with another twist, flicked into place. He pulled sharply upwards and was rewarded with a satisfying click. He tugged the wire free and let himself in.

Now the difficult part. He fetched out the Leatherman and unfolded the cross-head screwdriver. He ran his fingers over the plastic trim beneath the steering column and found the four screws that held it in place. Working in the dark beneath the dash, he removed each of the screws in turn and pulled the trim free, exposing the steering column and the multi-coloured clusters of cables leading from the ignition and headlight and wiper controls. He switched on his torch and examined the ignition barrel. There were six wires leading to it. One green, one black, two red and two brown. Using the Leatherman’s wire strippers, he snipped and stripped the two reds – the live circuit – then, using the tips of the pliers, twisted them together. The lights lit up on the dash. Next, he did the same to the two browns – the starter circuit – and touched them one against the other, causing a spark. The engine coughed and turned over. Black pumped the gas pedal. It sputtered, then roared into life, the sound of its barely muffled engine resounding down the sleeping street.

He shifted into drive and moved off smoothly, switching on the lights only after he had travelled several blocks. He checked the mirrors. All was quiet.

Joachim was still asleep when Black eased back into the lobby. He took fifteen seconds closing the door inch by inch, then padded noiselessly across the floor. He swiped his key pass. The security door clicked open and he slipped quietly through. Joachim stirred but didn’t wake. There was a full ten minutes before Black was due to meet with the others.

He knocked at Riley and Fallon’s room at exactly half past. They were ready and waiting for him.

‘We were thinking, boss – maybe the two of us should shoot off and get a car first. Shave the odds of all three of us being seen.’

‘I had the same idea. It’s waiting outside.’

They exchanged a look of surprise.

‘Let’s go.’

He slung his rucksack over his shoulder and headed for the stairs.

Joachim stirred as they entered the lobby.

‘Checking out. Early bus,’ Riley said. ‘Might see you again in a couple of weeks.’ He crossed to the desk and handed over their key cards, together with a twenty-dollar bill.

Joachim took the money gratefully but looked at them with concern. ‘Have you got a taxi? You need one you can trust. Some of these guys are criminals.’ He reached for the phone. ‘Let me call my friend.’

Black smiled. ‘I appreciate the thought but we’re fine. We like to walk.’

‘Walk? But it’s dangerous.’

‘We like a little danger, too. It’s what we’re here for. Goodbye.’

They headed out, leaving Joachim folding the note into his shirt pocket and shaking his head at the crazy Englishmen.

Black had parked the Pontiac several spaces along from the hotel. He popped the trunk allowing himself a moment of pride as they stowed their rucksacks. Riley took the passenger seat, Fallon the back. Black touched the bare wires and the already warm motor started without complaint. He pulled out into the sparse pre-dawn traffic.

‘What do you think?’ Black asked, hoping for at least a word of acknowledgement. ‘Will she do?’

‘Perfect,’ Riley said, poking through the contents of the glovebox. ‘Just a pity it belongs to a cop.’

‘What?’ Black failed to hide the note of alarm in his voice.

Riley grinned back between the seats at Fallon, who laughed.

They’d got him.

Black nodded, tight-lipped, taking it on the chin. It would take a lot more than stealing a car to impress this pair of bastards.

Riley navigated using his hand-held GPS. The location Silva had given them looked only a short distance away on the map but in reality involved a tortuous route to the south-east of the city, followed by a series of switchback climbs over steep hillsides. Here poor outer suburbs – no more than clusters of single-storey houses built from whatever materials were to hand – clung precariously to the slopes among increasingly dense forest.

The buildings were spread more thinly the further they travelled from the city until they petered out entirely. They crested the top of a hill and started down the far side. The road gradually narrowed and heavy tropical vegetation pressed in from both sides. Black guided the unwieldy Pontiac through several winding miles of steep descent until the sense that they were heading nowhere in particular was confirmed by a sign announcing that they were approaching a dead end. After a short distance the tarmac turned to dirt and the headlights picked out a length of steel crash barrier marking the end of the road. They came to a halt at the head of a deep ravine.

Black turned the car to face the way they had come and switched off the engine.

‘Nice quiet spot,’ Riley said. ‘How many are we expecting?’

‘He’s got his money. I can’t see why he would involve anyone else.’

‘Best not take the risk.’ He glanced back at Fallon. ‘Shall we?’

The two of them climbed out of the car and headed in opposite directions to keep watch from the cover of the surrounding trees.

There were thirty minutes to go until their scheduled rendezvous. Black waited in the car with the windows down, watching and listening, aware of how blunted his senses had become in civilian life. It took a soldier on extended jungle exercise anything between a month to six weeks to hear, see and smell with anything like the acuity necessary for extended, unarmed survival. There had been a time when Black had been at maximum sensitivity permanently. He could enter an apparently empty building and from the smell alone tell if there was anyone inside. It was an ability that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

The clock on the dash crept slowly towards six a.m. Dawn started to break and the landscape appeared in monochrome that slowly rose to colour. They were in a narrow, steep-sided valley with a view over forested hilltops beyond. Here and there accessible parcels of land had been terraced and planted with banana palms, but for the most part the surrounding country remained in its natural state. After the dirt and squalor that lay only a few miles to the north, it should have made for an attractive scene, yet something in its atmosphere felt oppressive. Then Black put his finger on it: territory this untamed so close to a violent city told him that inevitably it would serve as a dumping ground for the bodies of the murdered. Root around at the foot of the ravine and he’d put money on reaping a grim harvest of white bones.

Two minutes ahead of time a single pair of headlights flickered in the near distance. Black stepped out on to the dirt road as a Ford Ranger painted in military green approached. Its windows and windshield were heavily tinted, obscuring the face of what appeared to be a single occupant. It turned in a tight arc in front of the Pontiac, spewing up dust from its tyres, eased forward, then backed up until its rear end drew level with Black’s boot.

Black waited for the driver to show himself but the doors remained shut and the engine idling. Whoever was inside was determined to remain anonymous. He doubted it was the Colonel. He had most probably sent an underling. Someone anxious to make the drop and disappear.

There was a green tarpaulin stretched tight over the pick-up bed. Black went to the tailgate, slid the pins from the hasp that secured it and lowered it to ninety degrees. He peered under the tarp and made out three black nylon holdalls. The driver revved the engine as if urging him to hurry. Black ignored the prompt and took his time. He dragged the nearest holdall forward and unzipped it on the tailgate. It contained three AK-47s with separate bayonets, three Smith and Wesson M&P 9 pistols fitted with suppressors and three shoulder holsters. An interesting mix – Russian assault rifles and one of the FBI’s preferred sidearms. In among them were three Aselsan intercom units with headsets and mics, each one smaller and sleeker than a phone.

He dumped the bag on the ground and reached for the next. It was a dead weight. He opened it to find thirty-round magazines for the rifles, boxes of 7.62 x 39-millimetre ammunition and more boxes of 9-millimetre slugs for the pistols.

The third and final bag was heaviest. It contained a wooden crate two feet long. Printed on its top: 30 X M67 FRAGMENTATION GRENADE. NATO’s favourite since 1968. Light, effective and reliable. Jammed in alongside the crate was a further package: a two-and-a-half-kilo lump of plastic explosive, four detonators and a remote-control unit. The Colonel had been true to his word – the inventory was better than he could have hoped for. He slapped the side of the truck twice and the driver took off in a cloud of red dust.

Black remained on his guard, wanting to be sure he was alone before he turned his back on the road. He waited for the sound of the engine to die away until all he could hear was the throbbing chorus of waking cicadas. No tricks. A straightforward drop and run.

‘All clear.’

Riley and Fallon emerged from their hiding places.

‘Looks like Colonel Silva delivered,’ Black said.

Riley and Fallon stooped to examine the contents of the holdalls, making approving noises as they checked the weapons.

‘Hate to say it, boss, but I’d take an AK over our carbines every time. These babies look brand new.’

‘Straight out of the stores,’ Fallon said, peering down the barrel of a Smith and Wesson. ‘Still got grease in the barrels.’

Riley brought out a rifle and turned it deftly in his hands. ‘Nice. Very nice.’

He handed it to Black, who held the butt to his shoulder and stared down the scope. He felt a pulse of excitement. It was as familiar to his touch as an old lover.

‘Where to now?’ Fallon said, hauling the load of ammunition into the Pontiac’s boot.

‘We’ll take back roads down towards Charallave, pick up a few provisions and tuck ourselves away till morning. Conserve our energy. We’re going to need it.’

They hefted the holdalls into the Pontiac’s boot and set off in high spirits. Craftsmen reunited with their tools.

In the space of minutes the sky lifted from flat grey to brilliant blue. The air was warm and sweet. Riley and Fallon laughed and joked as Black nursed the car’s battleship bulk back up the hill.

As they neared the summit they turned a sharp corner to be met with a sight that caused the laughter to stop in their throats. The Ford Ranger that had delivered the weapons was half buried nose first in dense bushes at the side of the road as if it had swerved to avoid a collision. A young soldier was standing, legs splayed, with his hands pressed up against the passenger door and a gun aimed at his back. It was wielded by a man in a similar uniform wearing a blue helmet with white letters printed on its front. A third figure, also in a blue helmet, was standing in front of a military Toyota SUV parked in the centre of the road. He raised his rifle and aimed it at the Pontiac’s windshield as his colleague held up a hand, ordering them to stop.

Black stepped on the brakes. ‘Hands up where they can see them. Sit tight.’

He came to a stop a short distance from the Toyota. Close enough to be able to make out the letters on the blue helmets: P.M. Policía Militar. Black looked over at the driver the two military police had run off the road and saw that he was no more than eighteen years old. A kid. Colonel Silva had screwed up badly.

Black, Riley and Fallon held their hands above their shoulders and remained casual, looking puzzled, as if they had no idea what the problem could possibly be. The two blue-helmets exchanged words in Spanish then the one who had been aiming his weapon at the young soldier ordered him to lie face down on the ground before cuffing his hands behind his back. Both men then approached the Pontiac with their rifles raised, one covering the left flank of the car, the other the right. They were also young. Twenty-three or twenty-four at the most. Tense and scared, their fingers were twitchy on their triggers.

Black smiled at the MP who was coming alongside the driver’s window, letting him get a good look at his face, trying to let him know that there was no need for drama. He guessed that their plan was for the one on their right to continue providing cover while his partner would order each of them out in turn and have them lie on the ground before cuffing them.

The options were limited.

The MP on their left motioned Black to step out first.

‘No problem,’ Black said, keeping up the friendly pretence. He reached for the door handle. ‘I got this,’ Black whispered to his passengers.

Riley and Fallon met each other’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

Black stepped out, hands raised, still smiling. ‘Habla inglés?’ Do you speak English?

‘¡Al suelo!’ Down! The MP pointed to the ground at the side of the road.

Black nodded and walked three steps away from the car. On the third he looked sharply to his right as if something had startled him. It was an old trick but worked every time. The MP’s head turned instinctively in the same direction. In his split-second of distraction Black sprang to his right and caught the muzzle of his rifle in his left hand. Turning on his left foot he swung his right elbow into the man’s jaw and hit the sweet spot. The shock of the impact caused the soldier to loosen his grip. Black tore the rifle from his hands and continued through an anticlockwise arc, spiralling to the ground to face the Pontiac as the second MP opened fire over its roof. Black found the trigger and fired a return burst beneath it, cutting the shooter off at the ankles. He cried out in a mixture of surprise and pain as his legs folded beneath him. As he hit the deck, Black loosed a second fatal burst into his head and torso, rolled twice, then came up into a crouch to see the first MP scrambling to his hands and knees, groping for the pistol holstered on his belt. Black took aim at his chest and fired again. Six rounds ripped through his tunic, exploding his heart and lungs. His limbs flailed. He jerked and twisted and came to rest on his back with his knees bent awkwardly under his body.

Black spotted movement to his right. The young soldier, the one who had delivered the arms, had made it to his feet and had started to run, his hands cuffed behind him.

Black shouted after him. ‘Halt!’

He kept going.

Shit. A witness.

The greater good.

He had no choice.

Black took aim and made sure to do it cleanly. A single round to the back of the skull.

The fleeing boy’s legs stopped moving but his momentum kept propelling him forward. He pitched face first into the road.

And then there was silence.

‘All clear.’

Riley and Fallon’s heads appeared above the tops of the doors. They surveyed the scene and climbed out with the look of men trying hard to disguise the fact that they felt lucky to be alive.

Black saw them trade a glance. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘No problem,’ Fallon said.

Black spat a bad taste out of his mouth. ‘Let’s clean up and get out of here.’

It was a crude job by normal standards but it would have to do. When the dead men’s colleagues finally got a fix on them they would arrive to find two vehicles having narrowly avoided a head-on collision. The teenage driver of the Ranger was lying naked and handcuffed next to his truck, apparently having been executed by a single bullet to the back of the head. The Ranger’s tyres were slashed and its seats torn open, their stuffing ripped out as if during a search for drugs or other contraband. The two MPs were lying on opposite sides of the road with their weapons at their sides, seemingly having turned their fire on each other, most probably during a dispute over the blood-stained US twenty-dollar bills that were scattered around the scene.

Just another day in Venezuela.