The Vargas family lived in a palatial mansion set in the foothills outside Santiago, fifteen kilometres from Carter’s drab rented apartment. He’d returned to his lodgings straight from the training base, scrubbed and changed into his civvies, ditched his uniform in a pile in the corner of his room, next to the bag of paperback thrillers and military histories he’d brought with him from back home. Then he’d hopped into the Toyota Land Cruiser provided to him by the embassy and tooled north-east out of the city.
Twenty minutes later, he rolled up at the wrought-iron gate at the front of the Vargas property.
Carter gave his details to the bovine-faced security guard and arrowed the wagon down a stretch of tarmac flanked by aprons of manicured lawn dotted with exotic trees and shrubbery. At the far end the drive led to a wide carriage circle with a tiered water fountain in the middle. Beyond the circle stood a white-stuccoed house two storeys high, with a pair of ornamental balconies on the first floor and a porticoed entrance with columns as thick as ballistic missiles.
He steered clockwise round the carriage circle, pulled up at the twelve o’clock position and got out. A grinning valet bowed slightly and took the keys to the Land Cruiser. A maid greeted him in front of the entrance and ushered Carter through a lavish hall adorned with local artwork, with corridors peeling off on either side. They carried on down a long corridor, past a guest bathroom and a kitchen with a central island so big you could land a plane on it.
Carter crossed the living room, stepped through the French doors at the rear and emerged onto a broad flagstoned patio fronted by an infinity pool, facing out across a vista of gentle rolling hills and vineyards. Fire pits warmed the cool night air.
To one side of the pool, a powerfully built grill master with a bushy moustache tended to cuts of meat smoking on a stainless-steel grill. The mouth-watering aroma of fire-cooked lamb, chicken and sausage wafted across the garden.
A bunch of people were milling about or chatting in small groups, sipping bottles of beer or glasses of wine. Carter recognised a handful of the lads from the training group at the range. In among them, a few smooth-faced civilians dressed in casual shirts and jeans, pretty women in summer dresses with plunging necklines. Wives and girlfriends of the soldiers, he guessed.
‘Carter. There you are,’ a smooth voice called out cheerfully at his back.
Carter looked round and saw a slender guy in a dark grey suit strolling towards him.
Simon Langton, the British ambassador.
Langton had the bland appearance of a career diplomat. Carter had met his kind before, in embassies around the world. After a while, you started to recognise the type. The hair was side-parted and as grey as the suit he was wearing. The lips were tightly puckered, the eyes faded but alert, the jaw cleanly shaven, the brow slightly creased in restless calculation. Langton had that familiar mix of arrogance, insecurity and suspicion peculiar to those who worked in the backwater embassies. He gave the impression of a man who had spent his youth trying to claw his way to something more meaningful, had fallen short, and was now condemned to see out his career in a mood of perpetual frustration and disappointment.
‘Good of you to make it,’ Langton went on in his public schoolboy accent. ‘Let’s get you a drink. What’s your poison?’
‘Beer,’ Carter said. ‘Lager, if they have it.’
An eyebrow arched so far up Langton’s face it threatened to disappear into his hairline. ‘You’re a Geordie, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be drinking a hearty brown ale or something?’
Carter laughed drily and said, ‘Just because I’ve got the accent, doesn’t mean we’re all the same.’
‘There’s a red on the go, if you’d prefer that. From the general’s own vineyards, no less.’ Langton indicated his glass. ‘It’s actually rather pleasant.’
‘Beer’s fine, thanks.’
Langton snapped his fingers and gestured to one of his flunkies, a round-faced redhead with heart-shaped lips. One of the embassy junior staffers. She disappeared through the kitchen door and came back a few moments later clutching a bottle of Heineken. Carter nodded his thanks, took a pull, and savoured the feeling as the ice-cold lager slipped down his throat.
Christ, that was good.
After the day I’ve had I needed that.
‘Heard you had a spot of bother at the camp today,’ Langton said. ‘Something involving the general’s son.’
Carter frowned. ‘Who told you that?’
‘The captain mentioned it. Confidentially, of course.’
Langton indicated a group of figures beside the infinity pool. Medel was among them, drinking cervezas with his fellow officers. Fabian Vargas sat a few metres away at a table with Garrido and Zamorano, sharing a bottle of Chivas Regal. As Carter looked on, Garrido leaned over to the kid, whispered something into his ear. Vargas nodded, and then the two of them rose slowly from their chairs and slipped into the mansion through the French doors. Zamorano remained at the table, smoking a cigar.
‘Well, Carter?’ Langton asked. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ Carter replied bluntly. ‘Just some differences of opinion. It’s been straightened out.’
He didn’t want to discuss the Tyre Village incident with Langton. If the ambassador knew that Carter had given the kid a bollocking in front of the unit, he’d never hear the end of it.
Langton exhaled and said, ‘I sincerely hope that’s the case. The last thing we need is any bad blood between you and Vargas junior to muddy the waters. Bad for business, you know.’
‘I said it’s fine.’
Langton glanced at his watch and said, ‘Right, we’d better introduce you to the general. He’s very keen to meet a genuine SAS legend, apparently. Come on. And for God’s sake, make sure you keep the general and his son onside.’
Carter bit back his irritation as he followed Langton across the garden. He hated this part of the gig. Being wheeled out to meet the big boss, like some performing seal doing tricks for the crowd.
As if this job wasn’t bad enough already, I’ve got to kowtow to a foreign Rupert.
They approached the grill master. The big guy with the moustache.
Langton coughed to clear his throat and said, ‘General Vargas, may I have the pleasure of introducing Warrant Officer Jamie Carter, of the Special Air Service Regiment.’
The general was a heavyset guy in his early sixties. At first sight he looked more like a Mexican drug lord than a senior military man. He stood at around five ten, with a brush moustache, jowly cheeks and eyes carved like surgical incisions into the fleshy folds of his face. His thinning hair was shot through with streaks of grey.
General Vargas smiled thinly. ‘So you’re the man in charge of training the Pumas,’ he said in thickly accented English.
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Good, very good.’ The general tended to the grill, flipping burgers and sausages. Smoke drifted up from the sizzling meat. ‘I like the SAS. Fine warriors. Yes, very fine. I was an elite soldier myself, once, you know.’
‘Is that so, sir?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said proudly. ‘We were feared by everyone. We were the real deal. Killers. Our enemies trembled at the mention of our name.’ He gave an ugly laugh. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I would have made an excellent soldier in your unit.’
‘I expect so, sir,’ Carter replied tersely.
‘I imagine you have been on many dangerous missions?’
‘One or two, sir.’
‘I have been on many myself, in my time.’ Vargas smiled, revealing a set of stained yellow teeth. ‘Perhaps one day, we shall sit down and enjoy a bottle of brandy, and I will tell you about my years purging my country of Communist scum.’
‘Yes, sir. I look forward to it.’
I could be back at Hereford right now, Carter thought. Preparing to go out and fight, or working on an anti-terrorist op.
Instead I’m having to indulge this twat.
‘And my son?’ the general asked. ‘You’re teaching him well, I hope? No problems I need to know about?’
In the corner of his eye, Carter spied Vargas and Garrido strolling back to their table. Giggling and rubbing their noses. Vargas reached for the half-empty bottle of Chivas, poured himself a slug and knocked it back. Garrido exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Zamorano and passed him something hidden in his hand. Zamorano promptly got up from the table and strolled inside.
‘None, sir,’ Carter lied. ‘No problems.’
Vargas nodded and said, ‘I believe Fabian will make a fine commander one day. Who knows? Perhaps in time he will become a great general, like myself.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sure he will.’
The general smiled again. Carter tensed his jaw and felt the blood boiling in his veins. I don’t know who’s the bigger prick, he thought. Fabian Vargas, or his father.
Another guest bounded over requesting a word with the general in private. Vargas excused himself, much to Carter’s relief.
He left Langton in conversation with one of the junior staffers and found a quiet spot near the balcony. Figured he’d stick it out for another hour before calling it a night. He’d make his excuses, leave the party and make the short drive to his apartment. Grab one of his books and head over to the local cantina. Carter was a regular at the joint. He spent a few hours most evenings at a table in the corner, reading and sipping black coffee.
The owner, a fanatical Blackburn Rovers supporter, jokingly referred to the Englishman as the Quiet Gringo.
In the SAS, Carter rarely socialised with the other guys, preferring to spend his downtime reading books or at the gym while they bonded over pints in the Hereford boozers. His fellow Blades regarded him as something of an unknown quantity. An outsider. Not really a team player, some of them whispered behind his back.
That was bullshit. He knew how to work in a team as well as the next guy. He just wasn’t interested in going out on the piss once the job was done.
In the close-knit world of 22 SAS, Carter had soon discovered that his lack of allies had worked against him.
His actions at the siege in Mali should have been the crowning glory of his Regimental career. But the knives had been out for Carter almost as soon as he’d returned from his medal presentation in DC. He was a warrant officer class 2, one of the most senior non-commissioned men in the SAS, but he suddenly found himself being given the shittiest jobs at Hereford.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that someone had been stitching him up behind the scenes. Trying to sabotage his career. He knew who was responsible. Brathwaite, the British ambassador to Mali. The bastard had vowed to destroy Carter’s career. Now he was making good on his threat.
Eventually, Pete Boulding, his squadron sergeant major, had taken Carter to one side and given him the heads-up.
‘You’ve dropped a bollock here,’ Boulding had said. ‘Word is, they’re out to get you. Just keep your head down, ride the wave, and you’ll be in the clear before long.’
Holding his tongue didn’t come easily to Carter. He had a reputation among his fellow Blades as a straight shooter. Never a corporate player, Carter had no time for the bullshit of Regiment politics. He didn’t butter up the top brass, never towed the party line and always told it exactly how he saw it.
That attitude had pissed off a lot of people. Particularly the higher-ups. The head shed did not take kindly to soldiers who questioned the wisdom of their orders. They wanted conformists. Guys who could be lions in the field, but sheep when they were back at the camp. It didn’t matter if you were right – if you spoke out and dared to criticise, you were automatically the enemy.
In the wake of the Bamako attack, no one had taken his side. Carter had no close friends at Hereford; none of the lads had been willing to put their heads above the parapet. The only person who might have realistically defended him had left the unit years ago.
Which is why he now found himself working in Chile on a dead-end training job.
Maybe if I’d been willing to play the office politics game, Carter reflected, things might have turned out differently.
The bosses at Hereford would have been looking out for me, rather than trying to stab me in the back.
They might have given me a slap on the wrist, maybe, but they sure as fuck wouldn’t have tried to ruin my career.
He helped himself to another swig of lager.
Every so often, he caught sight of Fabian Vargas sneaking inside the house. Each time, he followed the same routine. The kid crossed the lounge and headed down the hallway, in the direction of the ground-floor bathroom Carter had passed on the way in. A few minutes later he returned to the patio, buzzing with nervous energy.
Vargas and his two muckers had some kind of a system going on. Vargas went first. Garrido and Zamorano stayed outside, laughing and necking double measures of Chivas Regal. Then Vargas would swagger back over to the table, and the two other guys would make the same trip to the bathroom. They repeated the routine every fifteen or twenty minutes.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they were doing.
Carter drained his beer, stepped through the French doors and made a beeline for the kitchen. He grabbed another bottle from the rack of drinks on the island countertop, prised off the cap.
He was about to head back to the lounge when he saw Vargas junior standing in the kitchen doorway.
The kid stood there for a long beat. Watching Carter. His pupils were the size of poker chips. His hands were restless, Carter noticed. The guy couldn’t stand still. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Sweat ran down his puffy face.
All the telltale signs of a coke fiend.
The kid laughed and said, ‘What do you think, gringo?’ He indicated the surroundings. ‘Nice place, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ Carter said tonelessly. ‘Great. Very impressive.’
The kid drained the rest of his Chivas, set the glass down and held out his right forearm, showing off the rose-gold watch strapped to his fat wrist. ‘Look, man. See this? Fucking Rolex. Genuine. Forty thousand American dollars.’
‘Good for you,’ Carter said.
‘Got one for each day of the month. All kinds of fucking watches, man. Rolex, Blancpain, Patek Philippe. Whatever. I like to mix it up, you know.’ Fabian Vargas tapped the face of his watch and grinned slyly. ‘Maybe once I have passed the training course, I make you a little gift. Make you happy. What do you say?’
Carter forced a smile, the ambassador’s words ringing in his ears.
Make sure you keep the general and his son onside.
Vargas said, ‘Listen, I got something to show you. Something fucking cool.’
‘Not interested,’ Carter said. ‘Ask one of your mates. I’ll be leaving soon enough anyway.’
Fabian Vargas shook his head and pointed a limp finger at Carter. ‘No. I want you to see it. I insist.’
He spoke as if he was giving an order to one of his servants.
Carter visualised his balled fist connecting with the kid’s face.
‘Trust me,’ Vargas continued. ‘You’re going to want to see this.’
Carter sighed, considered the prospect of sitting alone in the lounge for the next hour watching shite TV, and figured whatever the kid was desperate to show him, it couldn’t be much worse than that.
‘Fuck it, then,’ he said, setting down his bottle. ‘Make it quick.’
Vargas rubbed his hands together. His dilated pupils flashed with cocaine-fuelled excitement. ‘Come. This way.’
He led Carter out of the kitchen, past the lounge, and beat a path down the corridor towards the front of the house. They hung a right at the marble-floored entrance hall, continued down a smaller passage lined with family portraits and artworks, and then stopped in front of a door on the left.
Fabian Vargas wrenched the door open, flicked a light switch and gestured for Carter to enter ahead of him. A smile curled out of the corner of the kid’s mouth.
‘This is going to blow your mind,’ he said.
Carter stepped inside a dimly lit study. A large mahogany desk dominated the middle of the room, with a throne-like chair behind it and a Chilean flag draped from a brass pole. A fitted bookcase ran down the length of one wall, the shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes. On the other side of the space, Carter noticed an AK-47 assault rifle fitted to a wall-mounted plaque. He saw a bunch of other stuff. Glass-front display cabinets containing memorabilia. Black-and-white photographs. Shadow boxes filled with medals and badges and ranks. More antiquated firearms.
Not a study, Carter realised.
A museum.
To the left of the AK-47 a large portrait of Augusto Pinochet hung from the wall, dressed in an army jacket and jodhpurs.
‘My father’s office,’ Vargas said, a note of pride in his voice. ‘We call this the war room.’
He gave Carter the guided tour, pointing out various items stored in the cabinets and elsewhere in the room. There was a presidential sash once worn by Pinochet, a semi-automatic pistol, a pair of dark glasses, two pairs of polished jackboots, plus a bunch of other stuff: a military cape, pens, watches, medals and awards, handwritten letters. Carter saw a ceremonial sword gifted to Pinochet by a foreign leader. Vargas even pointed out a comb rumoured to have been carried by the man himself, with strands of hair snagged on the metal teeth.
A wave of revulsion surged up into Carter’s throat. This isn’t a museum, he corrected himself. This is a fucking shrine.
Vargas said, ‘My grandfather once served under our great president. They were in the army together. He was one of the general’s most loyal officers. This was many years ago.’
‘Fascinating,’ Carter lied.
‘Some people hate the president. Communists and traitors, who seek to sully his good name. Those of us who are true patriots, like my family, we honour the general’s achievements. He made our country strong again. He was a great man.’
Carter said nothing.
Vargas waved an arm at the AK-47 on the wall and said, ‘You see this?’
Carter nodded. The kid went on, ‘My grandfather carried this weapon when he took part in the coup against the hated Marxists. Later, he served in the secret police.’
Carter stared at the kid, anger clamping like a fist around his throat. He considered telling Vargas junior what he really thought about his father’s room of horror, then checked himself.
In another corner, Vargas indicated a framed poster of a glass soda bottle.
‘Do you know why that is up there?’ he asked Carter.
Carter didn’t reply.
Vargas said, ‘They used the same bottles. My grandfather and his colleagues. To torture the Marxists. They were inserted in places on the human body that would cause the prisoner intense suffering.’
Carter felt sick.
‘My grandfather made sure the prisoners were shown the bottle first,’ Vargas added. ‘Before the interrogation began. That way, every time the prisoner saw a commercial on the TV or the radio after their release, they would remember what had happened to them.’
Carter had seen enough. He tore his gaze away from the poster and turned to leave. Vargas quickly shifted across, blocking the doorway with his corpulent frame. Carter could smell the whisky on the Chilean’s breath, mixing with the aroma of stale cigar smoke.
‘You don’t like what you see?’ he challenged.
Carter clenched his hands into tight fists. ‘Get out of my fucking way.’
Vargas grinned and stood his ground. The kid was wired. Sweat leached out of his skin, beading his forehead.
‘This is my family,’ he said. ‘This is who we are. You don’t fuck with us. We’re not the kind of people you want to mess with. You understand what I’m saying, bro?’
‘I understand that you’re a useless cokehead.’
Vargas wagged a fat finger. ‘You should show me some more respect, gringo. I’m going to be in charge of the Pumas one day. I could be a useful friend.’
Carter snorted. ‘You’re a drug addict and a time-waster. You’re not fit to run a brothel, let alone a Special Forces unit.’
Vargas’s expression darkened. He took a step towards Carter and jabbed a fat finger at his chest.
‘Listen real good, OK? My father is close friends with the President. One word to him, and you’re on the next plane back to your piece-of-shit country.’ His lips stretched into a vile grin. ‘Who knows? Maybe we’ll bring in some Americans next time instead. They know how to treat people like us.’
Something inside Carter snapped. All the pent-up frustration and rage of the past four weeks, the petty humiliations, the dull routine of life at the range and the knowledge that he was teaching some deeply unpleasant people how to kill, suddenly exploded in his chest. He grabbed hold of Vargas’s index finger and bent it sharply backwards in a single clean move, snapping bone.
Vargas screamed in pain.
In the next instant Carter dipped his head down, tensing his muscles as he pushed himself off his feet, momentum driving him forward as he aimed for his opponent’s face.
There was a dull crunch as Carter’s forehead smashed into the soft flesh of the coke fiend’s nose.
Fabian Vargas stumbled backwards, blood gushing out of his collapsed sinuses. Carter launched himself at the kid, stamped on his foot and followed up with a flurry of quick jabs to the ribs and chest. Vargas tried to counter with a wild right hook. The coke he’d shoved up his nose had boosted his confidence, but it had done nothing for his fighting ability. Carter read the move easily. He parried the kid’s ragged punch and struck him again with a sharp blow to the chin, knocking Vargas off his feet. He fell away with a groan, arms pinwheeling, then landed on his back a few inches from the doorway.
Carter stood over his floored opponent, shoulder muscles heaving up and down.
He’d done a serious number on Vargas. The kid was writhing on the carpet, pawing at his face and calling out for help. Blood streamed out of his crushed nose. He wasn’t going to be snorting any nose candy for a while.
Carter heard voices in the hallway. The urgent pounding of footsteps. Medel burst into the room. He took one look at Vargas, spared Carter a quick glance, and then dropped down beside the kid to inspect his injuries.
A few seconds later Langton, General Vargas and a handful of other guests came rushing inside. One of the maids gasped in shock. Medel shouted at someone to fetch towels and water. The kid groaned nasally.
The general’s eyes narrowed to the width of coin slots. His face trembled with barely concealed rage.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ the general demanded.
‘He assaulted me,’ Vargas moaned. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. ‘Shit, my nose . . . it hurts so bad.’
‘Jesus,’ Langton hissed. ‘Jesus Christ.’
The general shot Carter an evil look. ‘Explain yourself.’
You don’t fuck with us, the kid had said.
We’re not the kind of people you want to mess with.
Carter said, ‘It’s his fault. This cunt started it. He’s been on the cocaine all night, making threats and acting like the class idiot. He had it coming.’
The general looked towards his son. Medel handed him a white towel and the kid pressed it to his nose, staunching the flow of blood. ‘Is this true, Fabian?’
The kid shook his head groggily. ‘I was just showing him your collection. That’s all, I swear. Next thing I know, he hits me. Shit . . .’ He clamped his eyes shut against the pain.
‘Good God, man.’ Langton looked apoplectic. ‘What in the hell were you thinking? Have you gone completely mad?’
Carter shook his head furiously. ‘This twat’s lying. He’s a cokehead, for fuck’s sake.’
General Vargas was glowering at him. ‘You dare to strike my son, and then accuse him of being a liar? A decorated young officer, first in his class? This is an outrage!’
Carter ground his teeth. He knew it was pointless to argue his case. There was no way the general was going to take the word of a British soldier over his own flesh and blood.
The urgent buzz of a ringing phone broke the silence. Langton fished out his handset from his trouser pocket. Frowned at the number. He looked up at Carter and flared his nostrils.
‘Get out,’ he hissed. ‘For Chrissakes, man, get out.’
Carter stood his ground for a long beat and stared daggers at the ambassador. He wasn’t surprised that Langton had taken sides with the general.
The lucrative contract.
Hundreds of millions of dollars at stake for Whitehall, potentially. Langton wouldn’t hesitate to throw Carter under the bus to salvage the deal.
A few paces away Garrido and Medel were helping Fabian Vargas to his feet. The kid winced in pain, weeping softly as Medel examined his broken finger.
‘Leave, you bloody fool,’ Langton repeated. ‘Go home. We will talk later.’
His phone was still buzzing.
Langton muttered a curse under his breath. Then he gave his back to Carter and walked into the corridor to take the call. Carter brushed past him and quick-walked down the hallway towards the front door. Behind him, Langton was talking in a muted voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.
Sod them.
Sod them all.
The valet was already waiting at the entrance with his car keys. Even as he fired up the Land Cruiser and pulled away from the front drive, Carter knew that his career in the Regiment was over.
Langton would get straight on the blower to Hereford. Nutting a general’s son in his own house was bound to cause a diplomatic uproar back home. They’d stick Carter on the next flight to London. The training package would be cancelled. Probably the big arms contract too. They might even charge him with assault.
Either way, he would be thrown out of the Regiment.
Carter had served nine years as a Blade. Nine years of hard fighting in some of the most hostile places in the world. Getting the job done.
Now my career is finished, he thought bitterly.
So much for keeping my head down.