Алистер Маклин: Dead Halt

“Sabrina, this is Peter Mitchell,” Graham said, indicating Mitchell behind him. “We go back a long way.”

“I’m sorry about those three, they’re not the usual sort of clientele we get in here.”

“Yeah, they’re usually a lot worse,” Graham added.

“Speak for yourself,” Mitchell said good-humoredly. “What can I get you to drink, Sabrina? On the house. It’s the least I can do after what’s just happened.”

“Nothing, but thank you anyway.” She turned to Graham. “Can I have a word with you outside?”

Graham nodded then held out his hand toward Mitchell. “I’ll take that twenty bucks now.”

“The game’s not over,” Mitchell protested.

“It’s checkmate in two and you know it.” Graham snapped his fingers. “The money, Mitch.”

Mitchell took two ten-dollar notes from his pocket and handed them to Graham. “I intend to win it back, Mike. Be warned.”

“I’ll be in New York again next Wednesday. Same time, same place?”

“It’s a date.”

“See you, Mitch.”

Mitchell patted Graham on the arm and smiled at Sabrina. “Nice to have met you.”

“Likewise,” she replied then followed Graham from the bar.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Graham asked once they were in the street.

“I went to the Manion and the desk clerk told me where you were.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re on a Code Red standby.”

“When did this come through?”

“About half an hour ago,” Sabrina replied. “Not that you’d know that, of course. You’re up to your old tricks again, aren’t you?”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not answering your beeper.”

“It never went off!” he shot back defensively.

“You’re talking to me, Mike. I know all your tricks by now. Where is it? At the hotel?”

“In here,” he retorted, patting his jacket pocket. But it wasn’t there. His brow furrowed quizzically as he checked his other pockets. It wasn’t in any of them.

“You haven’t got it on you. Now that is a surprise.”

“You can cut the sarcasm, Sabrina!”

“You’re supposed to be the team leader now that C.W.’s gone over to the management side. That means you should be setting the example, not regressing back to your old ways again.”

“I had it with me when I went to the cemetery this afternoon. It must still be in my suit pocket. I honestly thought I’d brought it with me. It was a genuine mistake.”

Sabrina exhaled deeply and touched Graham’s arm. “I’m sorry I went off at you like that. It’s just been one of those nights.”

“Sergei’s going to crucify me when he reads in the duty officer’s book that you had to come over here personally and tell me about the Code Red. That memo he circulated was very specific about field operatives carrying their beepers around with them at all times.”

“He won’t know I came out here,” Sabrina said. “I had a quiet word with the duty officer. He’s agreed not to mention it in the book.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Buy me a coffee and we’ll call it quits.”

“You’re on,” Graham agreed. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

“As a matter of fact I do. And it has a live jazz band.”

“You’ve convinced me.”

“We can go in my car,” she said, taking the keys from her pocket.

“Where are you parked?”

“Not far from here.” She slipped her hand under his arm. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

He sat motionless in the back of the car, a blindfold secured firmly over his eyes. The two men on either side of him were both armed, their revolvers tucked into shoulder holsters which were hidden discreetly underneath loose-fitting, lightweight jackets. He knew he wasn’t in any danger. But he was still apprehensive. He pushed the uncertainty from his mind and let his thoughts drift back over the events of the day… It had been raining when he had left his New York apartment for John F. Kennedy Airport that morning. A hard, driving rain which had reduced visibility to a few feet. He had made it to the airport with minutes to spare, but the 747 had developed engine trouble as it was preparing for take-off and the passengers had been transferred to another Jumbo. The flight for Bogota, Colombia, had finally taken off two hours behind schedule. When it had touched down at El Dorado Airport five hours later, a chartered Cessna had been waiting to fly him on to Medellin.

A taxi had taken him to the Intercontinental Hotel where a reservation had already been made for him in the name of Warren. It was the name on his passport, not his real name. He had to take every precaution. A letter was waiting for him at the reception. He opened it in his room. More bad news. One of the men he was to meet that afternoon had been unavoidably delayed out of town and couldn’t make it back in time for the original meeting. A new meeting had been rescheduled for eight o’clock that evening.

As instructed, he had left the hotel at seven-thirty and taken a taxi to the Joachim Antonio Uribe Botanical Gardens. A Mercedes was waiting to take him to the meeting. The guards had blindfolded him before they set off: the stakes were too high on both sides and it was a precaution he was prepared to accept. That had been a good twenty minutes ago. Perhaps more. He had lost track of time. Not that it mattered. He had no idea where they were going anyway …

When the Mercedes finally stopped the back door was opened and Warren was helped out of the car. A voice barked out an order in Spanish and the blindfold was removed. He was standing in front of a log cabin in a small clearing surrounded by dense jungle. He counted eight guards standing on the perimeter of the clearing. All carried Uzis. Another two guards stood on either side of the cabin door. One of them knocked on the door which was opened by a swarthy, thickset man in his early thirties. A holstered automatic was visible under his jacket. His name was Miguel Cabrera, the elder son of Jorge Cabrera who presided over one of the most powerful drug families in Colombia. The two men had already met several times during the past five months. Cabrera smiled as he approached Warren and extended a hand of greeting.

“I must apologize for the way you were brought here tonight,” Cabrera said in faultless English. “But you must appreciate that we cannot afford to take any unnecessary risks. I am sure you understand that.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Excellent. I must also apologize for delaying the meeting today but, as I explained in the letter, I was unavoidably detained in Manizales. And as I am the only member of the family who speaks English, it was essential that I be here.” Cabrera gestured to the open cabin door. “Please, after you.”

Warren entered the cabin. A mahogany table dominated the small room. Eight matching chairs were positioned around it, and a leather padded chair stood at its head. Two men sat at the table. Ramón Cabrera was in his mid-twenties with long black hair which he wore in a ponytail at the back of his head. The brothers were complete opposites. Ramón was the brawn, Miguel the brains. That suited the cartel perfectly. Miguel had set up numerous international deals, using all the business acumen he had learned from his father. It was no secret that he was being groomed to run the family when his father stepped down. Ramón had been head of security for the cartel for the past four years and in that time he had become one of the most feared and hated men in the country. Despite their differences, the brothers were inseparable.

Twenty-two-stone Jorge Cabrera was fiercely proud of his sons. He sat at the head of the table, a handkerchief in one hand, a cigar in the other. He dabbed his sweating face with the handkerchief then placed the cigar in the ashtray beside him and beckoned Warren into the room. Miguel closed the door and made the necessary introductions. Ramón reluctantly shook Warren’s extended hand. Jorge Cabrera ignored it.