Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

‘If you must know,’ he said with careful precision, taking the car smoothly down the gravel drive at speed, ‘I met her in London when I was hired to watch over a friend of hers by an over-protective father. They were like Tweedledum and TweedleDee. They went everywhere together. I had to troll along to the same restaurants to keep an eye on them. That’s all.’ He drifted expertly round the fountain, throwing a spray of gravel onto the grass.

That’s going to play havoc with the lawn mower, thought Riley. ‘So you didn’t have a relationship, then?’

‘No. Could we discuss something else?’

Riley smiled at him. ‘Not yet. Bear with me — I’m naturally curious about the ruling elite. So no kissy-kissy? No showing her your army tattoos in the summerhouse? Not even once?’

He looked sideways at her and she saw a cool and amused glint in his eye. ‘We got on while the job lasted. But that was it. Getting hooked on the client or any of their mates doesn’t go down well in my business. It makes you both vulnerable.’

Riley smiled and nudged his shoulder. ‘You old dog, you. It worked with Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston. You shouldn’t knock it.’

He said nothing. But Riley thought she detected the faint edge of a smile on his lips.

**********

John Mitcheson waited by a magazine stand and watched three men in army uniform patrolling the concourse of Baranquilla International airport in northern Colombia. They were heavily armed and watchful, and clearly looking for certain faces among the travellers and greeters thronging the airport. As if in unspoken collusion, the crowd opened before them, careful not to walk too close, then closed again behind them like a school of multi-coloured fish around cruising sharks.

Mitcheson was dressed in a pale lightweight suit and white shirt, smart enough to pass as a businessman, but not so smart as to attract the wrong kind of attention, such as these security men or con artists looking for an easy mark. He had earlier bought a copy of a local newspaper and was idly scanning the pages without reading, more intent on watching the tidal flow of the crowd moving through the terminal. He hadn’t spent enough time in this country on his last visit to get a real feel for the place or the language, so none of whatever was in the news really meant anything.

He yawned and felt the grit of a nineteen-hour flight and two stopovers beginning to take effect. The air conditioning in the building seemed to be spasmodic, with occasional welcome downdraughts of cold air alongside pockets of warm, humid fug, heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of overheated travellers. He needed something to drink but was putting it off until his contact showed up.

After completing his delivery of a packet of documents to a lawyer’s office in Panama City — the original reason for his journey — Mitcheson had secured a cheap onward flight aboard a cargo plane to Baranquilla. It meant making the shortest of stopovers before turning round to leave again, but that suited him fine; the last thing he wanted to do was hang around here and come to the attention of the military authorities. Luckily, he’d been able to persuade his local contact to meet him here rather than in Bogotá, avoiding the dangers of entering the capital’s airport where security was higher and faces were scanned more rigorously.

He checked his watch, wondering whether to call Riley. He decided not. She had no idea where he was, and would probably blow a fuse if she knew what he was doing. But after what she’d told him about the threats to Myburghe and the possible links to FARC or the cartels, he’d begun to have serious doubts about what she was getting herself into. British diplomats occasionally got on the wrong end of violent protests, but it was rare for the fight to be carried overseas, and rarer still for it to become so personal.

A familiar face appeared among the crowd. The man was middle-aged, stocky and slightly less than medium height, dressed in crumpled slacks and a linen jacket, like so many others here. He was casually wandering along, but there was no disguising the watchfulness in his eyes as he filtered through the bustling throng.

‘How’s it going, John?’ The newcomer smiled and drifted up alongside Mitcheson, deep laughter lines etched in the tan around his eyes and mouth. They shook hands.

Col Pierce was a former British army sergeant who had decided to stay on after leaving the army and make a life as a tourist guide across Colombia and its neighbours to the south. He had been in Bogotá several years before, when Mitcheson had arrived and been escorted out again within weeks, following a violent confrontation with a Colombian army corporal during a drugs raid on a village in the hills. The corporal had shot a pregnant woman for standing up to him, and Mitcheson, enraged at the callousness of the act, had taken the man into the bush.

Only Mitcheson had returned. It had meant a rapid exit from the country before he could be imprisoned and shot.

‘Col. Thanks for coming.’

‘No sweat. You like living dangerously or are you just bored?’

‘I should be okay up here.’ Mitcheson had never been to Baranquilla before. He’d been counting on the city’s remoteness from Bogotá to give him the best odds of getting in and out safely without being recognised.

‘I guess so. You were hardly here long enough, were you?’ He chuckled. ‘It’s still an all-time record among the lads for short stays. Still, some of their army intelligence boys have got long memories, so let’s keep it that way. What brings you back?’ He eyed Mitcheson’s suit and tie.

‘I was making a delivery to Panama City. A friend asked me to do a favour while I was down here.’

‘Must be a close friend.’ Col didn’t enquire about the nature of the delivery job. He knew how difficult it was for many ex-military men to find employment and that many of them resorted to unconventional means, not all of them legal.

Mitcheson smiled, knowing what his friend was thinking. ‘It’s all legit, I promise. And the friend’s close enough. My flight out leaves in an hour.’

‘Suits me.’ He led Mitcheson to a bar. ‘You want coffee or something stronger?’

‘Beer would be good.’

‘Okay.’ Col nodded to a passing busboy and flashed a note. ‘So, you mentioned Myburghe on the phone. What do you want to know?’

‘I know he was here before my time and left recently. Is there anything you can tell me?’

Col gave him a quizzical look. ‘You mean dirt, don’t you? What’s going on?’

‘He’s on somebody’s list.’ Mitcheson explained about the letters, the fake bomb and the delivery of the finger.

‘Christ,’ Col breathed. ‘Not sure about the letters, but the rest sounds like our old friends down the road.’ He fell silent as the waiter brought their drinks and scooped up the money. ‘If it’s the cartels, rather him than me. They’re not very forgiving.’

‘Any specific old friends?’

Col laughed without humour. ‘Hell, name any of them — they’ll all send trophies as a warning if they think it’ll work.’ He frowned and scooped some froth off his beer glass with the tip of his finger. ‘They don’t usually go after outsiders, though. Not once they’re gone. Mind you, it kind of makes sense, from what I’ve been able to put together since you rang.’

Mitcheson sipped his beer and tried to remain calm. He wasn’t as close to this as Riley or Palmer, but he shared their sense of excitement when the balls began to click into place. ‘Go on.’

Col looked at his watch, then flicked his eyes towards two more men in uniform who were loitering and looking their way. These two, Mitcheson noticed, were not as smart as the others he’d seen, nor as well-armed. They were also overweight and didn’t seem too interested in any of the locals, only the more prosperous looking business travellers.