Fellano gabbled something else in Spanish, and Moustache took them off, giving Stegs a dirty look as he did so. Stegs ignored him. ‘I’ll be back in a mo, Paulie, all right? Just stay here and keep these two company.’
Vokes looked at the two silent Colombians watching him from the far wall, then back at his partner. ‘Don’t be long,’ he said.
‘Ten minutes,’ Stegs answered. ‘Ten minutes max.’
No-one spoke in the lift down to the ground floor, and when the doors opened, Stegs hung back while the two Colombians walked through the busy reception area and out of the rear doors that led directly into the hotel’s car park. After spending a few seconds perusing a selection of the day’s newspapers and magazines that were laid out on a low mahogany table, he walked casually in the direction they’d taken.
It was raining steadily outside and the cloud cover was so grey and thick that the day was almost dark. Only a handful of people were scattered about, and they were mainly businessmen, hurrying along under umbrellas, so immersed in their working lives that not one of them even glanced up as he passed.
He walked between the rows of parked cars and made his way towards the back of the car park, keeping ten or twelve yards behind the Colombians, watching for anyone who looked out of place. A middle-aged man in jeans and a Barbour jacket getting out of his car caught his eye, but the man looked away without interest, and the moment passed.
When the two Colombians got to the last row of cars, parked against a high brick wall that marked the car park’s boundary some fifty yards from the hotel, Fellano looked left and right as nonchalantly as possible, then back at Stegs. Stegs smiled like he knew them both, then quickened his pace and caught up, walking between the two of them without speaking as they approached a new metallic-blue BMW 7 Series. A typical high-end dealer’s car. It made Stegs wonder whether BMW approved of the fact that so many of its customers were involved in the illicit drugs trade. Perhaps one day they’d end up sponsoring crack dens.
Fellano stopped three feet from the back of the car and deactivated the alarm.
Upstairs in the hotel room, Vokes Vokerman paced nervously, trying to ignore the two other men in the room as they watched him boredly, one by the door, the other against the opposite wall. Vokes had expected there to be the usual to-ing and fro-ing, as there always was on a big deal like this one, but he hadn’t wanted to be the one left up here with the Colombians while Stegs went walkabout. It had happened before of course, them being split up on an op. More than once, since nobody ever took you at your word in the drugs game; except this time, it shouldn’t have happened. They’d been told by the handlers to bring the money into the room with them, but instead had opted to keep it back, thinking it would show they were serious buyers (i.e. distrustful) if they turned up without it. Which was now looking more and more like a mistake. This meeting had been in the making for weeks, months even. The Colombians had their credentials, knew their backgrounds — their pedigree in the importation game — and there’d already been a test purchase of a kilo, for which they’d handed over twenty grand. And still they didn’t seem satisfied.
Since he and Stegs had arrived more than an hour ago, they’d been thoroughly searched, before undergoing a long and repetitive sequence of questions from Fellano about deals they’d done, people they were meant to know, etc. The Colombian had been trying to read them, to probe for weakness, not so much in their accounts of themselves, but in their characters, and Vokes was beginning to convince himself that the reason for this was that he was on to them. Knew who they were and was working out what to do about it. Fellano was a ruthless man. He had a reasonably good reputation in the marketplace (as much as anyone who sells hard drugs has a reasonably good reputation), but cross him — give him any reason to doubt you — and you could expect no mercy. Vokes had heard a rumour once that Fellano had personally cut the tongue out of a police informant’s mouth back in Cali, and had replaced it with the man’s penis. It wasn’t a thought he wanted to dwell on.
He kept pacing, telling himself that it was he who was getting too paranoid. What possible reason was there to suspect the two of them? As always, they’d played everything just right, their stories standing up even to the closest scrutiny, their demeanour that of men not to be trifled with. And with back-up just round the corner, ready to move in if anything looked like it was going to go wrong. But even bearing all this in mind, Vokes didn’t like the fact that he was split up from his partner and stuck in a hotel room with two armed men who insisted on wearing sunglasses on a wet English afternoon.
The phone on the bedside table rang, shattering the heavy silence.
Vokes stopped. Dead.
Slowly, he turned and stared at it. So did the two Colombians. It rang again, a long, shrill tone that seemed far too loud for the room. Who the hell was this meant to be?
An urgent message in his head said: Run! Get out of there! In fact, it didn’t just say it, it screamed it. RUN! GRAB THE DOOR HANDLE, TURN IT, AND GET YOUR ARSE OUT OF THERE!
He glanced at the two Colombians, who were looking at each other, their expressions puzzled. The phone rang a third time.
One of them strode over and picked up the receiver. At the same time, the second Colombian, perhaps reading their hostage’s thoughts, produced a silver Walther PPK from inside his suit. He pointed it at Vokes and motioned him to get on the bed. ‘Now, now,’ he demanded impatiently.
Vokes looked over at the other Colombian, the one on the phone. He hadn’t said anything since he’d picked it up but was listening to someone on the other end, at the same time staring hard at Vokes. He too removed a gun from his pocket — a Glock, Vokes reckoned. It didn’t seem like he was pleased by whatever it was he was hearing.
Vokes thought of his two young children and realized then that he was too old for this game; that this was the last time he’d ever go undercover; that no more would he attend clandestine meetings in bleak hotel rooms with men who’d kill him without a second’s thought because that was what life was worth where they came from — nothing. He realized too that he was beginning to panic for the first time ever on an op, an unfamiliar feeling of dread spreading through him like a poison, and that was another reason why Stegs should have been up here in this room instead of him, because he was always able to handle the pressure.
‘Get on the bed, now.’
The words came from the one holding the phone, except now he wasn’t holding it, he’d replaced it in its cradle, and his expression behind the glasses was angry. He walked over, gun waving, and grabbed Vokes by the arm, pushing him towards the bed. Vokes tried to sit on it, but was roughly pushed face down. He could feel the barrel of the Glock against the back of his head.
‘Stay there, do not move,’ said the gunman, before adding something to his colleague in Spanish.
Vokes was shaking, shaking with absolute fear, and he could feel the sweat from his forehead sliding onto the sheets. He offered a silent prayer to the Lord, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He had never been so scared in his life because he knew that this was the closest he had ever been to death. And all the time he was wondering who the hell had made that phone call, what they’d said and, most importantly of all, when the cavalry were going to show themselves.
The boot opened to reveal a leather briefcase similar to the one Fellano had shown them upstairs. He and Stegs leant in, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, while Moustache stood back. Fellano unclipped the locks and opened the case. A quick count revealed nineteen kilo bags of white powder inside.
‘Are you satisfied, my friend?’ the Colombian asked with a smile.
‘I’ll need to test it, a sample from each bag.’