As we reached the end of the street, a voice answered. I said, ‘This is Challenor in three-oh-two. I’ve paid and checked out, but meant to ask for Mr Sweetman’s bill in three-oh-four to be added to mine. Can you take care of that?’
The receptionist was unfazed. ‘Of course, Mr Challenor. No problem. I trust everything was satisfactory during your stay?’ In the background I could hear shouting echoing around the reception area.
‘Almost perfect,’ I replied neutrally.
‘In that case, have a good trip and thank you for staying. We hope to see you again soon.’
Unlikely, but nice of him to say so. I snapped the phone shut and took us out on to the main street heading north east.
‘Listen good,’ I said to Sweetman. ‘If we have to leave the car for any reason — any reason at all — you do exactly as I say, when I say it. Do you understand?’
Sweetman just stared at me. He was in shock.
‘Say it.’ I slapped his shoulder to focus his mind.
‘Yes. Yes, I understand.’
For good measure I added, ‘They were probably planning on lifting you for ransom on your way out of the country.’
‘What?’ He didn’t understand.
‘It’s what they do to gain time. Nobody would have been any the wiser until you failed to show up at your destination. During that time they’d have had you tucked away out of reach and ready to make their demands.’
‘But why? What value could I have to them?’
‘You’re a mining engineer, right?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You told everybody. I know you’ve had meetings with the new Mines and Energy minister and his officials; Colombia’s high up on the world’s exporters of coal, and you’re here to advise them on that and about the Canadians who are seeking licences for gold and silver projects. That makes you valuable.’
His mouth dropped open. ‘But I’ve been very careful about my itinerary.’
‘No, you haven’t.’ I’d found out all that by being in the bar — and I’d only been here a couple of days. ‘It doesn’t take much; once they had that and got your name and somebody on the hotel staff to fill in the details, you became a high-value target.’
Sweetman shook his head. He didn’t buy it yet and looked lost. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘Believe it. It happens all the time.’ I steered past a broken-down delivery truck and a bunch of guys arguing about what to do. ‘You got lucky; some people don’t.’
I ran through the only available plan in my head. We had a small window to get clear of the city and head for the airport. Dead bodies in the corridors of a hotel — even dead bodies of armed FARC kidnappers — meant the cops would be shutting down the streets as fast as they could, the net moving inexorably outwards. Only at the airport would we be relatively safe.
But we had to get there first.
‘Why not call the police?’ he repeated.
‘Because we’d get tied up for hours, maybe days, while they figured out what to charge us with. Do you want that?’
‘No. I guess not.’ He shook his head and went silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘You’ve done this before.’ He was coming out of the first phase of shock and looking at me carefully, like a scientist might study a lab rat, part fascination, part revulsion.
‘A few times,’ I replied. More than a few, as it happened.
‘So it’s your job, your work?’ He was looking at my suit, white shirt and tie, like he doubted I was entirely sane. He was probably right.
‘It’s what I do, yes.’ I checked the mirrors. No signs of pursuit so far, which was good. The local cops like to do things noisily, with lots of lights and sirens. It gives everyone fair warning to clear the streets. Living in a drugs capital, where the car right next to them might be full of men with guns and bad nerves and no conscience tends to make them like that.
‘So you were here on an assignment?’ Now he was intrigued, which was a nuisance, but better than him freaking out on me.
‘Yes.’
‘You sound American. What are you — Delta? SEAL? One of those black-ops units fighting the cartels? It’s OK — I was in the Marine Corps, so I know.’
‘Do you mind not asking so many questions? I’d like to get us out of here in one piece.’
He wasn’t accustomed to being told to shut up, and bristled. ‘What the hell — you think I should be happy seeing you kill two men in the blink of an eye? I should be grateful and shut the fuck up, is that it?’
‘It would help. Or I could always leave you here to face the cops — and their friends in the cartels or FARC.’
He didn’t like that idea so much. ‘No. I guess not.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry … what just happened threw me, you know? I’m guessing you aren’t a desk man, not with what you did back there. You’re a security guy, right? Close Protection.’
I didn’t say anything and let him jump to his own conclusions. There are two kinds of Close Protection: one is, as it says, up close, a visible barrier to a would-be attacker, designed to dissuade as much as shelter. The other is an outer shield — a shadow — deliberately out of sight, but with a wider view of the area around the protectee or principal. The shadow bit is what I do, unseen and often unknown by high-value assets whose people want protection without the high visibility of a gorilla in a suit.
This time I’d been in Colombia shadowing an A-list French tenor with a kidnap phobia. He was in town at the express invitation of the president’s wife, to put on a show at her birthday bash. It had gone smoothly enough and the Frenchman was already halfway home by now, relieved he hadn’t got himself kidnapped, shot or otherwise compromised so far from home, but unaware that I was with him right up to the departure desk. It had been an easy job for me, and I was now otherwise unemployed until the next one came along.
‘If you want to do something useful,’ I suggested, ‘keep your eyes on the wing mirror. Any vehicle stays behind us too long, tell me.’
He nodded and leaned forward, eyes on the mirror. It wouldn’t be much help, but it might keep him buttoned up for a while until we got clear of this mess.
I concentrated on my front, trying to keep to a reasonable speed yet constantly on the move between sticking points in the traffic. We had about ten kilometres to go to the airport of El Dorado, and I wanted to get there without delay.
The whole point about staying out of trouble in hostile territory is to avoid attracting attention and keep moving; once you stop you’re at a disadvantage. There was also the local law enforcement angle to watch out for. Being picked up by a nosy or bored traffic cop would be awkward, especially as I still had the kidnapper’s semi-automatic in my pocket and another gun under the seat. I was counting, however, on the car’s tinted windows to get us through any potential trouble. Traffic cops don’t like upsetting people who might just shoot them for the hell of it.
‘There’s another car like this one,’ Sweetman muttered. ‘It jumped the last set of lights to stay with us.’
He was sharper than I thought. I’d spotted the car and it was coming up too fast to be casual. When it slotted in behind us on a relatively clear stretch of road, matching our speed, I began to worry.
‘Buckle up,’ I said.
‘Wha …? Oh.’ He tugged at the strap and sat back, then gave a nervous chuckle. ‘It’s like that scene in Bullitt.’ When I looked at him, he added, ‘You know — with Steve McQueen. It’s a classic.’
‘So?’
‘The bit where the bad guys do up their seat belts … you know things are going to get hairy.’
Jesus, a film nut on adrenalin. ‘It’s nothing like that. Believe me.’
I checked the mirror and got a whole load of black 4×4 and tinted windows in return. Whoever they were, they must have recognized the car and were sticking close to figure out where we were going. My guess is, they were nervous of stopping us and busy calling whoever was the usual driver of this particular vehicle.