He returned to his desk and picked up his phone. He checked his watch and dialled a number. It was very early for the person on the other end, but he knew the man’s habits. He didn’t sleep for long and would be up and about already, working on a new day.
‘Sweetman.’ The voice was early-morning gruff but alert. Vale was calling his brother-in-law, an American living in New York State. Nate had passed through London only a few days ago, and had told Vale a story that had surprised him. He hadn’t yet had time to look into the details, but now was maybe the moment when he needed to think outside the square, as some of the hipper officers downstairs were fond of saying.
‘Nate, it’s Tom. How are you?’
‘Hey, Tom, I’m good. You?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He had never told Nate what he did for a living, but the American was perceptive enough to have guessed that Vale was no ordinary civil servant. He launched straight in with his reason for calling. ‘You remember that person you told me about — the one who delivered you to that airport down south last week?’
There was a momentary hesitation as the cogs clicked into place, then Nate said, ‘Damn right I remember. How could I forget? What about him?’
‘I know you mentioned it already, but I need his name and room number.’
‘No problem. It was Challenor. It’s engraved on my memory. No idea of his first name. His room was next to mine: three-oh-two. But he won’t be there now … he flew out the same day as me.’
‘Do you know where he was headed?’
‘No. New York, I think — at least, that was the impression I got. I was flying to Chicago.’ He paused. ‘Funny thing was, I asked what his name was, where he lived, where he was going — all the usual stuff when a guy comes out of nowhere and saves your life … but he never got round to giving me any detail.’
‘That may have been for a reason,’ Vale suggested cryptically. He thanked Nate for his help, told him to give a big kiss to his sister, and cut the connection. His next call was internal, to a researcher on the floor below.
‘That’s all you have — a surname and hotel room number?’ It wasn’t a criticism; most of the time they had far less to work with.
‘That’s all.’
‘Fine. What level of information?’
‘The full card. Names, addresses, next of kin, jobs, what he eats for dinner. The works. Especially his military record. And get a visual on any current location.’
‘Got it.’
He sat back and thought things through. The way he saw it, there was only one way to protect Angela Pryce. He couldn’t prevent Moresby from sending her out on his proposed op, but he could do his best to ensure she wasn’t completely vulnerable. That excluded the specialists SIS had on call, those men and women with Special Forces backgrounds, trained in insertion and extraction work in hostile areas, since it would require too much in the way of counter-signatures and electronic records — none of which he dared use. Moresby would see it as interference and immediately block it.
The only thing he could do was find the mysterious Challenor, a man who could apparently step out of his hotel room into a three-gun kidnap in one of the most dangerous cities in Latin America, and walk away with the intended victim leaving two kidnappers dead and a further two unconscious.
Seven
In my line of work you rarely get to choose who you work with. I pick up most jobs by word of mouth, some via a loose network of former military personnel, spooks and private security contractors trading information on intelligence or security assignments around the world. I vet as many as I can beforehand, but you can’t always be too selective. Other times the chemistry simply isn’t there and you either suck it up or say no.
It certainly wasn’t there with Parillas. But by the time I found that out, I was already in.
Right from the start he made it clear he didn’t like working with an outsider. By that he meant non-DEA. When he heard Beckwith mention that I was a contractor, he got all bug-eyed and stared at the intelligence specialist as if he’d gone nuts.
‘What the hell — are you kidding me?’ He leaned across the table and hissed, ‘Since when do we bring in outside help?’ He had no trace of a Latino accent, I noticed, although he looked the part for where we were going. Dark eyes, thin face and skin like coffee, a few pockmarks around his cheeks.
‘Since we decided the situation demanded it.’ Beckwith’s response was friendly, but beneath the words, layered in steel. I got the impression he wasn’t going to stand having a fight with his colleague about it. ‘We brought you in for the same reason; because you won’t be known faces. Mr Portman here has never been down south, never mixed it with the drugs gangs, but he’s got an excellent record in similar work, so we’d like you to go along with this.’
‘What kind of work was that?’ Parillas wasn’t looking at me, but his hostility rippled across the table in waves. ‘Is Portman your real name?’
‘He’s done stuff you’ve never dreamed of. Trust me.’ Beckwith’s voice had gone flat; end of discussion. ‘And Portman’s the name we’re using.’
Parillas nodded, but he wasn’t happy. His face had gone tight and I could hear a foot drumming on the floor beneath the table. I put it down to the stiff-shirt attitude of some special agents I’d worked with before, who thought anyone from outside their own sphere of activities was deeply suspect and not to be trusted. I ignored it.
‘You read the file?’ Parillas asked once Beckwith had said his goodbyes and left.
I nodded. Maybe he’d warm up a little once we got to know each other. Somehow I doubted it. I stood up, eager to get the show on the road. The sooner we moved, the easier it would be to focus on what we shared rather than what we didn’t.
Parillas led the way out to a dusty white Land Cruiser that had seen better days. It had some damage to the panels and some flecks of rust here and there, but by the smooth sound of the engine, it had less time under the hood than it looked. I’d seen plenty of similar vehicles in the area already, and had used one or two myself.
Parillas climbed aboard and we took off at a clip, heading south.
‘This is an in-out job,’ he explained briefly. ‘We get to Tijuana in less than an hour, pick up the equipment, then split up. I make the rendezvous and you stay on the outside. Shouldn’t take more than an hour, then we leave.’
‘What time is the rendezvous?’
‘Four thirty on the nail.’
‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I stayed close?’
‘No. Believe me, in Tijuana two guys moving around together attracts too much attention; the cops down there operate in teams and pairs for safety, and the gangs are aware of that. Single guys looking like they want to make a score or pick up a short date, not so much. You hang back but stay within phone contact and hope this isn’t a set-up.’
‘Is it likely?’
He shrugged. ‘Anything’s likely in Tijuana. It’s that kind of town.’
‘You sound like you’ve been there before.’
‘A long time ago. Problem?’
I shook my head. ‘No problem.’ Beckwith had told me Parillas was an outsider, like me. ‘Give me your guy’s name and description.’
He considered it for a moment, and evidently thought it was OK to tell me.
‘His name’s Louis Achevar. Why do you need to know what he looks like? You won’t be eyeballing him.’