No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

‘Well, it’s not FARC you’ve got to worry about.’ Mitcheson dumped his flight bag on the floor and dropped into a chair. ‘The Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarios de Colombia are too busy fighting off a government crack-down at the moment to send nasty surprises to foreign diplomats.’ He sounded tired, but the sombre tone in his voice wasn’t entirely due to jetlag. He leaned across and kissed Riley, then nodded at Palmer.

‘Jeez,’ Palmer breathed. ‘I’m glad you got that the right way round.’

Riley stared at Mitcheson, then craned her neck to study the baggage reclaim ticket affixed to his bag. ‘Me, too. Where have you been?’

‘I had a delivery job to do down in old Panama. After what you told me, it seemed a waste to go all that way and not do some digging.’ He looked at Palmer. ‘You wouldn’t have some tea in this place, would you? I’ve had enough bad coffee to kill a wombat and if I drink anything alcoholic, I’ll fall over.’

Palmer swung his feet from behind his desk. ‘Breakfast or Green?’ He walked over and poured hot water from a kettle into a mug. ‘Actually, make it Typhoo — the mice like the Green.’ He turned back and bent to examine the luggage tag, peeling off the top layer to reveal another ticket underneath. ‘I see you’ve been to Colombia.’

‘What?’ Riley was stunned. Apart from the surprise of hearing where he’d been, she knew how dangerous it was for Mitcheson to go anywhere near the country he’d once been flown out of in such a hurry. ‘What the hell did you go there for?’

‘For you, of course.’ He smiled back at her. ‘It’s okay, I was there less than an hour.’ He stretched out his legs and yawned. ‘I know a tour guide down there who used to be with the British army. He knows as much as anyone about what goes on, so I asked him to sound out some people for me.’ He nodded as Palmer handed him a mug. ‘Turns out he didn’t have to do much. He did a tour with the Close Protection unit guarding Sir Kenneth Myburghe.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Riley.

‘Nothing too electric to begin with. There had been vague threats because the British were trying to persuade the hill farmers to grow other cash crops instead of poppies and coca. Unfortunately, the farmers weren’t happy because the price of alternative crops like fruit, coffee or exotic flowers didn’t match what they could get for poppy cultivation. Neither could they harvest more than one crop a year. Some of them became very militant and that’s when FARC got involved.’

‘Hell of a sandwich,’ commented Palmer. ‘Cartels on one side, FARC on the other.’

‘Right. Because of the tension, the CP team on the embassy was strengthened, which is when Col, my contact, joined them. They accompanied Sir Kenneth everywhere in armoured vehicles. Government meetings, briefings, embassy bashes, foreign trade events — you name it, they went there. In between they scouted routes, searched buildings and vehicles, briefed embassy and military contacts, checked anyone and everyone likely to come anywhere near him. The team before them said it was pressured and frantic, and they’d soon wish they could get out of there. They’d had three attempts on the previous ambassador’s life, several attempts on other officials, especially the military attaché, and discovered plans to bomb the embassy and set off explosions in culverts on the route from the embassy to the airport. Even their families were targets.’

Riley thought back to her talk with Lady Myburghe. Had that been the reason for her getting out of the marriage? Living in an embassy compound couldn’t have been much fun, especially knowing her husband had been targeted by the local drug lords. But was it enough after all this time?

‘Col was on the team for quite a while,’ continued Mitcheson. ‘He accompanied Sir Kenneth pretty much everywhere he went. The timetable was changed every day, as were routes in and out of the embassy area, the cars involved and even the drivers, in case details were leaked. It became standard practice. But each time there was a change, it was an official one; there was always a briefing at the last minute, then they’d switch cars or venues, change their clothes, keep full radio contact, that sort of thing. Everything was as tight as a drum. It had to be.’

Riley sensed something was coming. It was in Mitcheson’s face. ‘Until?’

‘A few weeks after Col joined the CP team, Sir Kenneth arranged a meeting at a country club outside Bogotá. The team had just left the embassy compound, supposedly on their way to a trade meeting, when Sir Kenneth gave them a new set of directions. They did as he ordered and arrived at a large, fancy building in the country. Sir Kenneth went in with one man, a guy who’d been with him for years, and told the rest of them to stay outside.’

‘Unusual?’

‘Bloody suicidal, according to Col. They should never have been there without notifying the embassy first and having full backup from the local police or army. The team leader went ape-shit because they couldn’t check out the building or the approach routes first. But the ambassador always had the last call.’

Palmer stirred. ‘He pulled rank.’

‘That’s right. The meeting lasted just over an hour, everything was civilised and they all went home safe and sound.’

‘So no problem.’

‘Not at first. He had three more meetings in the same place over the next two months. Each time they were unannounced until the day. And always Sir Kenneth went in with the same one man. After the third meeting, the team leader decided to check out the place for himself, to make sure they weren’t being set up to take a hit. What he saw made his hair stand on end. The place was a fully-fledged casino. No house limits and any game you cared to try — including a few I shouldn’t talk about in polite company. He counted twelve gunmen around the place, and a bunch of known cartel women.’

‘Women?’ said Riley.

‘Girls. He got out of there fast and relayed the information to the embassy. They sat on it. Told him it was all okay and not to worry.’

‘Did they go there again?’

‘Yes. There were other meetings in remote locations, sometimes late at night. Each time Sir Kenneth had his man with him, but not always the full CP team. On a couple of occasions he met with an American. The team leader didn’t get a name.’

‘Always the same man?’

‘Yes. Then one day the team leader insisted on going in, too. It was a new place they hadn’t been to before. They had a stand-up row. Sir Kenneth eventually gave in, but only on the understanding that the leader stayed in the lobby. There wasn’t much more he could do. Sir Kenneth and his usual man went upstairs, and when they hadn’t come down after an hour or so, the leader went for a look-see. He was just in time to see Myburghe and his guard coming out of a suite. They were accompanied by the American… and a man he recognised as Jesus Rocario. Rocario’s a senior cartel member and wanted on several counts of murder and drug trafficking.’

‘That’s insane.’

‘I’ll say. The cartels are scary people — and Rocario is one of the nastiest. Col couldn’t believe Sir Kenneth or any other member of the British establishment would have anything to do with them outside a court of law.’

Palmer rested his feet on the edge of a desk drawer. ‘Could the meetings have been officially sanctioned?’

Mitcheson shrugged fatalistically. ‘He didn’t think so. But look at Northern Ireland; the government had meetings with the IRA throughout the eighties and nineties. I’d say it wasn’t, though.’

Riley stood up and walked to the window. ‘So Jacob was right.’ The news that he hadn’t been spinning a tale built out of guilt and ill-feeling left a nasty taste in her mouth.

‘Who was the American?’ Palmer asked, still intent on what Mitcheson had learned.

‘No idea. He could have been US Drugs Enforcement Administration working undercover, maybe even a shipper.’ Mitcheson put down his mug and yawned. ‘All Col knew was, it smelled wrong. The lack of normal activity, the changes of programme, the subterfuge… it wasn’t right.’

‘The bodyguard who went to these meetings with Sir Kenneth,’ said Riley. ‘You said it was the same man every time? Could we trace him and see what he knows?’

Mitcheson nodded. ‘That’s where it gets interesting. Col couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but said the man wasn’t Military Police. All he knew was, he’d been recruited from a British army training programme in Belize some years before, and stayed on with Myburghe.’

Palmer shifted in his chair. ‘Special Forces?’

‘Col didn’t think so. He knew most of the Special Forces guys down there. He was very capable, apparently, knew all the right moves and never put a foot wrong. But he didn’t really fit in. Didn’t speak much and when he wasn’t on the job he kept to himself.’

Palmer gave a half smile and looked at the ceiling. ‘Did he describe him?’

‘Yeah. Big, tall, and a face like the back of a tank.’

Rockface.

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