Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lopez routed Barranco’s flight plan through Atlanta and Montreal before a dawn arrival at Reagan International, New York, where a Shorn jet would pick the two of them up under paperwork that identified them as economic advisers for the Parana Emergency Council. Lopez spoke Brazilian Portuguese almost as well as his native Spanish, and Barranco, like most political figures in Latin America these days, had enough to get by. Lopez was betting security at Reagan International would neither know the difference nor care.
Apparently, his assessment was on the nail. The Shorn jet lifted without incident and touched down in London just after lunch. Chris rode the courtesy copter out to meet it.
‘Senor Barranco.’ He had to shout above the racket of the rotors and the unseasonally cold wind that came buffeting across the asphalt of the private carriers’ terminal. His grin felt sandblasted onto his face. Armed security stood around in suits, jackets whipping up constantly to reveal their shoulder holsters. ‘Welcome to England. How was your flight?’
Barranco grimaced. He looked good in the smart-casual mobile consultant wardrobe Lopez had disguised him with, but above the knitted wool jacket his face was smeared with jet lag.
‘Which flight do you mean? I seem to have been in transit for a week. And now a helicopter?’
‘Believe me, Senor Barranco, you wouldn’t want to drive through this part of London. Is Joaquin Lopez with you?’
Barranco jerked a thumb back at the Shorn jet. ‘He’s coming.’
Lopez appeared in the hatch and clambered down, followed by two more men with baggage. He grinned and waved at Chris. No sign of the weariness you could see on Barranco. Beneath his mobcon clothing, there was a prowling energy that Chris guessed was chemical. In the absence of any other escort, he’d been Barranco’s only security since leaving Panama City.
Chris ushered everybody aboard the copter and into seats. The door cranked itself closed and shut out the wind with an airtight clunk. The pilot turned to look at Chris.
‘Yeah, that’s it. Take us home.’
The copter drifted into the sky. They bent away over the city.
Barranco leaned across to the window and peered down at the sprawl below.
‘This doesn’t seem so terrible,’ he remarked.
‘No,’ Chris agreed. ‘From up here, it’s not.’
The tanned face turned to look at him. ‘I would not be safe walking in those streets?’
‘Depends on the exact neighbourhood. But as a general rule, no, you wouldn’t. You might be attacked and robbed, maybe just have stones thrown at you. At a minimum you’d be recognised as an outsider and followed. After that,’ Chris shrugged. ‘Depends on the kind of crowd you draw.’
‘I am not dressed like you.’
‘Wouldn’t matter. They don’t care about politics in the zones. It’s tribal. Localised gangs, territorial violence.’
‘I see.’ Barranco’s gaze went back to the city sliding past beneath them. ‘They have forgotten who did this to them.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
The rest of the flight passed in silence. They crossed the westward cordons and picked up the beacon for the West End cluster. Machines took the controls, read the flight data and drew the helicopter along a preprogrammed path. Hyde Park opened up under them. The hotels beckoned at its edge, like moored cruise liners from an earlier age.
Mike had Hernan Echevarria buried in the heart of Mayfair, well away from the modern hotels. They were playing to the dictator’s old-world pretensions. A Royal Suite at Brown’s, the whiff of two centuries’ tradition and the dropped names of European royalty along the historical guest list. An armoured Shorn limo collected Echevarria daily at the Albemarle Street frontage and ferried him about on a carefully balanced programme of meetings with senior banking officials, A-listed arms dealers and one or two house-trained political figures. Evenings were given over to opera and dinners with more tame dignitaries.
‘I’ll keep him busy,’ Bryant promised. ‘And I’ll keep him away from the Park end. You stash Barranco in the Hilton or something. Get a tower suite. I’ll cross-reference with you on programme, we’ll make sure these two guys never come within a couple of klicks of each other.’
The Hilton it was. They touched down on the tower helipad and were met by liveried attendants who busied themselves with the baggage and led Barranco and Lopez off in the direction of the access elevators. Chris went with them, mainly to take care of tips.
‘You won’t have to do that,’ he said, as the last attendant slipped out and closed the door with trained noiselessness. ‘Just sign gratuities on any room service you ask for, and we’ll cover it. I’d recommend about ten per cent. Expectations are a lot less than that, but it never hurts to be generous. So anyway, uh. I hope you’ll be comfortable.’
‘Comfortable?’
Barranco stood in the midst of the suite’s opulence, looking like a hunter whose large and dangerous quarry has suddenly disappeared into the surrounding undergrowth.
Chris cleared his throat. ‘Yes, uh. Joaquin Lopez will be staying on the floor below. Room 4148. I’ve put two armed security guards into 4146 as well. The hotel has pretty good security of its own, but you can’t be too careful, even up here.’ He produced a small matt black mobile and held it out. ‘This is a dedicated phone. A scrambled line direct to me. wherever I am. Any problem, night or day, call me. Just press the dial key.’
‘Thank you.’ Barranco’s tone was distant, but if there was irony in it, Chris couldn’t hear it.
‘I thought you’d probably want to rest now.’
‘Yes, that would be good.’
‘I’d like to introduce you to a colleague of mine later on, and also to my wife. I thought perhaps we could have dinner together. There’s a good Peruvian restaurant in the hotel mezzanine. We could eat late, say about nine-thirty. Or if you’d prefer to stay here and leave it for another night, that’s entirely up to you.’
‘No, no. I would.’ He drew a deep, jet-lagged breath. ‘Like to meet your wife, Senor Faulkner. And your colleague, of course. Nine-thirty will be fine.’
‘Good, that’s great. I’ll call here just after nine, then.’
‘Yes. Now I think I would like to rest.’
‘Of course.’
He let himself out and went down to talk to the security detachment. They were pretty much what he’d expected - two hard-faced men past their physical prime in shirt sleeves and shoulder holsters. They answered the door and then his questions with impassive calm. The surveillance equipment he’d ordered wired into Barranco’s suite stood unobtrusively on a low table to one side. Standby lights winked below the row of small liquid crystal screens. On one of them, Barranco had already collapsed onto a bed, fully clothed. Chris bent and peered.
‘He asleep?’
‘Out like a light.’
‘You sure he isn’t going to be able to find any of these cameras?’
‘Yes, sir. Unless he’s a surveillance specialist. And he hasn’t shown any signs of looking for them yet.’
‘Well, let me know if he does start looking.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And if he moves from the suite, I want to know before it happens. You’ve got my direct line?’
They exchanged weary glances. One of them nodded.
‘Yes, sir. It’s under control.’
He took the hint and left to check on Lopez. The Americas agent had been waiting for him. Chemical impatience made his movements about the room erratic and irritating. Chris tried to project calm.
‘No transit problems then?’
‘No, man. Onward tickets.’ Lopez grinned speedily. ‘They don’t give a fuck who you are, so long as you’re going someplace else.’
‘And Barranco? Did he talk to you at all?’
‘Yeah, he told me I was a running dog for the global capitalist tyranny, and I ought to be ashamed of myself.’
‘No change there, then.’ Chris wandered across to the window and stared out over the park.