He checked his watch, wondering whether to call Riley. He decided not. She had no idea where he was, and would probably blow a fuse if she knew what he was doing. But after what she’d told him about the threats to Myburghe and the possible links to FARC or the cartels, he’d begun to have serious doubts about what she was getting herself into. British diplomats occasionally got on the wrong end of violent protests, but it was rare for the fight to be carried overseas, and rarer still for it to become so personal.
A familiar face appeared among the crowd. The man was middle-aged, stocky and slightly less than medium height, dressed in crumpled slacks and a linen jacket, like so many others here. He was casually wandering along, but there was no disguising the watchfulness in his eyes as he filtered through the bustling throng.
‘How’s it going, John?’ The newcomer smiled and drifted up alongside Mitcheson, deep laughter lines etched in the tan around his eyes and mouth. They shook hands.
Col Pierce was a former British army sergeant who had decided to stay on after leaving the army and make a life as a tourist guide across Colombia and its neighbours to the south. He had been in Bogotá several years before, when Mitcheson had arrived and been escorted out again within weeks, following a violent confrontation with a Colombian army corporal during a drugs raid on a village in the hills. The corporal had shot a pregnant woman for standing up to him, and Mitcheson, enraged at the callousness of the act, had taken the man into the bush.
Only Mitcheson had returned. It had meant a rapid exit from the country before he could be imprisoned and shot.
‘Col. Thanks for coming.’
‘No sweat. You like living dangerously or are you just bored?’
‘I should be okay up here.’ Mitcheson had never been to Baranquilla before. He’d been counting on the city’s remoteness from Bogotá to give him the best odds of getting in and out safely without being recognised.
‘I guess so. You were hardly here long enough, were you?’ He chuckled. ‘It’s still an all-time record among the lads for short stays. Still, some of their army intelligence boys have got long memories, so let’s keep it that way. What brings you back?’ He eyed Mitcheson’s suit and tie.
‘I was making a delivery to Panama City. A friend asked me to do a favour while I was down here.’
‘Must be a close friend.’ Col didn’t enquire about the nature of the delivery job. He knew how difficult it was for many ex-military men to find employment and that many of them resorted to unconventional means, not all of them legal.
Mitcheson smiled, knowing what his friend was thinking. ‘It’s all legit, I promise. And the friend’s close enough. My flight out leaves in an hour.’
‘Suits me.’ He led Mitcheson to a bar. ‘You want coffee or something stronger?’
‘Beer would be good.’
‘Okay.’ Col nodded to a passing busboy and flashed a note. ‘So, you mentioned Myburghe on the phone. What do you want to know?’
‘I know he was here before my time and left recently. Is there anything you can tell me?’
Col gave him a quizzical look. ‘You mean dirt, don’t you? What’s going on?’
‘He’s on somebody’s list.’ Mitcheson explained about the letters, the fake bomb and the delivery of the finger.
‘Christ,’ Col breathed. ‘Not sure about the letters, but the rest sounds like our old friends down the road.’ He fell silent as the waiter brought their drinks and scooped up the money. ‘If it’s the cartels, rather him than me. They’re not very forgiving.’
‘Any specific old friends?’
Col laughed without humour. ‘Hell, name any of them — they’ll all send trophies as a warning if they think it’ll work.’ He frowned and scooped some froth off his beer glass with the tip of his finger. ‘They don’t usually go after outsiders, though. Not once they’re gone. Mind you, it kind of makes sense, from what I’ve been able to put together since you rang.’
Mitcheson sipped his beer and tried to remain calm. He wasn’t as close to this as Riley or Palmer, but he shared their sense of excitement when the balls began to click into place. ‘Go on.’
Col looked at his watch, then flicked his eyes towards two more men in uniform who were loitering and looking their way. These two, Mitcheson noticed, were not as smart as the others he’d seen, nor as well-armed. They were also overweight and didn’t seem too interested in any of the locals, only the more prosperous looking business travellers.
Col said quietly, ‘Finish up. Something tells me those two jokers are after some easy money. And we don’t need that kind of hassle. Let’s go get you checked in. I’ll tell you what I’ve got on Myburghe on the way. One thing, though: you never heard any of this from me. I don’t want to get dragged into this end of it.’
‘It’s that bad?’
‘If rumours are accurate, it’s worse. And if what they say is true, Myburghe’s got himself into a shitload of trouble.’
********
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The first rush of guests began arriving at Colebrooke House just after five. Most were transported in a fleet of gleaming Bentleys, crunching expensively on the gravel drive and spinning round the fountain to form a neat line in front of the house. The occupants stepped out and milled about in the warm evening air, shaking out the stiff formality of the service, which had been held at the village church of St Peter’s, half a mile away. Other cars followed in quick succession, forming a line down the drive
Riley and Palmer were waiting, having made another inspection of the grounds first, while Rockface checked the house and the catering staff. As far as they could tell, Colebrooke House was clear and ready to go.
‘It would have been nice to have gone to the service,’ Riley said wistfully, eyeing the display of elegance emerging from the cars. It looked to her as if half the fashion houses in Europe had been raided to meet the demands of the occasion, and it was clear that, although small by some standards, this was an important date on the wedding calendar.
Palmer, wearing a smart lounge suit — a rare event for him — gave her a sideways look. ‘Jesus. Women and weddings.’
‘It’s all very well for you,’ she said curtly. ‘I feel somewhat underdressed. Make that hugely underdressed.’ Pressed at short notice to wear something other than her customary jacket and jeans, she had been forced to settled on a lightweight summer suit bought a couple of years ago for a cousin’s wedding. It may have been appropriate for that occasion, but she knew it wouldn’t match the present level of glamour on display by a long way.
‘You look fine,’ said Palmer, somewhat belatedly.
‘Fine?’ she hissed, although it was quite a compliment, coming from Palmer. ‘Fine doesn’t cut it. If I’d known it was going to be as glam as this, I’d have held out for a minimum clothing allowance.’
‘If I’d known you were going to witter on about it,’ Palmer retorted calmly, ‘I’d have hired a bloke.’
‘Philistine.’ She decided she was wasting her time. Apart from the suit, she was wearing a pair of medium heeled shoes. They didn’t enhance the outfit, but she’d already decided that if called on to break into anything approaching a trot beyond the firmer terrain of the paths and terraces around the house, she’d kick them off and to hell with convention. Stumbling about on heels like an idiot while pretending to provide security for the Myburghes would be far more humiliating than going barefoot.