‘How did he get into the Regiment?’ Tony asked.
‘They must have been short of officers when he came along.’
It was the prospect of belly-dancing that made Tony and I choose the Four Seasons restaurant: authentic Colombian food, and a bit of entertainment thrown in. By seven-thirty we were definitely hungry, so we called up one of the black-and-yellow taxis and rode it into town. The other guys had long since disappeared like water into sand. I predicted that Mel, for one, would come back shit-faced and minus his wallet.
Our own idea was probably much the same as everyone else’s: to have a good meal, suss out the belly-dancing and then head on for some of the hotter nightspots. Unfortunately it didn’t work out.
The restaurant was fine. A couple of photos in the window had been unpromising — the dancer, Carmencita, looked more like a Michelin ad than a great seducer — but we had a beer in the bar, and then chose a table beside the small dance floor. We both had the same main course — tamales, maize pancakes with a terrific, spicy filling of chopped meat and vegetables. The filling was delicious, but so hot that we needed several more drinks to swill it down, and we hit the Carlsberg Specials.
We were just sitting back anticipating that action might soon start up, when the thunderbolt struck. Our table gave us a good view of everyone who came in and out, but I wasn’t paying much attention. A party of four men sat down at the table next to ours. Then, looking straight past Tony, over his left shoulder, I froze.
‘Hey!’ Tony was leaning forward. ‘What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I have. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
Forcing myself to move my hand casually, I signalled a passing waiter and made motions for him to write out our bill. But when I picked up my glass to finish the beer, my hand was shaking — because there, barely ten feet away, sat Declan Farrell.
‘What is it?’ said Tony. ‘You look real sick. You’ve gone white as paint.’
‘Talk in Spanish,’ I muttered. ‘Talk about football. Anything.’
He looked at me as though I was crazy, but he started in. I hardly heard what he was saying, because I was desperately trying to collect my wits. It’s OK, I kept telling myself. You’re in no danger, because Farrell has never seen you. He’s never set eyes on you. He hasn’t a clue what you look like. If you don’t do anything crazy, he can’t possibly pick you out. Reason told me that Tony and I were not particularly conspicuous. Plenty of other people in the restaurant were dressed like us in casual shirts and jeans. Farrell, in contrast, was wearing a smart lightweight jacket and tie. One of his companions was the same; the other two had leather jackets and open-necked shirts. Without letting my eyes linger on them, I tried to assess who was who. All were dark haired, Farrell as dark as any. I guessed the second tie-wearer, who had pale skin, was Irish, and the other two Colombian.
With Tony still making the odd remark in Spanish, I got out my wallet and pushed it across the table. ‘You pay,’ I muttered. ‘I’m going to use the phone.’
The telephone was round a corner and in a kind of cupboard on the way to the gents — private enough, provided nobody walked past. The equipment was modern, with one slot for cards and another for coins. I brought out a handful of change and surveyed it. The rate of exchange was about 1,000 pesos to the pound. A 100-peso coin seemed about right for a local call, so I lifted the receiver, fed one in and dialled Luisa’s office number. I reckoned the reception would still be in progress, and I just hoped it was going on within earshot.
The number rang and rang, ten, twenty, thirty times, before at last someone answered, a man. ‘¿Digame?’
‘Captain Black, por favor.’
‘¿Quién?
‘Captain Black.’
‘No conocer.’
‘Major Palmer, then.’
‘Momento.’
He put down the receiver, and through it I could hear faint party noises. My mind was in overdrive. Farrell being watched in Ballyconvil because he was into drugs. Farrell staggering home to his outhouse with heavy suitcases. Farrell now in Bogotá. Morrison’s story was that the PIRA was into Colombia in a big way. I’d known they had been taking percentages from dealers on the street in Belfast, but this was another league: their involvement could be world-wide, and might increase their power to buy weapons to a fantastic degree.
At last someone came to the phone.
‘Palmer here. Who’s that?’
‘Geordie Sharp.’
‘Who?’
I repeated my name.
‘Sorry, old boy. I don’t think I know you.’
Jesus! I thought. The guy’s half-pissed. Taking care to keep my voice even, I said, ‘We met this afternoon. Can I speak to Peter Black, please?’
‘Good God yes, I know who you are. The SAS chappie. Up from the savannah. What did you want?’
‘To speak to Peter Black. Urgently.’
‘Black? Black? I’m not sure I can find him. Can’t I deal with it? What time is it? Where are you, anyway?’
‘Please… find… him!’ I ground the words out as if I was speaking to a child.
‘Oh, all right. Hang on then.’
The telephone began to beep. Feverishly I dredged up more coins and stuffed a couple into the slot. Somebody came along the passage and went past me: none of the Farrell party. I waited, shifting from one foot to the other, and hoping to hell that Black was more sober than the DA.
At last he came on the line. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What’s happening, Geordie? Have you got a problem?’
‘Yes. A big one. The PIRA are in town.’
‘Are you trying to take the piss out of me?’
‘No I’m not. It’s Farrell.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘He’s with some Colombians.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Where I’m speaking from. It’s a restaurant called the Four Seasons. On Carrera 15, 84–22.’
‘I know it. Bloody hell!’
‘Exactly.’
‘Who are you with?’
‘Tony Lopez.’
‘You’d better get out of there.’
‘Don’t worry. We’re on our way back to the hotel.’
‘OK. Where are the rest of the lads?’
‘Christ knows. They’ve gone on the piss all over town.’
‘You can’t get them back?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘I want you all out of Bogotá as soon as possible.’
‘Well, we can’t go before tomorrow.’
‘That’ll have to do.’
‘Will you alert Hereford about this?’
‘Of course.’
‘Great. I’ll see you back at the hotel.’
I returned to our table slowly, loitering to see if I could overhear any conversation from our neighbours. Sure enough, one of Farrell’s companions was speaking with an Ulster accent. ‘That’ll be fine,’ was all I got, but the ‘fine’ came out as fayeen.
Tony had already settled the bill. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘No. Let’s get a taxi.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to the hotel.’
‘Don’t you want to walk?’
‘Not now.’
‘What about the belly-dancer?’
‘She can stuff herself.’
Knowing Farrell, I felt sure he would have dickers out on the street, watching his arse for him, and I didn’t want one of them to spot me. Even in the taxi I thought it safer not to talk, in case the driver was a plant and could understand English. Not until we were back in our hotel room could I enlighten Tony about what had happened.
‘Sure it was him?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely. One hundred per cent. I’d know him anywhere. He was the big guy right behind you.’