Luc: A Spy Thriller (19 page)

‘Good work, Warren.’

‘You see, you can - .’

I cut the call.

I was aware of a strange sound. I looked over and realised Grace was sobbing.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked her.

‘It’s over,’ she said through her tears.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’ll never let me go now. That was our one chance.’

‘Grace, I’ll let you go in a minute. I just needed - .’

‘What for? A life with Niek? I wanted out.’

‘You can still get out.’

‘You don’t understand, do you? Me and Valezco shouldn’t have been anywhere near the house yet. Certainly not together. The fact Niek came back early means he knows. How can we possibly explain away the two suitcases?’

‘I’m sorry. But there are bigger things going on.’

‘Let me stay here. With you.’

‘Are you serious? You hate me.’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe I could get to like you.’ She reached out and began to play about with my hair.

‘No, Grace. That’s not going to happen.’

She went silent then. And withdrew her hand.

Then she quietly opened her door and the rush of wind blew in and she went to simply fall out.

‘
Grace
.’

I snapped my hand out and grabbed her left arm and yanked her back towards me as the car veered across the road. There was an almighty crash and Grace screamed as a yellow 4x4 smashed into the passenger door, tearing it completely off its hinges, the door spinning in the air and crashing to the ground.

‘Grace. For god’s sake.’ I got us back in the right lane and held a hand up to apologise to anyone behind.

‘My life’s over anyway.’

‘Grace, your life is not over.’

‘Today was going to be so good.’

I held onto her arm tightly. There was a massive hole in the side of the car and she would be able to leap out any time she wanted otherwise.

‘Don’t try and jump again, Grace.’

She started sobbing again. Burying her face in her hands, as the air rushed in by the side of her, whipping her hair and clothes about.

***

I was glad and relieved when we pulled into the car park of the storage unit where I believed the hostages were being held. There had been no further incidents, thankfully.

Warita and her team were already there. About ten of them, in dark clothing and baseball caps. Warita spotted us arriving and strolled over. She peered in through my open window.

‘You can go directly back out again. We don’t need you. Thank you.’ She tapped the car door. ‘Aren’t you supposed to have another one of these on the other side?’

‘Didn’t want to be greedy.’

She nodded. ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘This,’ I said, ‘is Grace Steenhoek. Wife of Niek Steenhoek. And I’m sure that for a new identity for her and a chap called Valezco, Mrs Steenhoek would be more than happy to talk to you about various areas of interest.’

Warita leaned in further and spoke to Grace. ‘Is this true, ma’am?’

Grace remained silent, staring down at the floor.

‘Give her a chance to really absorb the idea. It’s been a startling few hours for her.’

One of the dark-clothed men strode up behind Warita.

‘We’re ready, ma’am,’ he said.

‘You stay here,’ Warita told me.

Silhouetted beneath an orange sunset, Warita ran with her colleague, disappearing into the mass of other dark-clothed personnel. Using hand signals, they spread out and peeled away, a few taking each entry point.

There was a brief pause and then the quiet was shattered as doors were blown. The dark-clothed figures stormed inside, guns aimed.

The explosions had woken Grace out of her reverie and she now flinched every time we heard sporadic bursts of gunfire.

There was another explosion from inside. More gunfire. Screams.

It suddenly went silent for a few seconds. Grace looked at me. I was staring at the entry points. Then people appeared through the smoke, running, frantic. They were dressed in normal, everyday clothes.

They were the hostages.

They were directed where to run, behind a shield of vehicles and armed officers. I could make out some of their faces as they made it to safety. Fear. Relief. Numb.

Another burst of gunfire. And then all was silent again.

A couple of minutes later some of the black-clad figures strode out, guns by their side. One of them slapped another on the back and then strolled up to me. They pulled their respirator off. It was Warita Aranda.

‘Good intel,’ she said. She pointed to Grace. ‘This one decided to talk?’

‘I think she will.’ I pointed to the freed hostages. ‘Good job.’

‘Thank you.’

I looked at my watch.

‘We keeping you?’ Warita asked.

‘Just got a meeting I need to make.’

‘Anybody interesting?’ She removed her baseball cap and ran the back of her hand across her glistening forehead.

‘Your Minister for National Security. Julio Falcao.’

‘Really. Quite the golden one, aren’t you?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘word on the grapevine is that there’s going to be a motion of no confidence in Neville Dutton. And Falcao is the favourite to replace him.’ She put her baseball cap back on and made to move away. ‘Your little meeting could be with our new Prime Minister.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Belmopan is the capital of Belize. The capital used to be in Belize City itself, but following Hurricane Hattie in 1961 which destroyed a lot of the low-lying properties there, the decision was taken to move the country’s administrative centre. So Belmopan became the new capital in 1970.

I took the Toyota on the hour-long journey west on the George Price Highway. I could almost feel Belize calming down. Belize City is gloriously and maddeningly exuberant. Belmopan is like the relaxed younger brother. Or the more serious older brother. Depending on your point of view.

Travelling from the storage facility to pick up the Toyota and then drive down here took a while and so by the time I swung round the corner and advanced up towards the National Assembly building I was almost late.

My arms were raised and the personal security man patted me down. We were standing next to a Toyota Prado and I could see the bulky outline of the Minister for National Security sitting in the back.

‘He’s clean,’ the security man said.

What I presumed to be the Minister’s Personal Private Secretary stepped forward. He leaned into the car.

‘Mr Falcao, this is Philip Luc from the British Embassy.’ The PPS looked up at me and signalled that I could get into the car. ‘Mr Luc.’

I thanked the PPS and stepped into the rear. The door was closed behind me.

‘Mr Falcao,’ I said to the politician, as I settled down on the seat next to him. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

The PPS got into the passenger seat up front and the driver started the engine and we were away.

Falcao had his briefcase on his knees, some paperwork he was going through resting on top. He looked across at me, his big brown eyes, like a bear’s, commanding. But also I thought there was a touch of humour in them.

‘Mr Luc, good to see you. I’m sorry I can only give you ten minutes, but I’m afraid this is a busy and uncertain time for my country.’

‘I understand.’

‘And I understand you had something to do with the release of the hostages. This country is very grateful for that.’

‘I only found the location, sir. Your Special Branch did the difficult part.’

He nodded. ‘I’m always impressed with them.’

‘Mr Falcao, the reason I asked for this meeting is that I still see that in some quarters Guatemala itself is receiving the blame for what’s going on. I don’t know what your intelligence is telling you but it’s not true.’

‘Go on.’

‘I have reason to believe that a man named Ernesto Giuttieri is the real person responsible for what’s happening. We have good evidence that he was behind the bombing and the kidnappings. He’s set up some phoney group called the Guatemalan Territories Brigade. The media are buying it, saying they had smuggled the prisoners out of the country into Guatemala.’ I flicked a hand up. ‘Well, as we know, that’s simply wrong. The hostages never left Belize and the people behind the kidnapping were a mixture of Guatemalans and Belizeans and god knows what else. Despite what this group say, I don’t believe that the sovereignty of Belize has anything to do with what’s been going on. I spoke to one of the men of this so called brigade. It was clear to me that he wasn’t particularly interested in Guatemala’s claim, let alone actually agree with it. It’s a front. For something.’

‘So what is going on?’

‘One of the men responsible for the kidnapping was a man named Jimmy Dondero. A Belizean. He was linked to four Guatemalan gunmen who may have had something to do with the bombing. They were all linked to a man named Ray Mortlake. An American lawyer. And Mortlake works exclusively for Ernesto Giuttieri. It seems Giuttieri is trying to wreak havoc in Belize. Why he’s trying to do this I don’t know. Maybe just because he can.’

‘I appreciate you telling me this, Mr Luc.’

‘Well, I saw a Belizean housewife interviewed on the news earlier. She said you were a man who could get things done. Good enough for me.’

Falcao shook his head. ‘I’m just a normal guy struggling to do his duty,’ he said. ‘You know there’s to be a motion of no confidence against the PM?’

‘I had heard there might be? Is it definite?’

He nodded. ‘Unfortunately, it looks almost certain. Some of my colleagues are panicking. I don’t agree with it at all. Neville Dutton is a good man who has done a sterling job for Belize. He’s inexperienced, yes, but he has strength of character, Mr Luc. To be honest, it’s been an honour working for him. What they’re saying in the news, how they’re caricaturing him: dreadful. People seem to be forgetting all the good when I hear them speak.’

The Personal Private Secretary turned around from the front passenger seat. He was looking at his mobile phone.

‘Sir,’ he said, looking up at Falcao. ‘Hillary Danziger is sending us the stats.’

Falcao nodded. ‘Right, thank you.’

‘Another thing about Giuttieri,’ I said. ‘We know that he bussed in groups of young men to start the riots yesterday. I encountered a few. I’m not an expert but they weren’t Belizean or Guatemalan.’

‘Is that a fact?’ He nodded. ‘We certainly know a lot of them were foreign. We didn’t know they had been brought in specially.’

‘This isn’t Guatemala versus Belize. Or Belize versus Guatemala. This is Ernesto Giuttieri. And whatever he has planned.’

Falcao nodded thoughtfully.

‘We need to be thinking about where he could strike next,’ I continued. ‘What are the possible sites or infrastructure he could target? We need to be one step ahead of him.’

Falcao nodded. ‘I speak to a number of security experts on a daily basis. I’m sure if you spoke to one of them…Actually, Geoffrey,’ he looked at the back of his PPS, ‘could we do something to help there?’

The PPS turned round. ‘If you’re sure, sir?’

‘His government has vouched for him,’ Falcao said. ‘And his involvement in rescuing the hostages puts us in his debt.’ Falcao looked across at me. ‘And I’m simply talking about you liaising with one of our security guys.’

‘Well, that’s very kind, Mr Falcao,’ I said. ‘I would appreciate it.’

The PPS nodded and looked at me. ‘Is there a number we can reach you on, Mr Luc?’

I gave him my number and he said someone would call within the next few hours.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Good. And expect a call from either me or one of my staff later too,’ Falcao said. ‘I want to keep up with what’s going on.’

‘That’ll be fine,’ I said.

‘We’re nearing the exhibition centre, sir,’ the PPS said.

Falcao nodded.

‘Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr Falcao,’ I said, preparing to leave.

‘Is there anywhere we can drive you to? I won’t need this car for another two hours.’

‘No, that’s fine, sir. Thank you.’

He held out his hand. ‘Good to see you, then.’

We shook hands. He had a strong, steady grip.

The car pulled up to the entrance of the exhibition centre. Falcao’s mobile phone went and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket, the volume of the ringtone increasing dramatically as he did.

‘I’ve got to take this,’ Falcao said with a smile. ‘You will excuse me.’

‘Certainly,’ I said, getting out of the car. I looked back in. ‘Thank you again.’

I walked away back down the road. Julio Falcao was certainly as impressive a figure in person as he appeared on TV. And it had started to feel good having a man like that on our side.