included, if I come up with some of the funding,’ Sandy interrupted.
‘I don’t see any problem with that,’ he replied. ‘Hey listen, my other line’s ringing. It’s one of the ones I had set up for Chambers. I’ll catch you later, OK?’
Sandy rang off and after hitting a button on her computer to print out some documents she needed she began packing up to go home. Inside she was glowing, the way she often did after speaking to Michael, though tonight she was feeling a particular elation at how readily he had accepted the idea of her being included as a producer. She tried to imagine how Ellen would react when she was informed, and spent some time enjoying the various effects it would probably have.
Chapter 4
FOR THE PAST five days Chambers had had one hell of a time trying to figure out where he should be from one minute to the next. Nowhere, it seemed, was safe, yet anywhere was a haven. Since abandoning Cartagena, over a week ago, he had slept in ditches, ridden on mules, eaten from banana leaves and bathed in slimy lakes. Each day brought a totally new and unexpected experience, from having his face shaved by a cutthroat’s apprentice, to secretly watching the harvest of a coca crop, heavily guarded by one of the nation’s most notorious paramilitary groups – men who were known to clear villages by decapitating peasants and using their heads as footballs, a sure-fire way of getting the rest to flee.
Deciding whom to trust was like a game of Russian roulette with only one empty barrel. When Orlando Morales, his former contact from the Cali Cartel, had visited him in the dead of night in Cartagena, the man had been easy to believe. After all, Morales had proved himself in the past, so why not trust him again? And Pacho Martínez, the notorious Mr Fixit and friend to the cutting edge of Colombian society, was no more invincible than any other man with a passion for survival. Chambers knew that Pacho wouldn’t willingly sell him down the river, but he knew too that if it came to his skin or Pacho’s, then the Colombian’s masseuse was in a pretty safe job.
So he’d opted to go with Morales, whose past allegiance to the Tolima Cartel was a big chapter in the little man’s history. That Morales was still alive could only be down to the protection he received from the Cali Cartel, and, if the past five days were anything to go by, there were more than a few debts owed to the FARC – one of the country’s leading guerrilla groups, and arguably the most dangerous – for more often than not it was they who had escorted them over some of the most dangerous and bitterly contested terrain of the Colombian interior.
Chambers still didn’t know how Morales had come to find out he was in Colombia, but the fact that he’d shown up just hours after a call was made to the Santa Clara hotel looking for Chambers, had been enough to confirm that word of his arrival was out. Morales hadn’t made the call to the hotel, but, as he’d pointed out later, he hadn’t had much trouble locating Chambers once he’d known he was in Cartagena. And if Morales could find him that fast, so could others. Which was why Chambers had driven out of the city with Morales and two others in the early hours of Friday morning, and travelled with them over the next five days to this remote border village that time had clean forgot.
It was certainly the most peaceful place Chambers had visited in this war-torn land, with barely a car to be seen on the narrow dirt roads that were edged with decrepit old houses and ran with mud for the best part of the year. The rain came every day, sweeping in a fine, gauze-like mist down over the gloriously rich green mountains of the Magdalena valley, washing the huge, succulent leaves of the banana trees and glimmering on the red-tiled roofs of the village. Dry or wet, the humidity was stifling, and the sun so bright on the whitewashed walls it stung the eyes and drowned the streets in dazzling
‘I don’t see any problem with that,’ he replied. ‘Hey listen, my other line’s ringing. It’s one of the ones I had set up for Chambers. I’ll catch you later, OK?’
Sandy rang off and after hitting a button on her computer to print out some documents she needed she began packing up to go home. Inside she was glowing, the way she often did after speaking to Michael, though tonight she was feeling a particular elation at how readily he had accepted the idea of her being included as a producer. She tried to imagine how Ellen would react when she was informed, and spent some time enjoying the various effects it would probably have.
Chapter 4
FOR THE PAST five days Chambers had had one hell of a time trying to figure out where he should be from one minute to the next. Nowhere, it seemed, was safe, yet anywhere was a haven. Since abandoning Cartagena, over a week ago, he had slept in ditches, ridden on mules, eaten from banana leaves and bathed in slimy lakes. Each day brought a totally new and unexpected experience, from having his face shaved by a cutthroat’s apprentice, to secretly watching the harvest of a coca crop, heavily guarded by one of the nation’s most notorious paramilitary groups – men who were known to clear villages by decapitating peasants and using their heads as footballs, a sure-fire way of getting the rest to flee.
Deciding whom to trust was like a game of Russian roulette with only one empty barrel. When Orlando Morales, his former contact from the Cali Cartel, had visited him in the dead of night in Cartagena, the man had been easy to believe. After all, Morales had proved himself in the past, so why not trust him again? And Pacho Martínez, the notorious Mr Fixit and friend to the cutting edge of Colombian society, was no more invincible than any other man with a passion for survival. Chambers knew that Pacho wouldn’t willingly sell him down the river, but he knew too that if it came to his skin or Pacho’s, then the Colombian’s masseuse was in a pretty safe job.
So he’d opted to go with Morales, whose past allegiance to the Tolima Cartel was a big chapter in the little man’s history. That Morales was still alive could only be down to the protection he received from the Cali Cartel, and, if the past five days were anything to go by, there were more than a few debts owed to the FARC – one of the country’s leading guerrilla groups, and arguably the most dangerous – for more often than not it was they who had escorted them over some of the most dangerous and bitterly contested terrain of the Colombian interior.
Chambers still didn’t know how Morales had come to find out he was in Colombia, but the fact that he’d shown up just hours after a call was made to the Santa Clara hotel looking for Chambers, had been enough to confirm that word of his arrival was out. Morales hadn’t made the call to the hotel, but, as he’d pointed out later, he hadn’t had much trouble locating Chambers once he’d known he was in Cartagena. And if Morales could find him that fast, so could others. Which was why Chambers had driven out of the city with Morales and two others in the early hours of Friday morning, and travelled with them over the next five days to this remote border village that time had clean forgot.
It was certainly the most peaceful place Chambers had visited in this war-torn land, with barely a car to be seen on the narrow dirt roads that were edged with decrepit old houses and ran with mud for the best part of the year. The rain came every day, sweeping in a fine, gauze-like mist down over the gloriously rich green mountains of the Magdalena valley, washing the huge, succulent leaves of the banana trees and glimmering on the red-tiled roofs of the village. Dry or wet, the humidity was stifling, and the sun so bright on the whitewashed walls it stung the eyes and drowned the streets in dazzling
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