sky invisible.
Nathan drifted into a half sleep, his senses alert for danger.
Chapter 4
Putumayo, Colombia
31 March 2011
T he sun popped up as suddenly as it had dropped away the previous evening. Nathan grabbed his weapon. Next to him, Manuel was squatting with his arms round his knees, leaning against a tree. His eyes were shut. His lips were parted and moving slightly. His fingers clutched the engraved wooden cross that dangled round his neck.
His eyes flickered open.
‘Good sleep?’ he said, tucking the cross into his shirt and springing to his feet.
Nathan nodded. He patted down his combat trousers and shirt. They were crusty with dried mud and blood, which peeled off like icing from a cake. He untangled some of the knots in his hair.
‘Come on.’ Manuel was stamping his feet impatiently. ‘Let’s go.’
They kept plodding for hours. They sheltered under a tree while a storm drenched them. Thunder growled and lighting blazed. Then the clouds fled, revealing the crystal blue sky through the jumble of branches above.
A plane whirred. Nathan glimpsed it passing to their left, releasing a cloud of white spray that settled like morning mist. It was an AT-802 armoured crop duster: a fumigation plane showering herbicide to wipe out coca plantations as part of Plan Colombia, the US-backed counternarcotics programme.
‘See!’ Manuel pointed.
Nathan said nothing.
They reached a clearing. Manuel lifted his palm to indicate they should stop. They sneaked forward until they could see clearly through the undergrowth. Ahead of them were the ruins of a village. Smoke curled up from the simmering remains of huts. Bodies of men, women and children lay scattered. The earth was scarred black.
They ducked and lay still. Tears streamed down Manuel’s cheeks, mixing with dirt to form brown rivulets. Nathan felt anger surge through him.
He tapped Manuel on the shoulder.
‘Let’s go see,’ he whispered.
‘You crazy?’
‘There may be survivors. Cover me.’
Manuel tried to hold him back, but Nathan pulled away and crept into the clearing, M-16 raised. The attack was recent. Otherwise the storm would have snuffed out the fires. The villagers had been defenceless. Many were face down in the mud, their backs peppered with bullet holes, mown down while fleeing. Nathan wondered which ones were Manuel’s cousins.
He pulled out his camera and took snaps, taking care not to touch anything in case it was booby trapped. Ahead of him was the body of what must have been a member of the death squad. Half his head was blown apart. He wore a black flak jacket and combats that were different to the t-shirts and jeans worn by the local narcotraffickers. The jacket was torn at the shoulder, revealing a mark in dark blue ink covered in mud and blood. Nathan rubbed it clean with his shirt sleeve.
It was a tattoo: I V IV.
Nathan rummaged through the dead man’s front pockets: a knife, a wire saw, a survival kit. He heaved him over. A wallet in the back pocket contained a card with a photo. Underneath it were the letters ASI then an ID number.
This was irrefutable evidence.
Nathan scanned the clearing. To his left was an open trapdoor next to a hole in the ground. He pulled a torch from his rucksack. A ladder led into a small, rectangular room with concrete walls. Nathan stepped down. It was dark and murky. He gagged at the stench of rot and death. A severely disfigured corpse was crumpled in a corner, ants feasting on its entrails. Next to it was a wooden table laden with basins full of soaking leaves. Around them were spatulas and plastic bottles with pink and yellow liquids that Nathan guessed were kerosene and sulphuric acid.
An underground lab: this was where the paste made from mashed and soaked coca leaves was turned into cocaine. Bricks of compact black powder were neatly stacked to the ceiling in one corner. Each one had a
Nathan drifted into a half sleep, his senses alert for danger.
Chapter 4
Putumayo, Colombia
31 March 2011
T he sun popped up as suddenly as it had dropped away the previous evening. Nathan grabbed his weapon. Next to him, Manuel was squatting with his arms round his knees, leaning against a tree. His eyes were shut. His lips were parted and moving slightly. His fingers clutched the engraved wooden cross that dangled round his neck.
His eyes flickered open.
‘Good sleep?’ he said, tucking the cross into his shirt and springing to his feet.
Nathan nodded. He patted down his combat trousers and shirt. They were crusty with dried mud and blood, which peeled off like icing from a cake. He untangled some of the knots in his hair.
‘Come on.’ Manuel was stamping his feet impatiently. ‘Let’s go.’
They kept plodding for hours. They sheltered under a tree while a storm drenched them. Thunder growled and lighting blazed. Then the clouds fled, revealing the crystal blue sky through the jumble of branches above.
A plane whirred. Nathan glimpsed it passing to their left, releasing a cloud of white spray that settled like morning mist. It was an AT-802 armoured crop duster: a fumigation plane showering herbicide to wipe out coca plantations as part of Plan Colombia, the US-backed counternarcotics programme.
‘See!’ Manuel pointed.
Nathan said nothing.
They reached a clearing. Manuel lifted his palm to indicate they should stop. They sneaked forward until they could see clearly through the undergrowth. Ahead of them were the ruins of a village. Smoke curled up from the simmering remains of huts. Bodies of men, women and children lay scattered. The earth was scarred black.
They ducked and lay still. Tears streamed down Manuel’s cheeks, mixing with dirt to form brown rivulets. Nathan felt anger surge through him.
He tapped Manuel on the shoulder.
‘Let’s go see,’ he whispered.
‘You crazy?’
‘There may be survivors. Cover me.’
Manuel tried to hold him back, but Nathan pulled away and crept into the clearing, M-16 raised. The attack was recent. Otherwise the storm would have snuffed out the fires. The villagers had been defenceless. Many were face down in the mud, their backs peppered with bullet holes, mown down while fleeing. Nathan wondered which ones were Manuel’s cousins.
He pulled out his camera and took snaps, taking care not to touch anything in case it was booby trapped. Ahead of him was the body of what must have been a member of the death squad. Half his head was blown apart. He wore a black flak jacket and combats that were different to the t-shirts and jeans worn by the local narcotraffickers. The jacket was torn at the shoulder, revealing a mark in dark blue ink covered in mud and blood. Nathan rubbed it clean with his shirt sleeve.
It was a tattoo: I V IV.
Nathan rummaged through the dead man’s front pockets: a knife, a wire saw, a survival kit. He heaved him over. A wallet in the back pocket contained a card with a photo. Underneath it were the letters ASI then an ID number.
This was irrefutable evidence.
Nathan scanned the clearing. To his left was an open trapdoor next to a hole in the ground. He pulled a torch from his rucksack. A ladder led into a small, rectangular room with concrete walls. Nathan stepped down. It was dark and murky. He gagged at the stench of rot and death. A severely disfigured corpse was crumpled in a corner, ants feasting on its entrails. Next to it was a wooden table laden with basins full of soaking leaves. Around them were spatulas and plastic bottles with pink and yellow liquids that Nathan guessed were kerosene and sulphuric acid.
An underground lab: this was where the paste made from mashed and soaked coca leaves was turned into cocaine. Bricks of compact black powder were neatly stacked to the ceiling in one corner. Each one had a
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