Prologue

The three Chevrolet Suburbans proceeded in formation, following the traffic through Avenida La Esperanza. The three vehicles were painted black with privacy glass in the windows, and they carried a full protective detail from the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. There were three armed men in the lead and trail cars, all with extensive experience working in dangerous locales like this. Michael Cochrane had once been inside the Cadillac that carried the president in his motorcade; the Secret Service called that vehicle ‘the Beast,’ and this car was lacking by comparison. The glass in the Suburban wasn’t five inches thick, for example, and there was no ceramic armour; but it was still a substantial ride, and he was well protected by his guys. He felt safe, even in Bogotá.

Cochrane had been given the title of ambassador for this mission, although he was not a normal Foreign Service officer. His previous role had been as the Assistant Secretary for International Narcotics and Legal Affairs, known within the diplomatic community as the Bureau of Drugs and Thugs. He had worked in the DEA previous to this posting and had spent all of his professional life trying to stem the flow of drugs into the United States. Cochrane’s aide, Amanda Jones, was sitting next to him. She was buried in the briefing paper that had been delivered from Langley overnight.

The ambassador uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “You know where you’re going?”

Harrison was driving them today. The two men had been working together for several weeks now, and they had an easy rapport. Harrison was a pro and, without taking his eyes off the road, gave a nod. “Come on, boss—I know where we’re going. We’re good.”

“And the route is safe?”

Martinez was in the front, next to Harrison. “Yes, Mr. Ambassador. I went out in the pilot car and checked everything this morning. I’d still rather they were coming to us—”

“But you know that’s not possible.”

“I know, sir. I understand, and we’ve adapted. You’re in good hands.”

Cochrane slapped the back of the seat. “Never doubted it.”

He plucked a piece of lint from the thigh of his slacks, examined it, then flicked it away. He reached over to his briefcase and pulled it onto his lap. He popped the clasps, opened the lid and took out the background file the DEA had prepared. The agency was involved in interdicting the supply of cocaine from Colombia into Mexico and then the United States. The State Department had stated that it was prepared to increase the help it was providing to the Colombians, but there were preconditions that needed to be met first. Cochrane was the point guy to make sure those requirements were satisfied. That had been the focus of his work in the embassy for the last three months. The Colombians were proud, and it had been like pulling teeth to get them to agree to gringo help. It had taken all his skill—a mixture of cajoling and threats—but he had made it stick.

The report had been stamped with the logos of both the DEA and the CIA and had been composed by senior intelligence staff at both agencies. Cochrane opened it and saw that it bore red pencil markings all the way across the first page. He recognised the handwriting—if that wasn’t too generous a description of the scrawl—and laughed.

Jones looked over. “You okay, boss?”

Cochrane shook his head, his face breaking into a happy grin. “My six-year-old,” he said, proffering the defaced report. “I left the report in my study for five minutes when I went to the bathroom. She must’ve got hold of it.”

Jones read: “‘Come home soon, Daddy.’ Jeez. That’s so sweet. What’s her name?”

“Aimee.”

“Too cute.”

He should’ve been annoyed that she had defaced his report, but how could he be? Leaving Megan and Aimee was always the hardest part of a job that required extensive travel. He had been thinking for some time that he might look to take a more settled position once the accord between the Colombians, Mexicans and DEA was concluded. He had worked for the government for twenty years, and he was senior enough that he could exercise a little discretion in what might come next. Riding a desk in Washington didn’t sound so bad, especially if that meant he could be more involved in his daughter’s childhood. She was getting into Little League, and it killed him to watch the videos that Megan sent rather than being able to be there in person.

He glanced out the window at the streets of the city. The trip had been a long time coming, and he didn’t want anything to go wrong. He had put too much time into the preparation, and he knew that the administration was counting on bringing this in. Winning the war on drugs was one of the key planks of the president’s re-election campaign, and doing that started at the source. This—or rather, the jungles that made up the Amazonian rainforest—was where it all began.

State had promised the president that it would deliver the victory he had promised, and it was Cochrane’s job to get the ball rolling.

* * *

David Fitzpatrick watched as the cars honked at one another outside the tinted windows of his SUV. Bogotá was full of the hustle and bustle of a modern metropolis. Fitzpatrick knew enough about Colombian history to know that it had transformed over the course of the last thirty years. The influence of the narcotraficantes—Pablo Escobar and the Gentlemen of Cali and all the others—had waned from their apogee in the eighties and nineties, and, although cartel tentacles still slithered up from the jungles and slums of Medellín, it was much less overt today. But, Fitzpatrick knew, it was still there.

That was why he was so nervous.

“Anything?” Frank Probert said from the back.

“Looks clear.”

“You still shitting yourself?”

“You forget where we are? It’s Bogotá, man.”

Fitzpatrick would have preferred the meeting with the South Americans to have taken place behind the wire. He and Martinez had tried to persuade Cochrane that it needed to happen at the embassy, but the ambo had insisted that it had to be on Colombian turf. The optics were better with the Americans going to their hosts, he said, rather than insisting that the Colombians and Mexicans come to them. The accord had already been derided in the local press as evidence of revived gringo imperialism, and Cochrane had said that he didn’t want to make that worse.

“He’s stubborn,” Fitzpatrick said.

“Who?” Probert said. “Cochrane?”

“You know I told him this was a stupid idea?”

“I know he got hot at you.”

“You know what he said? ‘I’ve been travelling around the city every day for the last three months and nothing has happened.’ You believe that? I told him that the fact he had done a stupid thing with no consequences didn’t mean that doing that stupid thing would always have no consequences.”

“Maybe he was just lucky before.”

Fitzpatrick nodded. “That’s what I said.”

“And?”

“You know what he’s like. He just waved it off. I told him those times before were different. He wasn’t on his way to sign an accord that was practically a declaration of war on the cartels then, not like he is now.”

“And still no dice.”

Fitzpatrick shook his head. “He told me his mind was made up, that there was no point in trying to change it, and that I should make the arrangements.”

“Shut your mouth and know your role?”

“Words to that effect.”

* * *

Cochrane couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept more than four hours in a single night. Putting together the coalition had been a Sisyphean task. It had required hours of hand-holding and backslapping and smiling until his face ached just to get all the parties on board. But he had done it. His patience and flexibility had paid dividends, and now he had everyone on the same page.

He leaned back in his seat and turned back to the start of the report. The diplomatic effort had been an urgent one; the Americans had needed to address quickly changing events. The Mexican cartel responsible for moving Colombian cocaine over the border was La Frontera. Three years ago, the head of the cartel—a man known as El Patrón—had been assassinated by an unknown shooter in the highlands of the Sierra Madre. La Frontera was itself an amalgamation of smaller cartels; El Patrón had brought them together and then held them in thrall with the fear of his retribution should they ever cross him. His death had changed things; chatter intercepted by the Mexican military suggested that the constituent parts would split away without him.

To the surprise of the analysts who had provided the briefings, that implosion had not taken place. There had been a flurry of murders as someone—the Mexicans didn’t know who—had eliminated rivals and then consolidated power. And then La Frontera had outsmarted everyone by making common ground with El Centro, the most durable of the successors to the Escobar cartel in Medellín. The two organisations had cemented an accord to work together. The Colombians would be responsible for the production of the cocaine, meth and marijuana that the North American market consumed in such vast amounts. The Mexicans would be responsible for distribution and retail. The arrangement was mutually beneficial, with both cartels making outsized profits.

The arrangement was not a happy one for the United States.

The merger ensured that the cartels could pool their resources. The leadership realised that the sheer volume they could now move meant that they could slash prices. Lower prices meant they could sell in greater volume, more than making up for the price cuts. Using La Frontera’s long-established supply chains, they started moving vast amounts over, under and around the border.

Cochrane uncrossed his legs, then recrossed them. “How long?”

“Traffic’s heavy,” Harrison said. “Fifteen minutes. Twenty at the outside.”

Cochrane looked back to the report. Influential journalists had raged at the epidemic of drug use flourishing across the country. New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami. Huge shipments, larger than anything seen since the eighties, were intercepted, but everyone knew that the DEA and Customs only ever stopped a small fraction of the goods that were moved. For every ton that was detected at a border, they all knew that ten times more was getting through. Something had to be done.

Jones looked up. “They will definitely go for this?”

“They’d better,” Cochrane said.

“I still can’t believe they’ll willingly have the US military down here.”

“As advisors,” Cochrane said, smiling at the euphemism.

The plan was simple and, he was confident, would be effective. The Mexicans would deploy their maritime Fuerzas Especiales to attack La Frontera’s naval supply lines, and the Fuerza Especial de Reacción, a quick-strike unit, would hit the traficantes at their distribution points on the border with the US. The Colombians were readying the Agrupación de Fuerzas Especiales Antiterroristas Urbanas—their elite counterterrorism group—to take out El Centro’s kitchens deep in the jungle. The Americans would provide training, intel and logistical support, but try telling that to the DELTA soldiers at Fort Bragg, who were itching to get the green light to deploy. Those boys would raise holy hell once they were in theatre. Signing the accord would be the start. Teams from each country were already on standby. A list of targets had been drawn up: lieutenants who would be scooped up off the street, warehouses that would be hit. The police and intelligence outfits would flip the junior players, get them to squeal on the bosses, round them up, rinse and repeat until the whole sordid business had been wiped off the map. It would be the biggest escalation against the cartels since the start of the War on Drugs, and this time, the good guys would win.

The SUV eased to a stop, and Cochrane leaned forward to get a look out the windshield. They were at an intersection. A red light was suspended from a wire that reached across the street. He leaned back in the seat. The light above the car turned green. Cochrane watched the lead car move into the intersection. He turned around and checked that the trail car was still behind them.

Harrison must have noticed his wariness. “We’re all good.”

“This fucking place,” Cochrane muttered.

“Ten minutes to Bolivar Square.”

Cochrane nodded. They were fine.

“Hold up,” Martinez said, and sighed.

The SUV carried them through the intersection, then slowed again.

Cochrane leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Traffic,” Martinez said.

Cochrane looked through the windshield to see a line of cars stacked up in front of them.

Harrison touched his earpiece. “Lead One, status?” He listened, then nodded. “Copy. We’ll hold.” He turned in the seat to report. “Accident ahead. They’re going on foot to get eyes on it.”

Cochrane nodded and watched as one passenger in the lead car got out and walked up ahead. He cleared five cars, then stopped. He raised a hand to his ear.

Harrison listened, then turned around. “Two cars tangled. Looks okay.”

“We’re fine, though?” Cochrane had heard the edge of concern in Harrison’s voice. “Right?”

Harrison ignored him and touched his ear. “Lead One, copy. We’ll wait for it to clear. Eyes out. Lead Three, copy?” He waited a moment, then nodded again and let his hand drop.

“Harrison?”

The soldier turned around. “It’s okay, boss. We’re good.”

* * *

Fitzpatrick was not happy. The lead car couldn’t go forward, and the trail car couldn’t go backward. The ambassador was stuck between them. They were penned in on all sides.

Sitting ducks.

Horns blared as drivers signalled their annoyance. Scooters weaved in and out of the gridlocked cars and trucks.

“This is bullshit,” Fitzpatrick said. “Should’ve stayed in the embassy. Coming out here was asking for trouble.”

Probert was about to speak, but paused. “You see that?”

Fitzpatrick watched as a woman on a dusty red scooter snaked between cars, balancing a bag of groceries on her lap. A motorcyclist followed behind her, close on her rear wheel. Its rider was a woman, too, and she cut hard to her right in front of the old Volkswagen to the left of the ambassador’s Suburban, then swung left again, drawing alongside the vehicle.

“What’s she doing?”

Fitzpatrick saw the rider reach both hands into a satchel she was carrying on a strap around her neck and pull out a round metal object. It was olive green, and it looked as if it had a mechanism attached to one of the flat sides. She got off the bike and crouched down next to the Suburban, disappearing from view.

“What the fuck?”

The woman stood. Fitzpatrick saw that her hands were empty.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Fitzpatrick grabbed his 12-gauge Remington 870 from the seat next to him, exited the car, and rushed ahead.

“Stop!” he yelled.

The woman got back onto the bike, revved the engine and sped away.

Fitzpatrick levelled the shotgun, but didn’t have a shot. He reached the Suburban and ducked down. He saw that the green object had been attached to the underside of the car, right below the fuel tank. He put his hand to his ear and activated his microphone.

“Get out of the car!” he yelled. “Get out now!”

* * *

Cochrane jerked around at the hollow thud as something slapped against the underside of the Suburban. He saw the motorcyclist, her helmet visor down. The woman reached for the handlebars, cranked the throttle and sped away.

Harrison had his hand to his ear already. “Lead Three, what just happened?”

Cochrane turned around and saw Fitzpatrick hurrying toward them. He was carrying a shotgun.

“What’s happening?” he said.

“Lead Three,” Harrison said, “I need a status check now.”

Cochrane saw Fitzpatrick’s eyes go wide and, for the first time, panic turned in his gut.

“Get out of the car! Get out now!”

The mine detonated.

The car was tossed into the air and flipped over.

Cochrane, Jones, Harrison and Martinez were dead before it crashed back down on its roof.

* * *

He had an excellent vantage point. Jeno’s Pizza was just down the street from the location that had been chosen for the attack. He had bought a Hawaiian slice and had taken it to a table in the window from where he could look up and down the street. He had watched as the two cars had crashed into one another, carefully arranging the ‘accident’ so that the road was rendered impassable. He had listened silently over the radio as the team that had been put together for the operation reported on the progress of the convoy.

It had all been just as they had planned. They had worked on the attack with the information received from Langley. They had been supplied with the time of the meeting and the route that the ambassador would take to reach Bolivar Square. After that, they had relied upon the reports of the locals—the pedestrians and the drivers, the shopkeepers and customers—who worked for the cartel. The lookouts reported on the progress of the convoy through the city.

Cochrane had ignored the advice of his security detail and had insisted that the meeting to sign the accord should take place on Colombian soil. There had been so much pressure on him to conclude the agreement that he had ignored the target that his success in the negotiations had painted on his own back.

The man looked out at the consequences of the ambassador’s chutzpah now: the burning wreck of the car, smoke billowing up into the pure blue sky. He took out his phone and tapped the screen to call the single number that had been stored in the memory.

“It’s Number One,” he said. “Tell her it’s done.”

He ended the call, opened the phone and took out the SIM. He left fifty thousand pesos on the table, stood and collected his things. He was a big man: six foot four and heavily built. His normally pale skin had grown tanned from working outside, and his sandy blond hair had been bleached by the sun so it was closer to platinum. There wasn’t much he could do to disguise the fact that he was a foreigner.

He took out his cap and put it on his head and paused at the door, looking left and right. He was satisfied that it was safe to proceed. With another glance at the burning car, Björn Thorsson dropped the SIM into an open drain and tossed the phone into a garbage can.

He walked away from the crowd that was gathering near the flaming wreck, and disappeared.

I. Tuesday

Part I

Tuesday

1

John Milton took the garment carrier from the wardrobe and unzipped it, removing the suit that he had selected for the evening’s festivities: a plain navy two-button with a notch lapel, in mid-weight eleven-ounce textured hopsack fabric. The tailor who had served him in the boutique in Gelderlandplein had described it as the equivalent of the little black dress, a versatile choice that was still stylish. Milton had ignored his blandishments and had also ignored his advice on the measurement for the jacket, choosing one that was not quite perfect around his chest on the basis that he might want to pair it with a shoulder rig and a nine-millimetre at some point in the not-too-distant future.

He took off his jeans and T-shirt, taking a look at the scars that discoloured his skin from the top of his shoulders all the way down to his ankles. There was ink from the tattooist’s gun, too: the angel wings on his back, the Roman numeral IX over his breast, and more besides. He could have read his history there, if he was so minded. He was not. He had business to attend to, and it would not wait.

It had been a frantic last few weeks. Milton had been about to realise a long-cherished dream to drive an American muscle car from Oakland to the East Coast, but he had only made it as far as Las Vegas before fate had intervened. He had found himself helping a young woman who—or so he had thought—was in need of his assistance. Jessica Russo’s father had been working an elaborate financial sting for a Mexican cartel and had made the foolish decision to rip them off. They had kidnapped the old man, and Jessica had tricked Milton into helping her to get him back. The cartel sent a sicario to locate their missing money, and the man had murdered Beau Baxter, one of Milton’s only friends, a policewoman and three civilians. Milton had tracked the hitman to Tuscany and eliminated him, but that was not enough to satisfy his need for vengeance.

He wanted whoever it was who had given the orders to the sicario, and then the person who had given those orders, too.

Coming to Amsterdam was the first step on the ladder.

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