El Mono, page 41
There were two violent reactions to Smith’s statement – one on the roadside beside him, the other on the mobile phone Both were horrified.
‘Mono dead? He cannot be. Not Mono!’ Mateo ran over to the pick-up to see what this big gringo was indicating.
‘My baby boy dead? He can’t be. What’s happening there? Tell me!’ Fields was shouting down the phone.
Smith didn’t know where he was going. He walked back towards the pick-up talking to Fields and the pharmacist both at the same time, not knowing what he was saying or who he was saying it to.
‘Mono is dead. I killed him up at his house. I pulled the house down on top of him and set it alight. He’s gone. No more. I hit the woman and baby. Both now dead – look in the back of the pick-up. Dead, dead, dead. It all went wrong. Cortés is dead. He got killed by a puma. Yes – a puma, it took revenge on us. Because what we did was wrong. All wrong. They’re all dead. And it’s all WRONG!’
Smith’s voice was rising and rising as he was talking and finally he lost it. He could hear Fields shouting at him down the phone but he started shouting back. He stamped on the road, turned round and ran down hill roaring like a little boy who had lost his temper. Smith threw his mobile phone as far as he could into the air – it flew away, describing a perfect arc over the top of the pharmacy and fell to earth the other side; he knew not where and didn’t care. He kept running.
Mateo Romero the pharmacist was confronted, horrified, with three bodies in the back of the pick-up. The gringo had run off.
There was one man with his throat ripped out. Clearly dead and cold. There was a baby covered in dust, but as he looked he saw it moving, whimpering, and becoming agitated. There was a woman, the chemist noted – Mono’s wife – who was similarly covered in dirt and dust but she was warm to touch, partly covered by the body of this man, completely unconscious, but as far as he could tell she was alive. Just.
Mateo shouted for his wife and son to come and help. The wife, Adriána, emerged from the shop and saw her husband struggling with a body in the pick-up. She called her son Felipe and then the two ran over to help. Pulling Karin out from under the corpse was not easy, even for the three of them. The baby was now crying. Adriána took charge of the baby, leaving her husband, Mateo and son Felipe to drag the unconscious Karin over to their shop. She was too heavy! Mateo asked his wife to put the baby down for an instant and come back and help.
Somehow, between all of them, they managed to get Karin into the shop, through the back and lay her on a bed. Baby Peter was by this time crying freely. Mateo quickly cleaned himself up, made up some baby milk from one of the tins of powdered milk in his shop and asked Felipe to feed the baby while he went to help his wife with Karin.
Karin was in a bad way. She was still unconscious. The side of her head was red and swollen; there was dried blood all the way down her left side and she was absolutely filthy. Adriána very carefully bathed Karin’s face and tried to clean her hair and clothes as well as she could without moving and disturbing her too much. The blood, fortunately, was not Karin’s but must have come from the corpse that had been lying over her. Adriána was distressed. What had happened to this beautiful mother and her child? she asked her husband.
Mateo was clearly very upset by everything that had happened. He recounted all that he had seen and heard and how the big gringo had said he had killed Mono and burned his house down. The three of them – Mateo, Adriána and Felipe – were all equally horrified.
There was nothing they could do for the time being other than care for the mother and child as well as possible and see if both recovered. Of the two, the baby was by far the better off. He must have taken a fearful tumble like his mother, but he bounced back into health and was basically unhurt. He had taken his feed without hesitation and was now more settled. Mateo judged, however, that the mother was badly concussed and she would need time and complete rest before she regained consciousness. There was no blood on her head and none leaking from her mouth, nose or ears, which was a good sign, but her lovely face was swollen on one side and would undoubtedly become very bruised in due course.
Meanwhile, outside, there was an abandoned red Chevrolet pick-up with a dead man in the back. There was nothing that anyone could do to help him. He was left alone.
9
Broken Dreams
Fields was absolutely furious that his wife had run off with his son. One day she was totally domesticated and settled into her role as the perfect mother and wife, someone he could present to the world as an elegant and cultured partner befitting his status, and the next day she was running all over town carrying his son away from him like a thieving gipsy. His son in the clutches of some common woman of the streets. How dare she force such a lifestyle on his boy! And what had happened to the wife who had been poised, refined and picture-perfect? One day apart and she had turned into some devious, interfering and fire-spitting harridan. Where was the devotion and cultured tolerance he had come to expect? She was going to have to beg if she ever wanted some sort of forgiveness.
Meanwhile, his son’s whereabouts was Fields’s major preoccupation outside of work. Smith had almost got him back, but every day that passed after the failed snatch outside the supermarket meant it was going to get more and more difficult to trace his wife and son’s movements. Professional detective agencies plus his own network of Triple F staff were all instructed to keep eyes and ears open for the movements of an Englishwoman and a sixth-month-old baby. Surely, there couldn’t be many in Colombia that fitted their description?
Inside work, the all-consuming concern was how to turn the fortunes of Triple F around and start to bring in the profits. In the long term everything depended on this. All things would become easier: more people would be willing to serve you, more women would become available and more money and power would fall into his lap. Operations in the Puracé mines of Cauca, however, were still very disappointing. Something had to be done.
Fields called Alejandro González to report back on the findings of the geological survey team.
‘The problem is that, even with all the latest sophisticated technology, in prospecting for gold you cannot escape the element of luck,’ González said. ‘Either you get lucky or you don’t. We know the conditions where gold formations are likely to be found; we have two mines now active on either side of Volcán Puracé where conditions are ideal; lots of gold has been recovered from the TMG site, so other finds are quite possible … but equally possibly, not!’
‘I can’t deal in possibilities,’ said Fields, getting irritated. ‘Tell me what our options are with regard to investing more time, effort and capital in Puracé, and give me the probable chances of success in each case.’
‘OK. First option, which is cheapest, is to flush out our existing mines with a weak solution of sodium cyanide. That dissolves traces of gold in our existing workings, which we can then recover from the slurry that washes out of the mine. Second option is to work on the vents that come out on the mountainside, where there are the hot springs and plumes of sulphur. Some of these volcanic pipes that come up from below will have gold deposits in. We undertake open-cast mining so that we can get at these pipes. That means a sizeable investment in stripping off the top layers of soil and rock. We might find gold deposits directly in the pipes we unearth or, if not, we can resort to hosing all the debris we create in a cyanide solution to leach out the gold as in the first option.
‘Third option is to dig deeper. Blast away underground in our existing mines and open up more rock face. More expensive than either of the other options but if there is more gold down there then, in the long term, it’s the only way to find it.’
‘What are the probabilities in each case?’ Fields was getting impatient.
‘The first way we will certainly get something. Tiny gold traces which cannot be seen will be concentrated in the cyanide solution and we can recover those. It’s a bit like filtering through the waste products that TMG didn’t bother with when they found the first deposits. Because it’s a cheap process relative to the other two options the revenue will likely cover our costs. I should emphasise that the waste water will be polluted with cyanide – that will create a stink with the local livestock farmers. The release of waste waters will also probably attract hordes of artisanal miners, poor people who like to go panning for gold. They’ll probably start camping and working below where the waters will emerge from the mine, so that will cause a conflict between them and all the local people who live around here.’
‘Well, that is a cost we won’t have to bear,’ said Fields. ‘Our mine brings benefits to some locals and costs to others. They can fight it out among themselves.’
‘The open-cast option is bound to create even more trouble,’ continued González. ‘Stripping off the páramo and the rock beneath, then hosing down the workings will repeat the same scenario but on an even bigger scale. The rewards in terms of gold recovered are likely to be bigger, however.
‘Of course the greatest probability of success comes with deeper mining. The costs rise exponentially the deeper we go, however. Ironically, because it’s underground, the reactions of the local farmers and whoever else lives up top will be minimal, certainly at first, unlike the other two options. But there is one risk.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The area is geologically unstable. It’s a dormant volcano that was last active in the 1970s. There is a chance that blasting away may start some reaction deeper down. It is difficult to quantify that risk, but, if we are careful, it should be low. Blasting deep down is the most expensive option, but it’s also the one with the biggest potential payback.’
‘Mmm. Thanks. The way you present it, it seems obvious that we should start with the first option and then, depending on results, progress from there either to the second or to the third.’
‘I agree,’ said González. ‘But before we start, can I mention one major headache?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘El Mono – he has the potential to cause all sorts of trouble and that means all sorts of cost increases. He is still out there somewhere and we haven’t been able to neutralise him yet.’
‘Agreed. Time to solve that problem. What do you know of his whereabouts?’
‘We covered the area around Puracé but have heard nothing. He’s not been seen. Cortés can send people out further afield, if you wish.’
‘Yes,’ said Fields. ‘Tell Cortés to sweep wider and wider, further and further, until we pick up something. He can’t have disappeared and we can’t afford the trouble he causes. Meanwhile, start ordering the men and equipment you need to flush out your mines with cyanide. We are in the gold mining business: let’s find gold!’
Cortés was pleased to get the go-ahead for a search mission to capture and dispose of Mono – an operation that in his view was long overdue. He hated having unfinished business, and sorting out this character should have been accomplished months back. His approach now was to buy a couple of anonymous vehicles, put men in each and tell them to run up to the end of every road that led up into the Andes and to ask, in any of the last inhabited stretches of each road, if they had seen Mono recently. It was a long, time-consuming business but Cortés reckoned that so long as no significant pueblos were omitted, he must find out something, sometime.
When Cortés heard of the screening of a National Geographic programme that featured Mono he reckoned that finding his quarry would be easier. Public interest in this man would be greater; searching him out would not be so unusual – probably many others would be looking for him as well, though for entirely different motives.
Weeks and weeks passed with no sightings and then one of his scouts called in with fascinating news: El Mono was reported to be living high up in a valley further south with his English wife and child.
An English wife? And a child? Cortés asked if there was any idea how old the child was. The story came back with no confirmed age but it was a babe in arms. Cortés phoned Fields immediately. This sounded like they could kill two birds with one stone.
Fields nearly jumped out of his chair when he heard.
‘Excellent! Tremendous news! Well done, Cortés!’ Fields always liked the man. ‘But watch out. We know El Mono is dangerous, so be very careful how you approach him. I’ll send Leopold Smith down to you. With regard to my son, if it really is him with his mother down there, then make sure my boy is kept safe. What I do with my runaway wife is something I can decide later when I find out what she has been up to – if it is her, posing as another man’s wife. What a nerve, eh? Right now I feel like wringing her neck, but my son will probably need to stay with her until I get him back here. So, keep an eye on Mono’s movements and don’t make a move until Smith gets to you. Then make sure there’s a fatal accident. Report back as soon as you’ve disposed of Mono and got the others. OK? Great. Congratulations again.’
Fields flew down to Popayán with Smith in anticipation of recovering his son. There was a copy of the National Geographic programme in the regional office which González had recorded and it was shown to Smith so that he would have no trouble identifying his victim. Smith went quiet viewing this film … but that was hardly a surprise for someone so noncommittal. Cortés told Fields he had hired an old pick-up and he and Smith were going to find Mono and his English wife and son the following morning. Fields said he would follow close behind in a Triple F vehicle and wait below for confirmation of the operation’s success. He had no doubt that Smith would recover his son and eliminate El Mono. What happened to his wife he was less interested in. Cortés said he would phone in as soon as they had finished their mission.
That was the last Fields ever heard from Cortés.
The next call that came in was garbled and shocking and sent Fields into paroxysms of rage. He had driven down and parked close to the pueblo where El Mono had been last seen, was ready to drive up and collect his son, but now he could not believe his ears. He did not want to believe his ears. It was Smith telling him that he had killed Mono, Fields’s wife, his son, and that Cortés was dead as well. It couldn’t be! Was that all true, he had asked, were they all dead? Oh yes, Smith had confirmed. All dead, he had said. Smith had wiped out his son and, with him, all the dreams Fields had harboured for years, if not decades.
Fields went berserk. What sort of idiot was he dealing with? he had shouted down the phone. Smith had been instructed to kill Mono and capture his son unharmed and now he had killed them both. Smith was a brainless, mentally disabled weirdo who belonged in an asylum. He deserved to be locked away for ever. He was not welcome back to Bogotá, to Triple F and to be anywhere near Fields. Get lost, permanently, Fields had told him.
Fields had heard Smith ranting and raving at the other end of the phone but he had lost all patience with the half-wit and shut the phone off.
Fields was speechless with fury. It was just as well he was alone in the Triple F Toyota he had driven out from Popayán – he wanted no one near him. And he wanted Smith as stone cold dead as the three corpses the maniac said he had created. Putting the vehicle in gear, he drove quickly up to the pueblo to find his bodyguard, the autistic assassin who had failed him so miserably.
Fields found Smith half running, half stumbling down the road, out of the pueblo, along the deserted track towards him. Fields slewed the Toyota round and brought it to a halt in a cloud of dust halfway across the rough, unmade carriageway. He opened the passenger door as if to welcome inside his trusty deputy. But in the cloud of dust that the vehicle had kicked up Smith did not notice its driver pull out a handgun. As Smith held the passenger door open to climb in – blam! blam! blam! – Fields fired three times at point-blank range into Smith’s chest. Smith fell back and collapsed in a heap. Fields reached across to close the car door. He put the engine in gear once more and drove off, leaving his loyal deputy and stepson dead in the road.
Twenty-four hours later, back in the pueblo where Smith had abandoned what he had assumed to be three dead bodies, the woman among them was now waking up. Unconscious for a full day, Karin was at last beginning to stir. She had not wanted to open her eyes, her head hurt too much, but they flickered open in spite of herself.
Karin had no idea where she was or what had happened – it was too painful to think. Yet images burned into her brain, refusing to keep away, images that came and went, swirling like fire. Fire … burning! That meant something!
Karin suddenly blurted out: ‘Where’s Peter?’
Her voice sounded like an explosion going off in her head but in fact it was more like a strangled croaking. Loud enough, however, to attract Adriána who had been close by, waiting for signs that Karin was struggling back into consciousness.
‘He is here, precious one. He’s fine.’
Karin opened her eyes to stare wildly around her. She still couldn’t take in where she was, but here was Adriána, holding Peter. She tried to haul herself up in the bed to take him but her head complained vigorously – lights started sparking and everything spun around. Karin sank back into the pillows. She closed her eyes again.
‘Careful. Take it easy. You have been out cold for all day and all night. You still need to rest.’ Adriána’s voice sounded a long way away but it filtered through into Karin’s hearing.
Images again played in her mind: burning. Leopold Smith. Daniel’s crumpled body.
‘Daniel!’ This time it was a scream. Karin’s whole body shook with pain but it could not stop the alarm from tearing out of her lungs: ‘Daniel! Daniel!’
Mateo came into the room to be with his wife. They both tried to calm Karin down, but she was now awake and sobbing her heart out. The pounding in her head was harder than ever but the pounding in her heart had opened up a vast empty void within her and panic had taken over and had filled every part of it. She was shaking uncontrollably and even her baby’s cries could not stop her.
‘Please no … Adriána, Mateo … tell me: Daniel?’
