do it.’ The hazel eyes fixed Amonite again. ‘Have we met before?’
‘I’m… new. Just here to learn.’ Amonite stared straight ahead. The general was pointing to the large screen behind him. A graph had materialised, a fat arrow indicating a surge in cocaine seizures.
‘Ha!’ Lucia said, pointing. ‘That’s all rubbish. Last year, the White House’s drug czar claimed they’d seized more cocaine than was actually produced. That’s because none of them have a single clue what everyone else is up to.’
A few people on the closest tables shot Lucia disapproving glances. Amonite stepped away, her anger replaced by suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
But Lucia shuffled over. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? Your face looks familiar.’
Amonite turned away. It was unlikely Lucia knew about her. Even during her time with Don Camplones and the Mexican mafia, Amonite had kept her identity hidden, known only as the secretive and ruthless Butcher of Juárez. She was the one who’d done the dirty work behind the scenes, unlike Don Camplones who’d been flamboyant and media-crazed.
A thought crossed her mind. She turned back to Lucia, but she’d gone. She looked around and caught sight of Lucia’s slender figure leaving the room via a set of double doors. Amonite flashed her badge at a security guard who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
‘That lady, over there.’ She pointed at Lucia. ‘She shouldn’t be here.’
The guard frowned.
‘Check her out,’ Amonite said. ‘You’ll see.’
The guard hesitated.
‘Quick, you dumb-ass.’
The guard scurried off.
Amonite sent a text message to Sir George. Then she grabbed an espresso from the table at the back. She downed it and dumped the cup on the tray of a waiter who was walking by, nearly knocking him over.
George was winding his way through the tables towards her. With his carefully combed silver hair, high cheek bones and designer suit with bright red tie, he looked more like a rich aristocratic playboy than an ageing government bureaucrat.
‘What the hell are you doing here,’ he hissed, leading her to the adjoining lounge area where floor to ceiling windows gave a sweeping view of London. ‘Someone might recognise you.’
‘Nobody will. My cover’s watertight.’
‘When I send my boys to meet you, I expect you to go with them.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘City airport.’
‘I work best alone.’
‘You do as I say. That’s the deal. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’
‘I got a tip-off they were onto Tony.’
George’s eyes narrowed.
‘He’s dead,’ Amonite said, her palms sweaty. Why did George always make her feel so inferior? ‘Some cop shot him.’
‘A cop? You sure it wasn’t Nathan Kershner?’
‘What? I thought you said there was no way Kershner would get anywhere near this case.’
George didn’t seem to hear her. He just rubbed his chin. ‘That chap’s getting far too big for his boots.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s just been to Putumayo. Found one of the labs and a stock of Black Coke.’
‘How?’
‘Cedric sent him there. The two-faced bastard. Without telling me.’
‘I wonder if—’
‘If what?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘If he knows about you?’ George patted Amonite’s shoulder. ‘I doubt it. Unless you’ve been careless, my dear.’
Amonite had heard rumours of a white NGO man investigating human rights abuses in Putumayo. She’d even caught a glimpse of a white man in the forest, when she was hunting down survivors of the assault on the village. She’d tried to shoot him. Could it have been Nathan Kershner?
‘What happened exactly?’ George said.
Amonite summarised what her source at Islington police station had whispered to her during a quick phone call earlier on.
‘Tony knifed
‘I’m… new. Just here to learn.’ Amonite stared straight ahead. The general was pointing to the large screen behind him. A graph had materialised, a fat arrow indicating a surge in cocaine seizures.
‘Ha!’ Lucia said, pointing. ‘That’s all rubbish. Last year, the White House’s drug czar claimed they’d seized more cocaine than was actually produced. That’s because none of them have a single clue what everyone else is up to.’
A few people on the closest tables shot Lucia disapproving glances. Amonite stepped away, her anger replaced by suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
But Lucia shuffled over. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met before? Your face looks familiar.’
Amonite turned away. It was unlikely Lucia knew about her. Even during her time with Don Camplones and the Mexican mafia, Amonite had kept her identity hidden, known only as the secretive and ruthless Butcher of Juárez. She was the one who’d done the dirty work behind the scenes, unlike Don Camplones who’d been flamboyant and media-crazed.
A thought crossed her mind. She turned back to Lucia, but she’d gone. She looked around and caught sight of Lucia’s slender figure leaving the room via a set of double doors. Amonite flashed her badge at a security guard who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
‘That lady, over there.’ She pointed at Lucia. ‘She shouldn’t be here.’
The guard frowned.
‘Check her out,’ Amonite said. ‘You’ll see.’
The guard hesitated.
‘Quick, you dumb-ass.’
The guard scurried off.
Amonite sent a text message to Sir George. Then she grabbed an espresso from the table at the back. She downed it and dumped the cup on the tray of a waiter who was walking by, nearly knocking him over.
George was winding his way through the tables towards her. With his carefully combed silver hair, high cheek bones and designer suit with bright red tie, he looked more like a rich aristocratic playboy than an ageing government bureaucrat.
‘What the hell are you doing here,’ he hissed, leading her to the adjoining lounge area where floor to ceiling windows gave a sweeping view of London. ‘Someone might recognise you.’
‘Nobody will. My cover’s watertight.’
‘When I send my boys to meet you, I expect you to go with them.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘City airport.’
‘I work best alone.’
‘You do as I say. That’s the deal. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’
‘I got a tip-off they were onto Tony.’
George’s eyes narrowed.
‘He’s dead,’ Amonite said, her palms sweaty. Why did George always make her feel so inferior? ‘Some cop shot him.’
‘A cop? You sure it wasn’t Nathan Kershner?’
‘What? I thought you said there was no way Kershner would get anywhere near this case.’
George didn’t seem to hear her. He just rubbed his chin. ‘That chap’s getting far too big for his boots.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s just been to Putumayo. Found one of the labs and a stock of Black Coke.’
‘How?’
‘Cedric sent him there. The two-faced bastard. Without telling me.’
‘I wonder if—’
‘If what?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘If he knows about you?’ George patted Amonite’s shoulder. ‘I doubt it. Unless you’ve been careless, my dear.’
Amonite had heard rumours of a white NGO man investigating human rights abuses in Putumayo. She’d even caught a glimpse of a white man in the forest, when she was hunting down survivors of the assault on the village. She’d tried to shoot him. Could it have been Nathan Kershner?
‘What happened exactly?’ George said.
Amonite summarised what her source at Islington police station had whispered to her during a quick phone call earlier on.
‘Tony knifed
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