scream through the tape gag as the Brazilian went to work with the knife.
Peter Latham stabbed at the lift button and glared at the floor indicator as if he could speed up its progress by sheer willpower. He shrugged his shoulders inside his grey suit jacket and adjusted his blue and yellow striped tie. It had been a long time since Latham had worn plainclothes during the day and he was surprised at how much he missed his uniform.
The briefcase he carried was the same one he carried into work every day at New Scotland Yard, a present from his wife of going on twenty-five years. Black leather, scuffed at the edges, the gilt weathered on the two combination locks, the handle virtually moulded to the shape of his hand, it was something of a lucky talisman and he planned to keep it until the day he retired.
The lift doors opened and Latham stepped inside. He pressed the button for the fifth floor but the doors remained resolutely open. The hotel was advertised as four-star, but the carpets were stained and threadbare and there was a tired look to the place, like a faded actress who'd long given up on her agent ringing with an offer of work. It was in an area that Latham rarely frequented, just east of the City, London's sprawling financial district, and he'd travelled by black cab instead of using his regular driver. Strictly speaking, as an Assistant Commissioner with the Metropolitan Police, Latham was higher in rank than the man he was coming to see, but the man was an old friend and the manner and urgency of the request for the meeting was such that Latham was prepared to put rank aside.
The doors closed and there was a sharp jolt as the lift started its upward journey. Latham could hear gears grinding somewhere above his head and he resolved to take the stairs on the way down.
The room was at the end of a long corridor punctuated with cheap watercolours of seascapes in fake antique frames. Latham knocked and the door was opened by a man in his early fifties, a few inches shorter than Latham's six feet and several stone heavier.
'Peter, thanks for coming,' said the man, offering his hand.
They shook. Both men had strong, firm grips. A handshake between equals.
'We're getting a bit old for cloak and dagger, aren't we, Ray?' said Latham. Raymond Mackie pulled an apologetic face and stepped aside to allow Latham into the room. Two single beds, a pine-laminated dressing table and wardrobe, and a small circular table with two grey armchairs. There was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, two glasses and an ice bucket on the table. Mackie waddled over to it, poured two large measures and handed one to Latham. They clinked glasses and drank. Mackie's official title was Head of Drugs Operations, HODO, generally referred to as Ho Dough, although because of Mackie's expansive waistline, this was frequently corrupted behind his back to the Doughboy.
A combined television and video recorder stood on the dressing table. Mackie saw Latham looking at the television and he picked up a video cassette.
'This arrived at Custom House yesterday,' he said.
'I hope you haven't brought me all this way to watch a blue movie,' said Latham. He dropped down into one of the armchairs and put his briefcase on the floor.
'I warn you, it's not pretty,' said Mackie, slotting the cassette into the recorder and pressing the 'play' button. He shuffled over to a sofa and eased himself down on to it as if he feared it might break, then took a long slug of his whisky as the screen flickered into life.
Latham steepled his fingers under his chin. It took several seconds before he realised that what he was seeing wasn't a movie, but the brutal torture of a fellow human being.
'Sweet Jesus,' he whispered.
'Andy Middleton,' said Mackie.
'One of our best undercover agents.'
On the screen, the man in the ski mask was slicing deep cuts across the chest of the bound man, who was rocking back and forth in agony.
'He went missing on Anguilla two weeks ago. This came via Miami.'
Latham tried not to look at the man being tortured and instead forced himself to look for details that might help identify the assailant or the location. The torturer had no watch or jewellery, and was wearing surgical gloves. There was no way of knowing if he was black or white, or even if he was male or female, though Latham doubted that a woman would be capable of such savagery. The walls were bare except for a few shelves to the left. A fluorescent light fitting. Concrete floor. It could have been anywhere.
'Middleton was trying to get close to Dennis Donovan,' said Mackie.
'Donovan's been active in the Caribbean for the past six months, meeting with Colombians and a Dutch shipper by the name of Akveld. Middleton's in was through one of Akveld's associates. He's gone missing, too.'
A second masked figure stepped into the frame holding a plastic bag. He stood for a second or two looking directly at the camera.
'We think this is Donovan,' said Mackie.
'Same build. There's no way of knowing for sure, though.'
The man walked behind Middleton and pulled the plastic bag down over his head, twisting it around his neck. The undercover Customs agent shuddered in the chair, his eyes wide and staring. It was more than a minute before his head slumped down against his chest, but the man behind him kept the bag tight around his neck for a further minute to make sure that he was dead.
The recording ended and Mackie switched off the television.
'Middleton is the third agent we've lost in the Caribbean. Like Middleton, the bodies of the first two haven't been found. They were hoping to bring Donovan down as part of Operation Liberator, but it didn't work out that way.'
Latham nodded. Operation Liberator had been trumpeted as a major victory in the war against drugs almost three thousand drugs traffickers arrested, twenty tons of cocaine and almost thirty tons of marijuana seized along with thirty million dollars of assets confiscated as part of a massive operation conducted by the United States Drug Enforcement Administration and British Customs. Latham knew that most of the arrests were low-level dealers and traffickers, however, men and women who would have been replaced before they'd even been strip-searched. And thirty million dollars was a drop in the ocean of a business estimated to be worth more than five hundred billion dollars a year.
'Were they killed on tape?' asked Latham.
Mackie shook his head.
'So why this time? What was special about Middleton?'
'It's a warning,' said Mackie, sitting down in the armchair opposite Latham and refilling their glasses.
'He's telling us what he'll do to anyone we send against him.'
Latham sipped his whisky.
'It's unusual, isn't it, killing a Customs officer?'
'Not in the league Donovan's in. If it was just a case of a couple of kilos, maybe, but the last consignment of Donovan's that went belly up had a street value of thirty million dollars. If the DEA catch him with the goods, he'll go down for life without parole.'
'Even so, he could just give them a kicking and send them packing, couldn't he?'
'I guess we've become a thorn in his side and this is his way of saying enough is enough.'
'And is it? From your perspective?'
Mackie looked at the Assistant Commissioner with unblinking grey eyes.
'I knew all three of them, Peter. I worked with Andy way back when. Checking cars at Dover, believe it or not. I'm not going to send any more men into the lion's den.'
'So he's won?'
'Not exactly.' Mackie fell silent and stared at a painting of a vase of flowers above one of the beds.
'Spit it out, Ray,' said Latham eventually.
'We've had an idea,' said Mackie, still studying the painting.
'Well, I guessed that much.'
'The problem is, no matter how good our agents are, and Andy Middleton was one of the best, an operator like Donovan can still spot them. They don't have his background, his instincts. No matter how good they are, they're still playing a role. One slip, one wrong move, and their cover's blown.'
