The Mule: An Erotic Romance in Colombia Page 2

  A large security official wearing a uniform liberally decorated with gold braid appeared. Glowering, he motioned Cleo to one side.

  “I’m going to miss my plane!” Cleo complained. Aware of the coke surging through her, she tried to look cool but she couldn’t help shifting impatiently from foot to foot.

  “It will wait,” gold braids soothed. “This is your bag?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then please come with me.” He spoke courteously but the presence of an even larger officer hovering behind her told Cleo that it was an order.

  They led her into a small office, whereupon gold braids vanished, leaving her with an officer who couldn’t speak English. Cleo got more and more nervous. She had a sense of impending doom. Maybe it was the coke, she told herself. She was becoming paranoid. It wasn’t a good sign.

  Just as she was about to scream with impatience, the door opened. It was gold braids - and he was carrying her suitcase. Cleo stared at it. She’d checked it in hours ago. He must have gotten it off the plane.

  “Now we check your case.”

  “But my plane!”

  “It’s gone.”

  The sense of doom deepened. Cleo was silent while he opened up her case and began lifting out the contents. He ignored the clothes, rattled the Aztec mask before putting it aside and finally got to the packs of coffee at the bottom.

  He picked one up, got a penknife out of his pocket and slit open the top. To Cleo’s horror, white powder pilled out.

  “That’s not mine,” she stammered. “That’s not my coke!”

  “This is cocaine?” he asked.

  “Erm. Isn’t it?” Cleo asked surprised.

  He slammed a hand on the desk, making her jump in surprise. “Don’t play games with me!” he roared. “Who are you working for?”

  She was bewildered. “I’m a dancer at The Aviary.”

  He sighed theatrically. “Very nice. Now, who are you smuggling cocaine for?”

  “This is all a big mistake. A mix-up. There’s someone out there looking for their coke right now,” Cleo said hurriedly.

  “Really?” he said sarcastically. “You didn’t know it was in your case?”

  The coke got to her tongue before her brain kicked in. “It’s Juan’s!” A second later, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. But it was too late now. Juan was not going to be happy.

  “Juan who?”

  “Juan Garcia Riviera,” Cleo said. “My fiancée,” she added.

  “Juan Garcia Riviera?” He looked at her and then he sighed. “You are a very foolish girl.”

  “What?” Cleo asked bewildered.

  “You say he bought the cocaine in the coffee packs for you?”

  “No, not exactly. He left them in my suitcase.” Cleo explained what had happened. “He can’t have known,” Cleo insisted. “It’s a mistake.”

  “You think people just leave kilos of coke lying about?” gold braids sneered.

  “Juan has enemies,” Cleo said hotly. “People who are jealous of his business going so well. That’s why he has bodyguards. This is a set-up, it must be! They must have thought he’d get caught with it.”

  “And what about the handbag?”

  Cleo stared at him. “What?”

  “We found some white powder sticking to the lining,” he said softly. “Quite a lot of it, actually. Three grams. Our tests show it’s cocaine. Did that also get there by mistake?”

  Cleo realised she was in real trouble.

  Chapter Two

  The jail was huge, filthy and crowded. Cleo was patted down hastily and then shoved into a cell already filled with a dozen women. Some were drunk, some were high and all of them were yelling. Some were screaming at each other, some at the guards and some were clearly hallucinating and screaming at the pink elephants coming out of the walls.

  The stench was appalling. There were some stone bunks, all encrusted with dirt. The toilet was an open drain arrangement, and the single tap only gave up a thin trickle of brownish water.

  The crush pushed her into a corner by the open drain. The cockroaches scrambling there were massive, glossy and fearsome. When one aimed straight for her feet, Cleo jumped a mile and screamed. Instantly one of the women turned round and stomped on it. She didn’t seem to mind that the insect squished between the toes that stuck over the edge of her high-heeled shoe.

  She rattled something that Cleo didn’t catch a word of. When Cleo looked blank, she looked Cleo up and down. “Americana?”

  “English!” Cleo said relieved.

  “Why are you ‘ere?” Her accent was thick but understandable.

  “It’s a mistake, “ Cleo explained. “There was a mix-up at the airport...”

  “Cocaine, “ the woman said knowingly. “Law 30! Big problem!”

  “I’m not in trouble,” Cleo said. “It’s a mix-up, that’s all.”

  The woman laughed. “Maybe you make a deal,” she said.

  “A deal?”

  “If you have palanca, erm, connections.” The woman shrugged. “You work for cartel?”

  “No!” Cleo said horrified.

  “Then big problem,” the woman said. “Law 30 is big problem. For us, we have small problems so we make a deal here, you understand?” She winked at Cleo and pointed as a guard walked in and looked into the cell. One of the girls motioned him closer. They whispered for a moment.

  “See?” Cleo’s friend laughed.

  Two seconds later, the guard opened the cell door and the girl slipped out. They stepped out into the corridor. Before the door closed, Cleo saw the guard reach for his zip.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is she? Is he?”

  The woman shrugged. “She take camera from tourist. Not big theeng. She do him and then she go.”

  Cleo stared at her. “Is that what you’re doing?”

  The woman grimaced. “Ay! I go to hotel to find nice Americano. I find many because I spik good English. Make good money. But I no pay manager his bite! Big meestake!” She spat into the drain, sending the roaches scuttling. “Now I spend three days to pay.”

  “Three days?” Cleo whispered.

  “My friend will be here soon.” The woman shrugged. “Better in comfortable bed for three days for love with wine and food than here for one month.”

  Cleo shivered. She thought she was done with that. The idea of having to sell herself again freaked her out.

  As Cleo sat and pondered, the woman stood up and uttered a cry of welcome. A second later the door clanged open and she went off excitedly, chattering to a tall guard sporting a huge grin and trailing a cloud of aftershave.

  Neither she nor the girl who’d slipped out earlier came back.

  Cleo soon lost all track of time. There were no windows and the overhead light stayed on full blast. The only clue that night had come and gone was a change of guard and new arrivals wearing day clothes rather than party wear.

  As the cell emptied and refilled over and over again, Cleo sat on one of the grimy bunks with her back against the wall and she dozed off and on. After what seemed several years, a guard came in and motioned her out of the cell.

  It must be Juan, Cleo thought with relief. Now everything would be explained.

  The guard motioned her into a small dingy room. Instead of Juan, a short, fat, prematurely balding man sat perspiring at a small desk. Cleo noted his bottom spilled over the edge of his plastic chair.

  “Are you a friend of Juan’s?” Cleo stammered.

  “I am Ffrench.”

  “Oh, you sound English,” Cleo faltered.

  He sighed. “My name is Ffrench, with two ffs,” he said pompously. “British Consulate. You are Cleo Lee Davidson?”

  “Yes!” Cleo said hastily. “There’s been a terrible mistake! I had no idea...”

  “Please,” Ffrench said in a pained voice. “I must complete these forms first.” He brought out a fountain pen with a flourish.

  “Your profession?”

  “I’m a dancer.
”

  He perked up. “Covent Garden?”

  “The Aviary. I’m an exotic dancer.” Ffrench looked blank, so Cleo hastened to explain. “It’s called The Aviary because all of us dance in cages. You know, like retro?”

  He unperked. “Oh.”

  Cleo slumped in her chair as he droned on and on, asking details that he could have gotten from her passport application. Finally he stopped talking. Cleo sat up. Now they could get to fixing the problem.

  “Well, Miss Davidson,” Ffrench said. “While the consulate can’t get involved, I will make a full report.”

  “You can’t help?” Cleo asked amazed.

  “No.” Ffrench said firmly. “We cannot interfere in local legal matters. However, we can arrange to contact your relatives. If you haven’t called home already, that is.”

  “I can’t,” Cleo said hopelessly. “The guards stole my phone. I saw one put it in his pocket. And my watch and necklace. The only thing they’ve given me are my pills.”

  “Pills? You have a medical problem?” Ffrench looked alert.

  “Not exactly, they’re my contraceptives.” Cleo brought them out of her jeans pocket and waved them at him.

  “They had two high profile deaths due to untreated medical problems last week,” Ffrench shrugged. “Now they don’t confiscate medication.”

  Cleo tried to joke. “Well, I thought it was weird. Like I’d get any action in here.”

  “You are all right aren’t you?” Ffrench asked. “The guards haven’t, how shall I put this, bothered you?”

  By his suddenly anxious look, Cleo realised he was thinking about rape. A shiver of fear went through her.

  “I’m sure it will be all right,” Ffrench soothed. For a moment Cleo felt reassured but then he added, “We made a very strong complaint last time. A very strong complaint indeed.”

  Jesus, Cleo thought, I really am in the shit. What a time to be without a boost.

  Ffrench sighed. “Try to call your family. You can use my phone.” He took out a flashy smart phone and pushed it across the desk.

  “Thanks,” Cleo mumbled. Luckily, she knew Juan’s number off by heart. But when she called, his phone went to voicemail. On the off chance she called her mum. Nobody picked up. Cleo sighed. Her mum never picked up if she didn’t recognise the number.

  Ffrench was now visibly impatient. “I have to go, it’s getting late,” he said glancing at his watch.

  “Got a party to go to?” Cleo asked sarcastically.

  “Yes, actually.” Ffrench said totally unperturbed. “We will continue to try and contact your family.”

  “Can I try Juan again?” Cleo begged.

  “My dear Miss Davidson,” Ffrench said tiredly, “Mr Garcia Riviera won’t answer your calls. He is a well-known criminal. A drug dealer, in fact.”

  “That is sheer prejudice!” Cleo shouted angrily. “Juan is a respected emerald trader!”

  “Have it your way,” Ffrench said standing up. “Do you have money for a lawyer? No? Well, we will see what we can do.”

  He left at a brisk trot.

  Cleo sat in the cell. The hookers who had been there when she’d arrived had all gone but their replacements were pretty much identical, or so it seemed to Cleo. She became inured to the stink of sweat, garlic and vomit. She no longer squealed at the sight of a cockroach either. She knew she smelled. The water from the tap gushed intermittently. When it ran, she tried to get herself clean. But, most of the day, there was a trickle so small that all she could do was pool enough in her hands to get a drink.

  Cleo wondered if she’d get sick. By now she was so dirty, she was bound to give herself food poisoning. The open drain horrified her so much that she took a pill every second time food was brought to the cell. She was terrified of what would happen if she got her period. She hoped fervently that the jailhouse cook served meals twice a day. Her pills would only work if she took them once every 24 hours. So if the cook was a sloppy timekeeper, she was screwed.

  At first, when the food came, she took one look and refused it. Instead of the delicious coffee, eggs and rolls all of Colombia enjoyed every morning, the jailhouse cook served watery stew. It had scum on top, and the bowl look filthy. Cleo gagged just looking at it, but eventually she was so hungry that she choked it down. To her dismay, it set her entrails on fire. She was forced to use the latrine and finally became inured to that horror too.

  By the time a guard announced her lawyer had arrived, Cleo was dirty, thirsty, nauseous and beyond terrified.

  When they sat in the dirty little room, the plastic chair and lack of bodies crowding the room made it feel like paradise. The bottle of water the lawyer put in front of her tasted like nectar; the sandwich wrapped in a paper towel that he handed to her was ambrosial.

  “Lorenzo Martinez,” he said pointing at himself. “Abogado. Lawyer.”

  “Are you a friend of Juan’s?” she asked hopefully.

  “Garcia Riviera? No.” He shook his head impatiently. “You are Cleo Lee Davidson?”

  “Yes.”

  He was all business, checking her passport number, date and place of birth and a dozen other details she’d given the police and Ffrench before finally summarising her situation. “So the packs of coke were in your suitcase? But you didn’t know they were there? Did you mention this when you were arrested?”

  “Yes, it’s all a huge mistake,” Cleo said hastily. “Have you called Juan?”

  The lawyer sighed. “I tried but he directed me to his lawyer. Garcia Riviera and his family say they don’t know you.”

  Cleo couldn’t understand it. “It must be a mistake. Are you sure you spoke to the right family? Maybe there’s another family with the same name.”

  “I’m sure I have the right family.” Martinez sighed again, looking most uncomfortable. “I have to tell you formally that the Garcia Riviera family demand you stop telling people you know them.”

  “What do you mean?” Cleo shrieked. “Of course I know them! Juan is my fiancée!”

  Martinez looked sceptical. “Do you have proof?”

  “He paid for my ticket here!” Cleo exclaimed.

  “Yes, I am sure he did,” Martinez said tiredly, “but it was paid in cash so there’s no way to prove who paid for it. What about your hotel?”

  “It was comped because it’s owned by Juan’s family,” Cleo said bewildered.

  “The management said you paid your own bill. In full, at peak season rates, in advance and in cash. From England.”

  Cleo was silenced.

  “It’s an expensive hotel,” Martinez pointed out. “Not many people can afford to stay there for two weeks. And the police say you had some plastic surgery while you were here?”

  “What? I did not!” Cleo said hotly.

  The lawyer looked at his notes. “You went to the Piel Bella? They have confirmed your treatment.”

  “That wasn’t plastic surgery! It was hair removal. With a laser so it’s permanent. It means I never have to wax again.”

  Martinez looked blank.

  “In my job,” Cleo explained. “I have to wear thongs when I’m dancing so a full wax is the only way to go. Lasers remove hair permanently, which is fantastic, but I could never afford it. Not even here and it’s like a fifth of the cost here compared to England. It was a present from Juan!”

  “It says here you had four treatments over four days and you paid in cash.”

  “Ohmigod!” Cleo exclaimed. “Juan gave me the cash because he had business to deal with!” She gazed at the lawyer. “But listen! I met his brother and his cousins! I met his mother! She came to the hotel for tea!”

  “They say you are just a tourist they were kind to.”

  All the breath whooshed from her body. Cleo slumped in her chair, feeling faint and sick. This was a nightmare. It couldn’t be real.

  Martinez rustled some papers. “They found just under 2 kilos in your bags. That’s an automatic sentence of 96 months minimum. If you’re unlucky, the maximu
m is 144 months.”

  Cleo was looking at him in complete bewilderment. “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s 8 to 12 years,” Martinez explained. “You may get extra time for conspiring to commit a crime, but I don’t think so. They’re not willing to bounce you on this but they’re not likely to be vindictive. It’s probably just straight time.”

  Cleo was horrified. “Jail? I can’t go to jail! How can I go to jail when I didn’t do anything?”

  He shrugged. “It was your suitcase.”

  Cleo was dumbstruck.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have an exchange system,” the lawyer said rustling some papers. Cleo realised he couldn’t look her in the eye. This truly was bad news. “Your entire sentence will be served in Colombia. There is no repatriation.”

  Cleo sat and stared at him wordlessly. He wasn’t even considering the possibility of her being found innocent.

  “Plead guilty and ask for mercy,” he advised her.

  Cleo couldn’t speak. She was too horrified to protest.

  The lawyer stood up. “I have been asked to give you this,” he said. He handed her a plastic bag. “See you in court,” he said.

  “When is that?” Cleo asked. Maybe if she could talk to the judge, he would understand.

  He shrugged. “It could be a year.”

  “A year!” Cleo screeched.

  “It’s taken off your sentence,” the lawyer said.

  “But I didn’t do anything!” Cleo shrieked.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t look that way.”

  Before she could say another word, he gave her a funny little bow and rushed out of the door.

  He thinks it’s hopeless, Cleo thought.

  For a moment she felt an overwhelming sense of panic. The guard seemed to sense her emotion; worried that she’d have hysterics, his hand landed heavily on her shoulder as he frogmarched her down the corridor and back to the cell. He hustled her back so quickly that Cleo didn’t even have time to ask him if he knew Juan.