Rat-Catcher Read online

  The little girl stared back solemnly until the lights changed to green, then she darted away towards the pavement.

  ‘She never smiles,’ said Alex’s dad, shaking his head as he drove away.

  A few minutes later the jeep pulled up in front of a neat little Spanish-style house in the Quito suburbs. Alex saw three men standing outside the house, talking. Two of them wore cheap-looking civilian clothes and kept sending uneasy glances up and down the quiet street, as though they felt out of place. The third, a handsome, dark-haired man in his thirties, was dressed in olive-green army fatigues. He looked up at the jeep and touched a hand to the peak of his cap in greeting.

  ‘That’s Luis,’ said Alex’s dad, raising a hand in return.

  ‘But – he’s young!’ exclaimed Alex.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Alex’s father, pretending to be hurt. ‘He’s young, but I’m old.’

  ‘I mean, he’s young to be a general.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought that too when I first met him. Once I got to know him, it didn’t seem so strange. He’s very good at what he does. He can stand back and make excellent tactical decisions, but his men would do anything for him because he faces the same dangers as them out in the field. He lives very modestly, too. This is his house – not exactly the house of a general, is it?’

  Alex looked out at the little house, then over to Luis Manteca. He had turned back to the men and was counting out dollar bills. The men shoved the money into their pockets and hurried off up the street.

  ‘You must be Alex,’ said General Manteca, coming over to the jeep and giving him a firm handshake through the open window. He spoke excellent English with a strong American accent.

  ‘Who were they?’ asked Alex’s dad, nodding after the men.

  ‘Informers,’ said the general. ‘My ears on the street.’

  ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘I’ll tell you over dinner,’ said the general, sprinting round to the other side of the jeep and yanking open the driver’s door. ‘Move over. I’m taking you both to my favourite eating place.’

  ‘Here we go,’ grinned Alex’s dad.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Alex. Then his head slammed back against the head-rest as the jeep accelerated away with a screech of tyres.

  The general drove like everyone else in Quito, using the brake as little as possible and keeping the heel of his hand ready on the horn. He also had an unnerving habit of taking his hand off the wheel to point out the sights of Quito for Alex. By the time the jeep swerved to a halt in front of a small restaurant with an outside terrace, Alex had the arm-rest next to him in a death grip and had to force himself to let go.

  The restaurant was as modest as the general’s house, but it was a friendly place and good, local food was its speciality. The general was well known there and they were given a good table at the front of the terrace. Alex sat back with a glass of chilled juice and watched the people of Quito flow past on the street below.

  ‘I wish I was coming with you to the Galapagos Islands,’ said the general. ‘It’s a magical place. The wildlife is spectacular.’

  Alex leaned forward eagerly. ‘Is it true you can swim with sea lions?’

  ‘I have done it myself,’ said the general. ‘And with penguins, too.’

  ‘Penguins?’ grinned Alex.

  ‘I was as close to them as we are now,’ smiled the general. ‘On land, there are iguana lizards and giant tortoises.’ He leaned towards Alex. ‘I could show you a beach, off the tourist route, where hundreds of green sea turtles come to lay their eggs in the moonlight.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Alex, caught up in the general’s enthusiasm. ‘Why don’t you come with us? You won’t be working over Christmas, will you?’

  The general leaned back and shared a look with Alex’s dad. ‘Unfortunately, I have something else to do. We are tracking a consignment of concentrated sulphuric acid. There are five drums of it on a truck which is driving south through Colombia right now. The truck should cross the border into Ecuador some time later tonight.’

  ‘Sulphuric acid?’ asked Alex. ‘Why is that so important?’

  ‘It’s a vital part of the cocaine production process,’ explained Alex’s dad. ‘This is the best break we’ve had so far. If we can successfully track this consignment of acid to the cocaine factory, then we will catch our drugs baron.’ He looked across at the general. ‘Sure you can spare me for a few days, Luis?’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do right now. We need to keep everything low key. If the drugs baron hears of a bunch of tough-looking gringos hanging around, he might get a little bit suspicious.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ The general pointed to the radio clipped to his belt. ‘I have two of my best men following this truck. If there are any problems, they will contact me. We will track the consignment to the factory, then keep the whole thing under surveillance until you get back.’

  ‘OK.’

  Alex sighed with relief. For a few seconds, he had thought their Galapagos holiday was under threat.

  ‘What about the street-kid connection?’ asked Alex’s dad. ‘Did your informers have anything?’

  The general shrugged. ‘Just the usual rumours.’

  ‘What rumours?’ asked Alex.

  ‘The word on the street is that the drugs baron is using street kids as mules,’ explained Alex’s dad. ‘A mule is someone who carries drugs to dealers and suppliers in other countries. We’ve heard he might be using young street kids to carry the cocaine because they’re less likely to arouse suspicion.’

  Alex thought about the little girl with the big, dark eyes who had been selling roses at the traffic lights. He nodded in understanding. Nobody would suspect a little girl like her of drug-smuggling. ‘But how does he get the street kids to carry the cocaine?’

  The general shrugged again. ‘The rumour is, the street kids think they’re going to visit some rich Americans who want to adopt them. They’re told they’re going to end up on a big estate with a huge house and lots of land.’ He shook his head and his brown eyes were suddenly full of sadness. ‘It’s every street kid’s dream. Many of them are orphans. They’d give anything to be part of a family again.’

  ‘So,’ said Alex’s dad, ‘when the adoption men come looking for them, the street kids are fighting to be picked.’

  ‘How do they get the drugs across the border?’ asked Alex.

  ‘We’re not sure,’ his father replied. ‘But it’s easy to imagine how it might happen. Off they go, carrying a beautifully wrapped “gift” for their new family.’

  ‘Only it’s cocaine inside the wrapping,’ guessed Alex.

  ‘That’s what I think. Of course, the kids don’t know what’s in the parcels.’

  ‘Yeah, but wouldn’t street kids just rip them open?’

  Alex’s dad shook his head. ‘The stakes are too high. They wouldn’t risk losing the chance to be part of a wealthy family. Once they’ve served their purpose, they just disappear.’

  ‘What happens to them?’ Alex asked, although he thought he knew the answer.

  ‘We think they are murdered,’ sighed the general. ‘When they don’t come back, it fuels the rumours amongst the street kids here that they’re living happily with their new, rich families, so the “adoption” men always have plenty of fresh volunteers.’

  ‘Is it worth trying to follow up the rumours?’ asked Alex’s dad.

  The general shook his head. ‘Street kids are usually very suspicious of adults, especially when the adult is wearing a uniform. We wouldn’t get anywhere near them. Besides, we can’t run around investigating every rumour. The streets are full of them. There’s a very persistent one about some guy called the Rat-catcher who goes round in a black car with mirrored windows, hunting for street kids to kill.’

  Alex stared at the general in shock. ‘Does that really happen?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say it does,’ said the general softly. ‘A number of people here think st
reet kids are little more than rats to be exterminated. But I don’t think all the killings are done by one man. They’re random killings, done by different groups. I don’t think the Rat-catcher really exists – except as a legend in the minds of the street kids.’

  ‘What if we offered a reward?’ asked Alex’s dad. ‘Would the street kids talk to us then?’

  The general laughed. ‘You’d have them queuing up round the block,’ he said. ‘And they’d all have a different story to tell you. No, if you want to spend some money on the street kids, make a donation to Sister Catherine’s House. That’s what I do.’

  ‘Who’s Sister Catherine?’ asked Alex.

  ‘She’s a nun who runs a home for street kids,’ explained the general. ‘She’s a marvel. Does it all on a shoestring. I admire her. So, I help out when I can, with donations. As for tracking down this drugs baron, I think tracking this consignment of acid is our best chance, not chasing street rumours.’ The general looked up and rubbed his hands together as huge plates of lamb stew and rice were brought to the table, along with bowls of sweetcorn and a stack of tortillas. ‘But enough of this serious talk! Let’s eat. And after that, I’ll take you on a grand tour of the Old Town!’

  Alex looked at the huge plateful of steaming food in front of him, then at the jeep, which was parked at a crazy angle with its rear-end sticking out into the road. He grinned ruefully at his dad and his dad grinned back.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ asked General Manteca.

  ‘I’m wondering whether I’m going to make it to the Galapagos Islands,’ said Alex.

  The general and Alex’s dad erupted into laughter and Alex joined in. He did not realize how true his words would prove to be.

  SIX

  The next morning Alex and his father loaded their luggage into the jeep. They were both travelling light, with one rucksack each. Everything else Alex needed was on his belt. There was a single-bladed knife in a leather sheath, and a pouch which held his passport, a tobacco tin and a small plastic case. The tobacco tin contained the survival kit his father had given him and which he carried with him everywhere. It had proved to be a life-saver earlier that year, when the five members of Alpha Force had been stranded on an Indonesian island. The small plastic case was his Christmas present to his father. It held a collection of beautifully crafted fishing flies, which it had taken Alex months to make.

  They set off on the first leg of their journey, towards the train station. They had only been on the road for a few minutes when the cellphone clipped to the car dashboard began to beep. Alex’s dad pressed the button which activated the speaker-phone facility.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s trouble,’ said a man’s deep voice over the speaker system.

  ‘Mike? What sort of trouble?’

  There was a pause. ‘We don’t have a secure line,’ said the voice.

  Alex’s dad cursed. He had left his radio at the base, thinking he would not be using it over Christmas.

  ‘You need to get over here. Now,’ continued the voice.

  ‘Where are you, Mike?’

  ‘On the route we drove the other day, remember?’

  ‘I remember. Any particular rendezvous point?’

  ‘You’ll know it when you get there,’ said the voice. With a click, the phone went dead.

  Alex’s dad cursed again, then swung the car round in a screeching turn and began to head north out of Quito. ‘Sorry, Alex,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to catch a later train. I need to check this out.’

  ‘What’s going on, Dad?’ asked Alex.

  ‘That was one of my men from the unit. The route he was talking about is the road between Quito and the Colombian border. My guess is there’s been some trouble with that consignment of sulphuric acid.’

  They saw the smoke when they were still kilometres away. A thick, greasy smudge of it wavered above the road ahead like a black marker flag. Alex’s dad put his foot down when he saw the smoke and the big jeep leaped forward, its spinning tyres sending up a cloud of dust.

  A few minutes later they arrived at a small truck stop in a remote spot at the side of the highway. It was nothing more than a square of concrete with a toilet hut – a place where tired lorry-drivers could park-up for a few hours of sleep. A temporary checkpoint had been hastily erected across the turn-off, and two Ecuadorian soldiers were guarding it. As soon as they recognized Alex’s father, they saluted and raised the barrier.

  Alex’s father drove through into the truck stop and parked the jeep in grim silence. The oily black smoke was coming from the burnt-out remains of a small truck. As the smoke drifted over the concrete square towards them, Alex caught a scent which was both acrid and sweet, like the smell of meat left too long on the barbecue.

  ‘There’s General Manteca,’ said Alex, pointing to a familiar figure in olive green. The general was standing beside two humped shapes lying side by side on the concrete. The shapes were covered over with army blankets and the general’s face was strained and grey as he stared down at them.

  ‘And there’s Mike,’ said Alex’s father, as a man built like an all-in wrestler emerged from the other side of the burnt-out truck. He opened his car door and stepped out onto the concrete square. Alex started to follow him.

  ‘No. You stay here, Alex,’ ordered his dad. ‘You don’t want to see this.’

  Alex sighed and slumped in his seat as his father hurried towards the big SAS man. They talked for a few minutes, then they both walked over to join General Manteca. The general crouched and folded back the two blankets. Alex sat up to get a better look. He was guessing that the blankets were covering the remains of the two men from the truck, but they were too far away for him to see anything.

  Nobody was looking his way, so Alex eased open the car door and slipped out onto the concrete. His father and the general were deep in conversation. Alex took a deep breath and walked quickly across to the burnt-out truck. As he got closer he could feel a wave of heat still coming from the remains of the truck. The concrete all around the vehicle was blackened and the bushes over on the edge of the square were badly scorched. It must have been an intense blaze.

  Alex glanced over at the three men once more, then stepped smartly behind the back of the truck. He eased his way along the far side, listening to the creaks and clicks as the twisted metal slowly cooled. The back of the truck had once been boxed in, but all the panels had burned away, leaving only an open metal framework behind the cab. Alex looked in through the framework and saw that the bed of the truck was empty. There was no sign of the five drums of acid the truck had been carrying.

  Alex reached the front of the cab and peered round the corner. His mouth went dry as he realized he had guessed right. He could see two men on the ground, half covered by the army blankets. They were both dressed in civilian clothes and they were both very dead. Alex had been expecting to see burned bodies, but these men had been shot at close range, one in the head and one in the chest. The bullets had done a great deal of damage going in and even more damage on the way out. Alex swallowed hard and just managed to keep his breakfast down.

  The general was talking in a flat, hopeless voice, very different to the strong, confident way he had talked about the operation the previous night. ‘We found their car a little way down the road,’ he said to Alex’s father. ‘They must have been parked up there, keeping an eye on the truck. They ran over here when they saw the flames – and somebody shot them down.’ The general’s shoulders slumped. ‘Two of my best men,’ he said. ‘They both have families.’

  Alex frowned as he watched his father put an arm around General Manteca’s shoulders. He had thought that the men under the blankets were the drivers from the truck. He had been wrong, they were General Manteca’s men. So where were the truck-drivers? Alex stepped up to the cab and peered in through the glassless window. At first he did not understand what he was seeing. The seats inside the cab were all burned away, leaving nothing but the metal frames and the springs. Balanced
on the springs were two large bundles of shiny black sticks. Alex leaned in for a closer look and the smell of barbecued meat hit him full in the face. His eyes widened and his hand came up to his mouth as he realized that the bundles of sticks were the remains of the truck-drivers.

  Alex felt his stomach clench as he stared at the curled-up stick figures. They were both hunched forward in their seats, clinging to the steering wheel. He could not understand it. Why had they stayed in the burning cab? Why had they not jumped out before the flames took them? He looked again at their claw-like hands and this time he saw the twisted wire which had been used to tie their wrists to the steering wheel. Alex lunged away from the truck and vomited into the bushes, then he made his shaky way back to the jeep.

  He was still shaking when his father and General Manteca walked over to the jeep together a few minutes later. They seemed to be arguing about something. His father gave him a cursory nod, then frowned and looked at his pale face more closely. ‘Are you all right, Alex?’

  Alex nodded. He did not tell his father what he had done. He felt vaguely ashamed of himself. He had been warned to stay put, but his curiosity had got the better of him. He had wanted to see what the dead bodies looked like and now he thought he would never be able to forget what he had seen. He shuddered. The person who had done that was truly evil – and his father was trying to track that person down. Suddenly, Alex felt very scared.

  ‘They were my men,’ the general insisted, hardly noticing Alex. ‘I want to go.’

  ‘Luis, I know how you feel,’ said Alex’s dad. ‘But think about it. The chances are this guy knows what you look like. And Guayaquil’s a coastal city – a jumping-off point for the Galapagos Islands. A bunch of gringo tourists aren’t going to be out of place there, are they?’

  ‘What’s happening, Dad?’ asked Alex.

  His dad took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. ‘One of Luis’s men was still alive when he got here.’

  ‘Barely alive,’ muttered the general grimly.

  ‘He died within minutes,’ continued Alex’s dad. ‘But before he died he managed to tell Luis that the men who hijacked the truck and took the drums of acid were from Guayaquil. He recognized their accents and the Guayaquil numberplate on the truck. It’s a good lead. There’s a strong possibility that this cocaine factory is in Guayaquil. It’s Ecuador’s biggest port. There’s a lot of stuff shipping in and out all the time. It makes sense for the drugs baron to have his base there. So . . .’