Page 333 of The Black Trilogy

“John claimed Audrey didn’t realise she was pregnant when they left Cartagena, and that she gave birth three months into the voyage. When Arthur first saw Charles, he was supposed to be two months old. But Arthur had kids himself, and he swore the baby was older than that.”

“Which would fit with Black having been born in Colombia.”

“Yes. Arthur said he didn’t question it too much because of how happy John and Audrey were. They’d been trying for a baby for years, and Audrey miscarried at least four times. Arthur said the stress of it almost tore them apart.”

“So, what? They stole a baby?”

“Stole it, bought it, came to some sort of arrangement with a surrogate. That’s what Arthur reckoned, especially as Black got older. He shared his father’s build and his mother’s colouring, but he didn’t look like either of them. Arthur kept his mouth shut because John and Audrey were his friends, and he could see Charles had a comfortable life. But now they’re all dead, I think he was just glad to tell someone about it.”

“If it’s true, it answers some questions. Maybe he and Carlos Ramos really were twins, and for whatever reason, the Blacks took one baby and left the other. That would make Hector Ramos his dad.” I shuddered. “What a horrible thought.”

“Yeah, it defies belief someone who’s spent his life fighting for good could have such a pig for a father.”

“And also that a father could kill his own son.”

Nate shrugged. “The whole family’s whacked though. There’s probably something in the water down there.”

“Or they believe in taste-testing their own products.”

“That too.”

I left Nate to travel back to Virginia and went to update Eduardo on the latest developments. He was as shocked as me at the news Hector Ramos might be Black’s father.

“How could the man kill his child? His flesh and blood? That is like me shooting Sebastien or Marco.”

“Well, clearly he’s wired up wrong.”

“I would rather put the gun in my own mouth.”

Seb walked in, snacking on an empanada. “What did I miss?”

I told the story for the second time, but even as Seb shook his head, incredulous, he had a proposition for me.

“I have just heard Diego will be a guest at a party tonight. It’s a fundraiser for a new drugs rehabilitation centre in the city. Would you like to go? I thought you might be interested to see him in person.”

I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t stop one snort escaping. “Hang on. You’re saying that you and Diego Ramos, representatives of two of the largest drug operations in the country, will be raising money to get people off drugs? For a moment there, I thought I misheard you.”

“Hey, don’t be so judgmental. Your politicians do exactly the same. They attend dinners and parties to raise money for victims of war, and then the next day they send more soldiers to create more wars. Besides, it is like your ‘keeping up with the Joneses.’ If one cartel attends, we all have to.”

“I still think it’s crackers.”

“Tell me about it.” Eduardo nodded his agreement. “I went to one of those dinners once, and I was seated opposite the head of the Medellin cartel. I had to be nice to him and his wife all evening. Then the next day we were involved in a shoot-out, twenty men on each side. I hit him in the arm.” He sighed. “Those were the days.”

“All right, I’ll go. We can’t get too close, though. He might recognise me.”

“I doubt it,” Seb said. “He thinks you’re dead, and even if he didn’t, the last place he’d expect to see you is on my arm.”

I knew it was all too easy to miss things if you weren’t looking for them. Seb was probably right.

Seb made the arrangements for the evening, and Floriana brought ten different dresses, all silver, all expensive.

“So you can choose your favourite,” she said.

I discounted anything tight and picked out a halterneck gown with a strappy back and a full skirt so I had somewhere to hide my gun. Priorities. Floriana did my hair and make-up too, heavier than I’d normally wear and I nearly choked on the hairspray, but it looked all right. And what do you know? There was a use for that tiara.

I’d been to fundraising dinners the world over, and the one in Colombia wasn’t any different. I plastered on a smile and balanced on my stilettos while Seb whispered “doctor,” “lawyer,” “drug dealer,” “drug dealer,” “politician,” “drug dealer” as we worked our way through the crowd. The bambuco band playing away in the corner looked as bored as I felt, but at least they were getting paid to be there. A waiter swept past, holding aloft a tray of champagne, and I stared longingly at it before taking another sip of my orange juice. Vitamin C made a poor substitute for alcohol on an evening like this.

Half an hour after we walked in, Seb nudged me and cut his eyes towards the door. “Diego.”

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