He swore beneath his breath. He had been told there was no need to worry. That entering Italy, landing at Venice, was a breeze. That at Christmas, it was a cinch. The airport would be crawling with tourists and the cops would be too well stuffed with lasagna and panettone to bother chasing mules with bellies full of coke. That's what he had been told. So on Christmas Day he'd caught the flight out of Bogotá, changed planes and passports in Paris and arrived in Venice on Boxing Day. When, supposedly, the cops would still be digesting.
The cop winked at his colleagues in the customs box and motioned with his chin towards the Colombian, just to jack up the tension in the mule's guts. They were all staring at him now. Despite his efforts to smother it, a spasm of fear flashed across his face. He was breaking into a sweat, just a fine film on his forehead and upper lip. Precisely what the cops expected of him.

The Colombian beat off an impulse to make a run for it and forced himself to stay calm. The only way out was through the security gates and onto the runways. He wouldn't make it a hundred metres before they snatched him. He took a deep breath. Then another. Hell, there was no way they could know he was a drugs runner; maybe all they wanted was to check his passport. The coke was well stashed. It had taken him the best part of an hour to swallow the pellets – he had made them good and tough so they would stand the cabin pressure. He didn't want them exploding mid-flight, killing him somewhere over the Atlantic, didn't want to go the same way as Christobal, that poor son of a bitch from the same Bogotá  barrio.

The baggage arrived and the passengers formed a neat line. The sniffer dog walked round a few suitcases looking bored. Nobody got stopped. No, it was him the cops were waiting for.

'Passport, please,' asked the one behind the glass.
The mule handed over a passport that had once belonged to a careless Spanish tourist. Until, that is, a couple of velvety-fingered Colombians had brushed up against him on a bus. The cop behind the glass glanced at the document then handed it to the one who had been staring at the mule all along. A smile of satisfaction crept across his face. Anyone could see the photo had been switched. This South-American-looking guy had aroused his suspicions from the start. You could smell he was a drugs mule a mile off. In the two years he had been working at Venice airport, he must have seen forty or fifty of them come through. For 2000 dollars, they set off, their guts stuffed with coke, convinced that all they had to do to pass as tourists was put on their only decent suit.
The cop signalled to the Colombian to follow, and led him into a room full of smoke and men in uniforms. They sat him down and surrounded him.
'That passport's a fake and you're a drugs runner,' the cop said in a mix of Italian and Spanish. 'Where are you keeping the coke? In your bags or your belly?' He poked at the mule with his index finger, aiming just above his navel.
The mule looked at the cops' faces and saw there was no way out. 'Aquí' he answered, pointing at his stomach.
'Colombian?'
'Sí'.
'Who were you delivering it to?'
The Colombian removed one of his shoes and tore off a strip of tape that had been holding a piece of paper folded in four under the heel.
The cop opened it out. 'Pensione Zodiaco, Via Bafile 117, Jesolo'.
Three of the cops then started yelling at the mule, demanding he tell them who he had been taking the drugs to. They wanted to squeeze the most out of the moment. The Colombian shrugged his shoulders and explained that there was a room booked in his name. He was supposed to go there, expel the pellets, and wait for the Italian he had met in Bogotá, the one who had recruited him. He had said his name was Antonio. He had never given his surname. He was about fifty, medium-height, a bit fat, with light brown hair.
A plain-clothes cop who had been in the background now snapped his fingers. 'Panierello, call Captain Annetta at the Guardia di Finanza and tell him I'm on my way over. Then see that this gentleman is escorted to the Jesolo Commissariat. I want him kept nice and close to where the meet's supposed to take place.' He moved in closer to the Colombian. 'What's your real name?'
'Guillermo Arías Cuevas,' the mule replied promptly.
'How old are you?'
'Twenty-eight.'
'Where are you from?'
'Bogotá.'
The cop gave him a playful tap on the cheek. 'Well done, kid. You didn't waste our time. The court will take that into consideration.'
Arías Cuevas stared at the cop and shook his head. The son of a bitch was insulting him. It wasn't to grease up to any court that he had decided to cooperate. And it sure as hell wasn't prison that scared him. It was La Tía, that pussy-eating aunt of his. She was going to be more than a little pissed off when she discovered he had taken off with 800 grams of her coke.

Translated from Italian by Christopher Woodall.

The Colombian Mule was published by Orion Books (London) in December 2003.