by Mel Stein
‘Patti, where have you been? Is everything all right?’
‘Of course. I got your desperate messages. I phoned you back at Luis’, but he said you’d gone off to Brazil on a jaunt. Are you looking for the boys or the girls? If it’s the former beware of Nazis, if the latter look out for AIDS.’
He didn’t get her literary allusion, but he immediately protested her suggestion about any women and related to her exactly what Luis had told him and what he had discovered so far.
‘You should have said you were a journalist. That often gets you past the front door because they’re either curious about what you know or else can’t resist the thought of seeing their names in print.’
‘Perhaps I’ll disguise my voice and try that tomorrow, although I think he must have had a good look at me with the video camera. Anyway, what have you been up to that’s kept you out to all hours?’
‘Maybe I’ve been shagging other men,’ she said teasingly. A few months earlier he might have thought that she was finding a light way to tell him the truth, but now he was certain she was teasing, and in an odd way that gave him a warm glow deep inside.
‘Any complaints from the customers?’ he asked.
‘None at all. They all sent you their regards and said you were a lucky bloke to have me whenever you wanted. Listen, Mark, we have to be serious for a moment. I went to see my friend, Jessica Brown, you know the girl who does have AIDS. I just thought she’d like to know that I hadn’t forgotten her, that I had done something towards writing her story, even though I’d managed to get myself arrested in the process.’
‘What did she say to that?’ Mark asked, uncaring about the length of the call or the doubtless astronomic cost.
‘She laughed, Mark. And I laughed along with her. I don’t think anything or anybody had made her laugh for a long while.’
‘Did she have anything new to tell you?’
‘Sort of. I’m not sure if it was helpful, but I suppose everything’s relevant. She said that at the clubs where the drugs were being pushed, there were often footballers. She seemed to think that there were more than one or two of them hooked. Maybe Barry isn’t telling you the truth.’
‘I think he is, Patti.’
‘Yeah, but you’re a lousy judge of character. You liked Barlucci. You even liked your wife.’
‘I did.’
‘Well, this probably isn’t the time or place. The other thing I’ve been doing has been for you.’
‘Oh yes. What’s that, hiring me a morning suit for the wedding?’
‘More practical. Making sure you’re in one piece in case there is a wedding. Nathan Carr has a bit of a reputation you know. Everybody I speak to says that you have to be careful of him. So I’ve done a little bit of investigation.’
‘Great. You don’t even begin to investigate Branco and you get thrown in jail. Who knows what Carr might do if he finds out.’
‘There’s no way he can find out. I started at Company’s House. It’s amazing what you can discover simply from what the records of a company don’t say.’
‘And what didn’t Jet’s records say?’ Mark asked.
‘They don’t say who owns the company.’
‘I thought that was Nathan and Alissa.’
‘Ooh, so it’s Nathan and Alissa now rather than Carr and Bland. Don’t go soft on this job, Mark. I really believe you’re dealing with hard people.’
‘You warned me against going in with Mo and he turned out to be a good guy.’
‘Everything’s relative. Anyway about Jet. Your Nathan and little Alissa only own a half of the shares in the company.’
‘So who owns the rest?’ Mark said, now hooked on the line that Patti had cast into the waters.
‘That I don’t yet know, but I’m working on it. They’re registered to an off-shore trust. But we’ve come across those before and if you know the right people and strike lucky you can sometimes get behind the smokescreen.’
Sometimes you can get burned as well, Mark thought, but he said nothing. He couldn’t see any connection between one of his current employers and his immediate problems, but if it was keeping Patti busy and out of trouble then he was happy for her to continue her investigations. He was sure that by the time she discovered whatever pay-dirt she was digging for, he would be long gone from the organisation.
‘When are you coming home?’ she asked in a gentle tone.
‘As soon as I can. Believe me, I’ve had my fill of South America.’
‘I believe you.’
She blew him a kiss down the line and she was gone. He picked up the phone and called Luis to tell him he’d be staying. The Colombian sounded surprised to hear from him.
‘I thought you could not bear to be away from your lady for a day longer than was necessary?’
‘That was before I saw your doctor’s new house. You were absolutely right about him, I’m sure. All I have to do is find a way to get him to speak to me.’
‘Brute force is not a bad idea. I can arrange that through some friends if you like.’
‘I don’t like. He’s probably got his own garrison in the place if the security outside was anything to go by. If I try to fight fire with fire then I could set off a whole range war. I’ll keep you posted.’
As soon as he cut off from Luis he realised that he’d not given him the number at the hotel, but then he wasn’t expecting any calls so it hardly mattered and certainly didn’t justify another call. Now he did glance at his watch. His stomach was empty which was hardly surprising. It was gone eight in the evening. There had been no breakfast on the plane and all he’d had all day was a coffee and a stale roll that José had insisted they buy at a wayside stall which probably belonged to another of José’s friends or relations. He didn’t know quite where the day had gone, but he was determined to end it with a meal. He wandered downstairs and noticed that there was a small café next door, which could be entered from a side door leading from the hotel’s reception.
The place was largely deserted. One elderly man was seated alone at a table, an empty plate by his side, a coffee cup in front of him. A waiter looked up as he came in, a look of mild annoyance crossing his face as the promise of an early night disappeared with the new trade. The man behind the bar must have been the proprietor because his reaction was the total opposite to his employee.
He indicated to Mark that he could choose whatever table he desired and signalled the waiter over. The menu was entirely in Portuguese but Mark recognised the odd familiar word and ordered what he thought was a hamburger with chips. The waiter poured him a glass of water and Mark mimed a request for a bottle. The owner obligingly brought over a beer and Mark left it on the table for a while, wondering whether he could risk just the one or whether it might lead to another and yet another. Eventually he took it over to the bar and pointed to a bottle of carbonated water. The barman shrugged as if to indicate that he could not understand how anybody could prefer water to beer, but made the exchange in any event.
The television was on in a corner and Mark’s attention was caught by an announcer’s anguished tones. There was a picture of a plane crash on the screen followed by live pictures from the local airport, with a woman in hysterics. Mark had a horrible premonition. He hadn’t yet discovered whether or not anybody in the establishment spoke English, but he tried a question anyway.
‘The plane. Where was it going to?’
It was the old man who answered, his voice husky and guttural, the accent more mid-European than South American.
‘Bogota. It was going to Bogota,’ and Mark did not need to ask what time it had taken off or if everybody on board had been killed. He knew that already and he was left to wonder whether any innocent passenger had filled his empty seat.
CHAPTER 44
He could not sleep. He had found it impossible to eat after he had seen the news of the crash and if he had found a way to contact José he would have had him drive him back to Guerra’s home there and then, despite the
lateness of the hour. He had watched the television in his room, found CNN and everything he had feared was confirmed. The plane had taken off on time out of Rio and some twenty minutes into the flight people on the ground reported seeing it turn into a ball of fire. A bomb was suspected and all fifty-nine passengers had died instantly. Fifty-nine. It was an odd number so maybe nobody had taken his seat after all. The police were scanning the passenger list carefully to see whether there was a motive for killing anybody on board. Well, they wouldn’t find his name, but they might discover that he’d cancelled his ticket. If they did, would they want to speak to him to discover the reason why? He had a nasty feeling that they would.
Eventually he nodded off in the chair and awoke at four in the morning stiff and aching, his stomach growling with hunger. The hotel did not run to a minibar and a search of his pockets produced only a half packet of Polos. They were better than nothing and he chewed them one after another. He had arranged for José to collect him at eight in the morning and he hoped that breakfast was served before then. The hours he had to wait dragged by. He was tired of the television news, he had brought nothing with him to read and a call to Patti to tell her he was not a victim of the disaster only brought forth her answerphone. He thought of phoning his daughter, Emma, but she would have had no idea that he’d been booked on to the flight and there was little purpose in shocking her after the event.
In desperation he turned to the Bible. It had been a long time since he’d opened the pages, but now he found himself hooked on the story of the Creation, the Fall, the Flood, Abraham’s Sacrifice of Isaac, Moses and the Flight from Egypt, all Old Testament tales which formed the basis of the religion of the race to which Patti belonged, for better or worse, the inheritance passed down to her by her mother. He wished he could have some faith. During the dark days of his drinking there had been nothing for him to turn to and now that he had come so close to death there was nobody for him to thank. He could only read these stories of long ago as fables, and think that it was fate that had forced him to turn back, rather than some careless divinity dealing cards of life or death at random.
It was the phone which woke him after he had nodded off again, the Bible falling from his lap to the floor. José had arrived half an hour early, presumably in case Mark had any idea of dispensing with his services. Mark showered quickly, rubbed the stubble on his cheek and chin and wondered if it was worthwhile trying to buy a razor and some shaving foam to make himself look less threatening for his proposed visit. He decided that a threatening appearance might even be more effective, gathered his few possessions together and went downstairs to meet his driver.
José, at least, seemed pleased to see him, and was not in the least put out when Mark insisted on going into the café for a coffee and whatever he could find to eat. To his surprise they had some fresh croissants and he ordered four, offered one to José and devoured the other three himself, feeling the acidity subside as the food hit the lining of his stomach. He bought a bottle of water to take with him and climbed into the car which, if at all possible, seemed even more decrepit than the day before. The traffic was against them all the way and if he had been in a regular cab with a meter he would have had to mortgage his flat to pay for the ride. He looked at his watch obviously and José simply shrugged his shoulders to indicate there was nothing to do about the Rio de Janeiro rush-hour but to sit back and tolerate it even if one could hardly enjoy it.
It was gone ten by the time they arrived at Guerra’s property. Mark told José to draw up the car and to wait until he could see some evidence of life beyond the gates. An hour passed, the sun rose higher in the sky and Mark half emptied the water and wished he’d bought two bottles. Then he got the break he was waiting for. A middle-aged man came out of the main building and began to walk around the garden, making notes as he went. He looked too well-dressed to be the gardener and Mark could only presume that the master of the house had a keen interest in horticulture. He began to work his way up the path, oblivious to the parked car. He was about twenty yards from the front gate when Mark called out to him.
‘Dr Guerra. I spoke to you yesterday. You have to listen to me today, you have to. Over fifty innocent people died yesterday. I don’t know if it was because of you or because of me, but either way we were involved and we have to talk.’
Guerra hesitated, then began to turn and walk back to the house.
‘For crying out loud,’ Mark yelled at the top of his voice, ‘you’re a doctor, you’re supposed to save lives, not take them.’
It came from the heart and it worked more effectively than anything he had planned to say throughout the long sleepless night and the endless journey out in the car. Guerra turned again to face him, saw the car parked with the lone driver and approached the gate.
He looked Mark up and down, wrestled with his conscience and then pressed a button. The gate swung slowly open.
‘You’d better come up to the house,’ Guerra said. ‘It is fortunate that I studied in Miami, otherwise your words would have been in vain. I will send one of my men out with a drink for your driver. It’s going to be a hot day.’
He led him into the cool of the hacienda. The packing cases scattered around suggested to Mark that he had only just moved in. They went into a huge lounge, the walls covered with Aztec designs, the floor strewn with brightly coloured woven rags. Guerra took a jug in his hand and poured two glasses of the liquid.
‘Lemonade,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Now you tell me about these people we are supposed to have killed.’
‘That plane that blew up last night. The flight to Bogota. I was booked on it. I changed my mind and decided to come back one more time to try to talk to you. I’m certain that the only reason all those innocent passengers died was because it would have covered up my own death. I don’t know if it’s something I’ve learned already or it’s something they thought you might tell me, but in any event it’s obviously something that they want to keep a deeply hidden secret.’
Guerra hesitated and walked over to the window, glass in hand.
‘You know, when you have some money, but not enough, and somebody offers you enough not to work again, then you truly believe that this money will buy you happiness.’
‘And does it?’
‘No. It only buys this house. You know I was waiting for someone to come along. I did not know who they would be. They might have been the police, or an investigator, or one of those who made it possible for me to be here, but instead it is you. Who are you, Mr Rossetti?’
‘Me? I’m just a played-out ex-footballer who thinks a promising young player got the rough end of the stick. I’m not the police and although I used to be an investigator I’m not really here in that role. I think I may be your conscience.’
‘And you think I have one?’
‘Now that I’ve met you, yes I think you do. Now, do you want all those people to have died for nothing, or will you tell me exactly what happened?’
Guerra scratched his neck and slapped his arm to kill an invisible insect.
‘Yes, I will tell you, but do not expect me to testify in court. I have not unpacked and I think it is best if I do not. I have nothing to keep me here. My wife died of cancer two years ago. We had no children. Once you know, once the burden is off me and on to you, then I will move on and you will not find me. Nor I hope will those who paid me. Are you ready, Mr Rossetti?’
Mark fumbled in his pocket for Luis’ tape recorder and switched it on without asking Guerra’s consent.
‘Yes, Doctor,’ he said, ‘I’m ready now.’
CHAPTER 45
He didn’t expect Patti to meet him at the airport, but he was pleased to see her all the same. She virtually threw herself into his arms as he came through customs, ignoring the three days’ growth of beard and the sweat-stained shirt.
‘When I got your message, when I thought just how close I’d been to losing you, then suddenly it seemed kind of urgent that I saw you as soon as
I could.’
Mark put his arm around her waist as she led him to her car in the short-stay car park and tossed his bag on to the back seat.
‘Where do you want me to take you, milord?’ Patti asked.
Mark wasn’t sure. He’d thought he’d had it all figured out on the plane, but then he’d not calculated on being met at the airport. What Guerra had told him had been dynamite and he was not sure if he wanted Patti to be with him when he lit the fuse. What he had decided was that he could no longer lead a double life. He could not understand what had possessed him in the first place to agree to do Mo’s dirty work. Perhaps it was because he had felt he was on the side of the angels and perhaps he was, but he did not really fancy being a part of any heavenly choir.
‘I tell you what, Pat, let’s go to see Mo first. That’ll be a nice gentle introduction to what I think could be a long, hard day. Do you happen to have your mobile so that I can make sure he’s there? I’ll charge mine up as we drive.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go home and change first?’
He shook his head as he waited for them to exit from the tunnel at Heathrow before making his call.
‘I just want to get on. You’ll understand.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what happened? I thought we had this thing of mutual exchange of information.’
‘Does that mean you’ve got something to tell me?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps,’ she replied, a mischievous smile appearing around her mouth. Before he could reply, she added, ‘Oh, and before I forget, Luis asked you to call him urgently. He called last night wanting to know where you were staying in Rio and I told him you were on your way back. He says not to worry about the time difference. It didn’t matter when you called, he just needed to speak to you.’
He had forgotten about Luis in his haste to get back home, yet now something ticked away in the back of his mind, but before he could forge the thought into something concrete, Patti was talking again. She seemed years younger, delighted and relieved to see him, the troubles of her arrest and the death of her mother dark moments in the past.
