by Geoff Wolak
* * *
Guido Pepi sat back and read the report: ten ex-SAS troopers now in place in K2 and training the Swiss agents and guards, the facility decontaminated and now being decorated, the Swiss Government fully supporting Beesely. Rudenson, Graff and others, dealt with by K2, no track-back to him. And what they did to Rudenson … a chilling threat. His shook his head, looking up and at the Cardinal.
The cleric reported, ‘My contact in the American Government is meeting with Beesely next week, in the Bahamas.’
‘Excellent. I look forward to hearing what he has to say.’
The cleric smiled, an unusual move for the man. ‘They have their own concerns about K2, but for other reasons. They have not mentioned the files, or the list. And they are preparing a contingency for destroying K2.’
Pepi stood, closing the distance to the cleric with a concerned frown. ‘They are?’
The Cardinal bowed his head, affirming the idea.
‘I will need as much detail as you have. Eminence!’
With the cardinal gone a side door opened and a white-haired man stepped in. Speaking in German, the distinguished looking eighty-year-old said, ‘This suggested American attack is an opportunity, but also a great concern.’
Pepi agreed.
The new man added, ‘Any suggestion of them going for the files and we must act swiftly. Plans need to be in place before then. At no cost can the Americans have those files.’
2
Beesely raised a hand against the bright sunlight, squinting across to Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, Thomas by his side. Johno’s heavy footfalls could be heard, plus the odd ‘Piss off!’ to Palestinians selling posters of the famous view.
‘Seen our boy?’ Beesely asked without looking around.
Johno drew level, a plain-clothes Mossad guard and uniformed soldier hanging back. He glanced at a tour guide pointing out towards the golden dome, the man’s audience quietly attentive. ‘Yep. Took him some grapes, some Lucozade and a porn mag’,’ he joked, ruffling Thomas’s hair and peering down over the railings at the white marble graves.
Beesely turned and squinted a question at Johno.
‘Spoke to him in German and he seemed to perk right up. Then I said who I was and he got a bit misty, flew into a psychotic fit and they had to sedate him.’ He shrugged. ‘I think I stood on his foot by accident.’
‘And is he ... in good health?’
Johno took in the view of the old walled city across the valley. ‘Considering. He’ll live a long time yet.’
Beesely turned back to the view. ‘Otto still wearing his skull cap?’
‘No, took it off. Bit pissed off with Israelis,’ Johno answered, glancing at a group of attractive young lady soldiers in drab green uniforms, their M-16s slung across their chests. ‘Being a quarter Jewish doesn’t make you popular around here – certainly not with a Swiss-German accent it don’t. And when he told them he ran a Swiss bank...’
Beesely offered him a look of mock horror. ‘Anyway, they like me well enough.’ Johno faced him squarely. Beesely explained, ‘When Otto first turned up in the UK I had him donate ten million pounds – my money technically – to Jewish foundations.’
‘And?’
‘He was happy to do so. If he’d been Swiss, but lying about his Jewish heritage, then he would have choked on that bit. Then we gave Mossad fifty million and he didn’t flinch. So, are we all packed?’
Johno stopped Thomas from dropping his apple-core onto the graves below then put his hands in his pockets. ‘Yep. Where we off?’
‘Booked us a large villa in the Bahamas. You ... taking your young lady?’
‘Christ, no. You don’t take coal to Newcastle!’ Johno tipped his head. ‘We need a yacht, of course.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Beesely agreed with mock seriousness. ‘Couldn’t be head of a bank without a yacht. So, has a certain Internet model finally agreed to meet you?’
Johno was embarrassed. ‘How’d you know about that?’ He waved away a poster seller.
‘I’m a spymaster,’ Beesely pointed out, pride in his voice. ‘Well?’
‘Yeah, she said she would meet up.’
‘Thanks to me!’
Johno squinted at him. ‘What?’ he curtly demanded.
‘I spoke to her on your behalf.’
‘Why would she talk to you, wrinkly?’
‘You forget, young man, that I am a ‘Sir’, and the Yanks like nobility.’
Johno looked peeved. ‘C’mon, let’s go spend some money.’ They turned and stepped to the road. ‘Oh, by the way, found out who was tailing Max.’
‘Whom, pray tell?’
Johno lit up. ‘His ex-wife got some detectives on him, she wants more money.’
Beesely smiled. ‘Leave them alone, serves him right.’ He lifted his satellite phone. ‘Put me through to the British Alzheimer’s Association.’
Johno turned his head, a broad smile taking hold.
‘Hello? How may I help you?’ came a professional female voice.
‘Hello? Beesely repeated.
‘Hello, sir. How … can … we ... help … you?’
‘Why are you calling me?’ Beesely asked.
‘You rang us, sir. How can we help?’
‘I had a note to call you, but I can’t remember why.’
Johno laughed so loud that the receptionist cut the line. ‘Try this.’ He raised his own phone. ‘Put me through to the Australian Embassy, London, immigration enquiries.’ They waited. ‘I was hoping to emigrate to Australia, but I don’t have a criminal record. Is it still required?’
Beesely laughed, but Thomas was not following, the grown-ups trying to explain the jokes as they drove off.
