by PAUL BENNETT
‘We do a multitude of things. We’re an investment company with a finger in – how do you say it? – many pies.’
He smiled at me. It didn’t suit him. Came out all lop-sided. It was hard to get those underused muscles to work.
‘If you do anything to harass or harm Scout in any way, we will be back. Only next time we won’t hand in the gun.’
We made our way towards the door and stopped at the entrance. Bull looked me. ‘Time to say it,’ he said.
I nodded and faced Garanov.
‘Remember,’ I said, ‘we deal in lead, friend.’
‘So what did we accomplish there?’ Bull asked as he sipped his espresso.
We were in one of the brown cafés, the fourth we had tried so that the smell of skunk wouldn’t get to us – this one sold cannabis cake instead.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we had the first laugh since we got here.’
‘Gotta count for something,’ Bull said, nodding his head.
‘And we know that these Almas guys are up to something. We can check them out and it might give us a clue. Garanov didn’t strike me as the sort of guy who would pussy-foot around. We’ve shaken his tree so let’s see what lands on the ground.’
‘This is escalating, isn’t it?’ Bull said.
I nodded.
‘Do you get the feeling we might be outgunned?’ he said.
I nodded again, knowing what was coming.
‘What happens to the money if we call in reinforcements?’ he asked.
‘Michael gets his operation and we all split the rest.’
‘That seems unfair,’ he said.
‘We stick together and look after our own. That was the philosophy that kept us alive in Bosnia, Serbia, Angola and all points north, south, east and west. We’re not going to change it now.’
It was his turn to nod, only he did it with sadness in his eyes.
‘I’ll make the arrangements,’ I said.
13
While I went to an internet café, Bull and Scout were off finding a place where all of us, current and future, could hit the mattresses. I ordered a double shot of espresso, logged on and entered the bible of the mercenary, the Soldier of Fortune website. From there it was through to the bulletin board and posting the coded message that we had agreed upon when we left Africa. Now it was down to when the three of them would get round to checking the bulletin board and noticing the message. After that I could make the necessary arrangements to wire them funds if they were needed. I hoped it wouldn’t be long. I had a feeling that the search for Carlo was spiralling out of control and, the worst thing was, I felt naked and exposed without a gun in my hand.
I finished the coffee, ate the little gingery biscuit that came with it, letting it dissolve on my tongue to make the pleasurable taste last longer, and leaned back in the chair, staring at the screen. Would they respond? Would they then come? How had the years affected them? Had they grown soft? Lost that survival instinct? It didn’t bear thinking about.
I hunched back over the keyboard and emailed my editor at the Wall Street Journal and made grovelling excuses why there wouldn’t be a ‘Hot Tips’ column this week and maybe the next too. I told him I was working on a big story and the result would be worth it in the end. I hoped Lady Luck would be on my side and I could deliver on my promises.
It took me three attempts to get a cab, drivers not being interested for some reason. The third driver seemed to agree to take me with much reluctance. When we got to the address I saw why. The area was run down: blocks of flats where the concrete had long since been blackened by the everyday pollution, turn-of-the-century houses with neglected façades, communal rubbish bins spilling over, stinking and unsightly, the odd abandoned stripped and burnt-out car, a group of down-and-outs sitting on the floor drinking cheap booze. It was the side of Amsterdam the tourist board didn’t want you to see, but that existed in most major cities. I paid the driver, who heaved a sigh of relief.
The address we had was a three-storey house with peeling paint and roof in need of repair. While waiting for Scout and Bull I decided to circle the block and take a look at the back. There was an alley way leading to a small paved area and an entrance to each of the houses.
Arriving back at the front of the house, Scout’s Beetle turned into the street and pulled up alongside me. Bull prised himself out of the confines of the front passenger street and stretched. Scout got out with more style. Her blonde hair was swept back today and held in place by a large tortoiseshell clip. She was wearing denim jeans with a cutaway T-shirt which showed an inch of trim waist and on her feet were hi-top trainers.
‘We need to get on,’ she said. ‘Your meeting with my source in Silvers is set for one o’clock. He’s on a tight time schedule so you can’t afford to be late.’
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Bull.
‘There’s a quiet alley behind these houses. I’ll stay here and watch the front, you go round the back and kick the door in. Keep in touch via the cell phone.’
Bull nodded. Rang me, waited till I had answered and set off.
A minute later I heard his voice.
‘I’m in,’ he said. ‘All quiet so far. I’ll unlock the front door so we can search together.’
I heard the sliding of bolts and the turning of keys. Whoever lived here valued security and who could blame him considering the neighbourhood. Bull swung the door open.
‘Bet you wish you still had that Glock now,’ he said.
‘Whoever was here will be long gone by now. Once Bronski didn’t report in the alarms would have been going off. I’ll look around upstairs, if you’ll check down here with Scout.’
‘You don’t have to babysit me all the time,’ Scout said. ‘I’ve done karate, you know.’
‘No offence, Scout, but there’s a whole world of difference between the amateur – albeit a gifted one – and a professional. This is our realm we’re moving in now. It’s a place where we take the risks, not you.’
I started at the top and worked down. The rooms were largely bare, but some bore evidence of the house being used as a squat – paintings drawn on walls, some incense sticks on the floors, bare mattresses probably crawling with some form of verminous wildlife, the odd article of clothing and one shoe. The only point of interest was some bloodstains on the floor of one of the rooms on the first storey: they looked pretty fresh to me – bright red rather than dark brown.
We met in the kitchen. There was the remains of a meal on the big, wooden table. Like the blood it looked fresh.
‘Someone left in a hurry,’ Scout said.
‘There’s a cellar,’ Bull said, pointing to a panel in the floor. He heaved it up to reveal a set of stairs. ‘Let me borrow your lighter.’
I passed it to him and he flicked it on inside the top of the stairs.
‘There’s a pull cord.’ A light came on inside. ‘That’s better,’ he said, disappearing from view. A moment later, ‘You might want to see this.’
Scout started down and I followed close behind. The light wasn’t good – just a bare low-wattage bulb – but it was bright enough to make out the three chairs. Two chairs sat facing the third, but it was what was on the two chairs that set my mind racing: three sets of leather straps – one big enough to go round the chest and secure to a chair, the other two the size to bind hands and feet. And one large pad to act as a gag.
‘At least that’s good news,’ I said. ‘I think your father is still alive.’
‘How do you make that out,’ asked Scout.
‘Two people were supposed to be bound to the chairs, but there’s only one gag. They wanted one person to talk and the other to act as pressure. Here’s what I think was the plan. Bronski is supposed to kidnap you and bring you here. You’re bound to the chair and gagged. Your father is bound to the other and threatened with something nasty happening to you unless he talks. Is your father stubborn?’
‘Runs in the family,’ she said.
‘Let’s hope
he can hold out. Once he’s told them what they want to know, he’s of no further use.’
‘And what do they want,’ Scout said.
‘The same thing as us – the whereabouts of Carlo and the missing ten million euros.’
14
It was close to the time when we were due to meet the source inside Silvers, but first Scout wanted to change! We went back to the hotel that she and Bull had found. It was tucked into a narrow street behind the Waterlooplein station and close to the university and botanical gardens. The hotel only had six rooms and we had booked the lot: the proprietor must have thought that Christmas had come early. Each room was pretty rudimentary with not much more than a bed and a wardrobe with shared toilet and washing facilities on each of the three floors. Scout disappeared to her room while Bull and I walked around outside, circling the hotel and theorizing about from where any dangers might come. As long as we were all careful that we were not followed then we were safe enough – it wasn’t the sort of establishment or location where anyone would expect us to be.
A large woman with long lank hair appeared from the front door of the hotel. She was short and could have done with losing a lot of weight and resembled a hospital matron who had fallen on hard times. She was dressed in a voluminous dress in a grey colour that probably started out as white many years before and a grubby apron. She had on slippers and stockings which were baggy round the ankles. I didn’t fall in love at first sight.
‘Who pays the bill?’ she said.
‘That would be me.’
She produced a small notepad from the pocket of her apron and scribbled some figures.
‘You pay now,’ she said. ‘Advance. Next pay at the end of the week.’
I checked her scribble. She’d probably bumped up the price, sensing we were desperate – anyone who stayed here was probably desperate – but it would hardly make a dent in our expenses allowance. I counted out the cash and peeled off an extra hundred euros. ‘Clean up the place,’ I said. ‘New sheets, pillowcases and towels. OK?’
She nodded, put the cash in her apron and bustled off, probably already planning where she could get the best discount on linen or disinfectant – I hoped it was the latter.
Half an hour later Scout reappeared, although I had to do a double-take to recognize her. She had been through another transformation. Gone was the tomboy in jeans and trainers and in its place was a beautiful young woman. She was wearing a white, floaty, floral print skirt, which ended a couple inches above her knee, a close-fitting suede bomber jacket and dark brown knee-high cowboy boots with low heels. I tried not to stare.
We boarded the glass-topped boat, as arranged, at the Waterlooplein station. The three of us went to the back and Scout and I took up seats in the last row on the right. Bull sat in the row in front and got up and stretched every time it looked like someone was heading to take up the seats on the left at the back. Six and a half foot of toned muscle put them off, preserving our privacy.
The boat chugged along past the Portuguese synagogue and, after a few minutes, made the first of its scheduled stops by Anne Frank’s house. The three of us remained in our seats while the other passengers disembarked. When the gangway was clear Scout’s source boarded. He was tall and gangly, his limbs seeming uncoordinated, like a badly controlled puppet. I put his age at twenty-two or three, although his fresh faced appearance probably took a couple of years off. He was wearing steel-framed glasses which made him look more of a geek than he probably was, to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had on a regulation dark-blue business suit, white shirt and sober tie and carried a plastic bag on which was the logo of a sandwich shop.
Scout rose and met him halfway down the boat. She kissed him on both cheeks, lingering, I thought, a little longer than was necessary for pure politeness. The young lad blushed. Scout led him by the hand to the back of the boat and made the introductions, although I’m not sure that Bull or I registered. I could have been juggling flaming axes for all the notice he took of me – his doe-eyes were locked firmly on Scout.
His name was Arnie, which was as far away a likeness as you could get. From what Scout had told me he was a clerk at the bank, one of the back-room staff who saw a lot of what was going on and knew more than management assumed. He’d been there for three years. Joined straight from university with a first-class degree in economics.
‘Tell me what you know about Carlo?’ I asked, dragging him back from his dream world. ‘And don’t hold back to spare my feelings.’
Arnie looked at Bull and me and seemed nervous. A bead of perspiration ran down his forehead and settled on the end of his nose. Scout gave him an encouraging pat on his knee. He took a deep breath and let it out.
‘He’s not like what you would expect from someone who is running a bank,’ Arnie said.
‘In what way?’
‘He likes to get involved in his clients’ businesses. I’d assumed when I’d joined that he would be more distant – you know, taking more of an objective overview – but you can’t knock it, his approach seems to be paying off. His first two years were nothing out of the ordinary, but in his third year there was a big leap in profits and growth has been pretty spectacular since then.’
‘Any reason for that pattern?’ I asked.
‘Well, it was not until his third year that he made his first investment in Almas….’
‘Almas?’ I echoed. ‘Silvers has invested in Almas?’
‘We hold a thirty per cent stake in it.’
‘Tell me about Almas.’
‘Almas is a privately owned holding company not listed on any stock exchange and it has a range of subsidiaries, heavily diversified.’
‘Such as?’
‘They started out as diamond traders – that’s where the name comes from. Almas.’ He paused as if it should be obvious. ‘Almas is the Russian word for diamond. Then there’s—’
‘Whoa, whoa,’ I said. This was getting interesting, like in the Chinese curse – may you live in interesting times. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘So Almas is owned by Russians?’
‘Nothing unusual about that,’ Arnie said. ‘The Russians are the nouveau riche; they have more money than anybody else nowadays. Perhaps not the Chinese, I suppose. Or maybe the Arab sheiks, you know UAE and such. And maybe—’
‘OK, Arnie, I get the picture. So, apart from diamonds, what else is Almas into?’
‘They own a casino—’
‘Wouldn’t happen to be the El Dorado?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘Just a lucky guess. Go on.’
‘They have a distribution company – trucks shipping stuff all around Europe. Oh, and there’s a big private hospital south of the city near the airport.’
It didn’t make much sense to me. Usually there’s some logical link for ownership of various companies, some good reason to expect synergies between the different arms of a group, but this seemed too diversified, too unconnected – diamond trading, a casino, a hospital, no pattern was emerging. I decided to park the problem until I got a flash of inspiration.
Scout gave Arnie another pat on the knee – I wished she’d stop doing that.
Bull looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘I suppose there are a lot of Russians. It doesn’t have to be the same one.’
‘The same one as what?’ Scout asked.
‘We had a run in with a Russian in Angola,’ I said. ‘A little dispute over the ownership of some diamonds. We were lucky to get out alive. That’s why we decided it should be our last job – didn’t want to push our luck.’ I turned to Arnie. ‘Anything else you can find out about Almas would be useful.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch just as soon as I’ve got the file back from Ms Oakley.’
So we were following the same route, Ms Oakley and I. Didn’t necessarily mean that there was something fishy going on. Didn’t mean you could rule it out, either. Two trained bloodhounds following the same s
cent could just be coincidence, but deep inside I doubted it.
Arnie looked at his watch. The first passengers started to arrive back from their visit to Anne Frank’s house.
‘I need to go,’ he said.
‘Anything else you can tell us about Carlo? I asked.
He shook his head and then his eyebrows narrowed as a thought must have struck him.
‘I’ll run a check on his Silvers card, shall I?’
‘Carlo has a Silvers card?’
‘Of course. All the senior people have.’
‘Does Ms Oakley know about this?’
‘She hasn’t asked, no.’
‘Well, best not to mention it, Arnie. For once we have a chance of being ahead of the game, let’s not give away that advantage.’
‘I’ll be in touch then,’ Arnie said.
‘Thanks so much, Arnie,’ Scout said, kissing him on the cheek. He blushed. ‘Get back to us as soon as you can.’
He walked along the aisle of the boat, gave one last puppy-dog backward look at Scout and, still clutching his sandwich bag, got off.
Bull came and sat down next to Scout and me.
‘We could just give up and go home,’ he said. ‘No one would blame us. We were sold a pup.’
‘We took a contract,’ I said. ‘If we renege on a contract, then we have no honour. We can’t look ourselves in the eye when we’re shaving each day. We’ve started so we must finish, wherever that might end up.’
‘And there’s still my father to find,’ Scout said. ‘I can’t do that on my own.’
‘I knew it was a waste of breath,’ Bull said.
‘But you were right to question,’ I said.
‘Not difficult,’ he said. ‘That’s all we seem to have. Questions. When are we going to find answers?’