by Derek Fee
Kane turned to Morweena. “You seem to be well acquainted with the great and the good in these parts.” He nodded at the assembled masses. “Why don’t you fill us in?” As soon as he had entered the restaurant, he had turned on his ‘villain detector’. However, his ability to smell out a villain had been totally overcome by the smell of money. Money hung off every shoulder and was wrapped around every wrist and finger. Money shone from the tans, fake or real, and sparkled from the shine on the designer shoes. It was a universal truth that most people who made ‘real’ money had little or no regard for the laws of either their own or anyone else’s land. They acted on another plane to the ordinary working stiff. They wheeled and dealed money and lives. Opening a factory or closing it without a thought for the social consequences. They paid taxes only when they were forced to and stole with a smile, a signature on a contract, or the soft tap on a key of a computer terminal. They were not like his usual prey and the tools he had developed to trap scumbag drug dealers operating from ghettos would not work in the rarefied atmosphere in which he now found himself.
“I’ll do better than that,” Morweena said and took his arm. “Okay. Let’s start with the tall blond man by the door…” She led him towards the large glass doors that separated the restaurant from the terrace. “His name is Harry Hakonen,” she whispered. “Number three in the championship last year. Harry is seventy per cent of Finland’s shipping industry.”
“Hello, Harry.” Morweena hugged the portly Finn. “You’ve added a little weight.”
“Morweena, dear, as always you look fabulous.” Hakonen’s English had a heavy Nordic flavour. His arms tightened around her. “I think you may have lost a few kilos.” He released his grip and laughed. “One of the highlights of the new season is the chance to see you again.”
“Thank you, Harry. I’d like you to meet our new driver Mark Kane.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mark.” Hakonen’s handshake was vice-like.
“Harry,” Kane held the handshake. Both men were feeling the pain when they broke off. One hell of a start. The Finn looked larger in person than he did in the photographs he’d seen at Europol.
“There are a lot of people in this room who envy you, Mark.” Harry beamed a smile at Morweena. “Most of us would die for the chance to spend a couple of hours alone in a confined space with such a wondrous woman.”
“Be careful, Harry,” Morweena said. “You’re making me blush.”
Hakonen reluctantly returned his gaze to Kane. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy racing as much as the rest of us.”
“That’s what everybody keeps telling me.” Kane stared at Hakonen and wondered whether he was the man he was seeking. There was no brand on the Finn’s forehead which said, ‘I am a drug-runner’ and there was nothing in his demeanour that would indicate that he ran with the criminal classes. Perhaps he used cocaine or ecstasy as a recreational drug but then so did thirty-five per cent of the great British public.
“I hear your boat could be a challenger this year?” Hakonen addressed the question to Morweena. Kane understood immediately that the number three in the World Championship obviously didn’t need the opinions of a novice. “Anything with the Penhalion name on it is to be treated with a great deal of respect.”
“Dad’s put a tremendous amount of work into the boat and our backers have thrown lots of money into the project. With a bit of luck, we’ll do fine.” She smiled at Kane and winked.
Hakonen looked beyond them. “My team manager looks lost.” He smiled. “I’d better go rescue him. Best of luck in the race, Mark.”
“Likewise, Harry.” Kane forced what he considered his most charming smile. So far it was all jolly hockey sticks, hope you race well, old boy, and see you for a bottle of champers as soon as the flag falls. This would be a damn sight more difficult than either Davenport or the Eurocops in The Hague could have guessed. He reminded himself that it was early days. There was a lot of sniffing to do. But the powerboat racing season was short.
“Harry’s dripping with money,” Morweena said. “Offshore racing’s his only passion. Or so he says.” She linked arms with Kane and steered him towards the door before nodding at a group of three Japanese speaking with a handsome European. “The tall one in the centre is Yukio Tadeka, the chairman of the Matima Investment Trust. This is the first full year for the Japanese on the circuit and Honda’s thrown their weight behind the Matima team. Tadeka took part in two races last season, no placings. The man they’re talking to is Angelo Tardelli, the playboy of the circuit. I understand he co-owns Sardinia with the Aga Khan.”
Kane and Morweena stood before the quartet.
“Mr Tadeka,” Morweena said rather formally, “I don’t know whether you remember me, Morweena Penhalion.”
“Once having met you, Miss Penhalion who could ever forget.” Tadeka took Morweena’s hand and kissed it, then he nodded at his colleagues. “My team members, Mr Watanabe and Mr Fukio. Of course, you know Angelo Tardelli.”
The two Japanese bowed.
Morweena returned the bows and smiled at the Sardinian.
That smile was Tardelli’s signal to throw his arms around her. “Morweena, cara mia,” Tardelli attempted to plant a kiss on her lips but had to be satisfied with the cheek which she presented him. “Twenty times already I have tried to invite you to my little villa on the Smerelda. And always you are refusing me. This year we will spend some time together. No?”
“Definitely not,” Morweena said, extricating herself from Tardelli’s clutches.
“Very delicately handled,” Tadeka said smiling.
Kane had expected an accent from the Japanese but Tadeka spoke English like a native-born American.
“I’ve had lots of experience in dealing with Angelo,” Morweena said and blushed. “May I introduce our new driver, Mark Kane.”
“Mr Kane, a pleasure.” Tadeka and Tardelli shook Kane’s hand while Watanabe and Fukio bowed.
Tadeka was tall for a Japanese. Kane estimated his height a little under six feet. He was also struck by the man’s features which were not completely Oriental. The hair was jet black but there was something about the face which indicated a degree of interracial ancestry in the not too distant past. Tardelli was slim, tall and obviously careful with his body. His face was covered with a short black stubble as though he’d forgotten to shave for several days. He looked the epitome of de Vries’ description – a playboy or perhaps somebody playing at being a playboy.
“It appears that you and I will be considered the novices of the championship this season,” Tadeka said, addressing Kane.
“That’s certainly true in my case, Mr Tadeka. But I understand that you’ve already been out a few times.”
“Call me Yukio please, Mark.” Tadeka smiled broadly. “Yes, I’ve raced several times but rather ignominiously, I’m afraid. This year, I have not only my own considerable cash resources invested in my boat but also some industrial assistance.”
Mr Watanabe bowed. He obviously represented the industrial assistance.
Kane stared at the gold chain hanging around Tardelli’s neck. The pendant consisted of a gold cross that had a spoon incorporated in the horizontal beam. The goldsmith had been clever and discreet. Friend Tardelli liked to snort cocaine.
Tardelli followed the direction of Kane’s stare. “To get to heaven it is sometimes necessary to have a little help, no?”
“Amen to that,” Kane said. “I have been known to seek a little bit of heaven myself.” Signor Tardelli didn’t know it but he had been promoted to the top of the suspect list in the Bell murder.
Tadeka shuffled uncomfortably.
Morweena turned her attention to the embarrassed Japanese, a dazzling smile playing on her face. “We’re looking forward to racing against you, Yukio. I’m sorry, we really should mingle.” She took Kane by the arm and led him away.
“What the hell was that all about?” she said as soon as they were out of hearing of Tadeka’s group. “Why do you have t
o be so downright embarrassing?”
“Part of the old Kane charm, I’m afraid. Never fails when I’m introduced into polite society. Interesting guy Tardelli. Is there drug use among the circus?”
“Not that I heard of.”
“You noticed Tardelli’s cross had a small spoon incorporated into it.”
“I did.”
“Ever done drugs?”
“Of course, some weed and a few lines of coke. But it wasn’t my thing. I’ve seen what drugs have done to people I thought I loved so I vowed never to be part of that scene. What about you?”
“Army life is either all-out action or utter boredom. Drugs offer relief for both. I used uppers but nothing that would interfere with my performance. I’ve been clean since I demobbed.”
“The offshore racing crowd work hard and play hard and they mind their own business.” She continued to steer him away from Tardelli. “Especially where their private lives are concerned. I’d advise you to keep that in mind.”
“I’ll bet they do.” He hadn’t missed the way the conversation had been steered away from drugs. Neither had he missed the ‘mind your own business’ sign. Perhaps there was more to Miss Penhalion than met the eye.
Kane examined each face as Morweena continued her passage around the personalities on the balcony. He recognised several of the faces he had seen on the screen in Europol’s office. Given the crowd in the room, de Vries would have to run his computers overtime to dig up all the information they’d need.
“The sport is only in its infancy,” Morweena explained as they moved around the room. “Right now, it only attracts thrill seekers with money. Once they’ve made a bundle, a lot of the excitement goes out of life and they get bored. They try paragliding or they take up some other sport with a bit of danger in it. The ones who can burn up millions of pounds without worrying about it and who want a genuine thrill graduate to powerboats. As the sport develops, it’ll eventually be handed over to the professionals just like Formula One motor racing. When, and if, the big-time sponsors arrive, the day of the gifted and rich amateur will have passed. The competition is getting fiercer every year and while these guys appreciate the danger involved, they really don’t want to die. You probably don’t believe it but Dad’s the first designer who’s approaching the sport in a professional manner. It’s not a question of high speed but high speed combined with high stability.”
Kane recognised Georges Lemay. “Who’s the Latin type who treats the champagne like water?”
Morweena followed Kane’s glance. “That’s Georges Lemay, somebody you don’t want to meet personally. One-time motor racing driver and the sign of things to come in this sport. Couldn’t make it on the track so he’s trying his luck in powerboat racing with the Gitanes team. Word has it that if he doesn’t produce the goods this season then he’s finished.”
Kane watched as Lemay snatched another glass of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter. A gold Rolex was visible on his wrist. Kane’s villain antennae twitched but you could never say that someone who looks like a villain is a villain. Ted Bundy was a good-looking wholesome American boy who got his rocks off killing young women. Some of the drug dealers he’d met had looked like investment bankers. But every now and then you spot someone with a look that says, I hate everything in this world and I’d like to do something about it. Lemay had that look.
“The tall thin fellow beyond Lemay is Enrico Di Mena,” Morweena continued.
The man Morweena pointed out stood imperiously in the centre of the room ignoring most of the other guests. A stunning brunette posed by his side.
“He’s the eldest son of one of Italy’s largest clothing manufacturers. Enrico is the one driver you don’t have to worry about. He treats the races like a pleasure cruise. Twenty starts and he’s never finished in the frame. He just likes being part of the scene.” She looked to her left and suddenly her head whipped back. Her face darkened.
Kane followed her gaze. She didn’t look half so attractive when she scowled. He recognised the man who had caused the reaction. It was Graham Barrett. He sensed that there was a bit of history there.
“Who’s the blond guy over there by the balcony?” he asked.
“Where?” Morweena refused to follow his glance.
He held her shoulders and pointed her in the direction where Barrett stood nonchalantly sipping champagne and talking to a man dressed in an Arab dishdasha.
“That’s Graham Barrett,” Morweena said, turning slowly away from the direction in which Kane had faced her.
He could feel her shoulders tremble where he held them. There’s some history there, he decided. And history of the unpleasant kind. He stared at Barrett. He was better looking than the photograph in Europol’s dossier. His thin face was tanned and his blond hair was curly and worn fashionably long, reaching his shoulders. He could easily have posed as the quintessential English hero for some Victorian Boy’s Own paper or possibly the cover of a Mills and Boon romance novel. Kane was reminded of the engravings in the books he’d borrowed from the library showing a British officer standing atop a mound of Indian sepoys brandishing a fearsome sabre. At that moment, Barrett noticed Morweena and a smile played across his thin lips. He leaned close to his companion and said something into his ear before pulling him in their direction.
“Morweena, darling,” Barrett said approaching quickly. “How marvellous to see you. I’ve telephoned on and off over the last few months but you haven’t returned my calls.” He tried to put his arms around her but she slipped away from him.
“Oh, come now, Morweena,” he said. “We can clear up this misunderstanding.”
“There is no misunderstanding,” Morweena said quickly. “This is Mark Kane the driver of Dad’s new boat.”
Barrett ignored the introduction. He grabbed her elbow with his free hand. “Now see here, Morweena. You’re being bloody silly about this. Some of your things are still at the flat in London. Why don’t we talk things out? I’m sure we can get back on an even keel.”
Kane and the Arab took the role of spectators.
“Never,” Morweena hissed the word out. “And I would be grateful if you would remove your hand from my elbow before I’m forced to kick you in the balls and cause a scene.”
“Not until we’ve sorted things out,” Barrett said.
“Consider them sorted out.” Kane griped Barrett’s thumb and pulled it back sharply.
Morweena slipped out of his grip.
Barrett turned around, seemingly noticing Kane for the first time. “Why don’t you mind your own business, pal.”
“You’re the second person who’s said that to me this evening.” He was on the point of breaking Barrett’s thumb and the pain was evident in his eyes. “Why don’t you be a good boy and apologise to the lady. Also, I’m not your pal and my teammate is my business.” He bent Barrett’s thumb a little further. “Take my advice and haul your arse back to the balcony where you came from and continue your conversation with this gentleman.”
“And if I don’t?” Barrett’s thin lips were pulled back in anger.
Kane gave one last twist to his thumb before releasing it. He picked an empty glass from the tray of a passing waiter. “Then I’ll take this champagne glass and make you eat it.” He smiled at the thought. He didn’t have a degree in psychology but years of dealing with bullies had taught him how to read his men. Graham Barrett wouldn’t be back for a second helping. At least not until the pain in his thumb subsided.
“Isn’t this a bit undignified?” The speaker was the Arab who had been accompanying Barrett. The man spoke with a distinct British accent. He placed a restraining hand on his companion. “We are beginning to draw attention to ourselves and I’m sure nobody wants that.” He turned to Morweena. “Miss Penhalion a pleasure to see you again.”
“Thank you, Sheikh Safardi,” Morweena said taking a deep breath. “I’m glad there’s at least one cool head present. Now, if you don’t mind, Mark and I will leave y
ou.” She turned and walked away, closely followed by Kane.
“I’ll have that bastard,” Barrett said loud enough for the departing couple to hear.
“You and Barrett must have been pretty close at one time,” Kane said when he caught up with Morweena.
“Possibly my biggest mistake with men.” She took a glass of champagne from the tray proffered by a waiter and downed it in one gulp. Then she took a second.
“That bad, eh?” Kane said.
“The worst,” she said sipping at the second glass. Her face was burning. “I wish you’d broken the bastard’s thumb. And maybe something else a little more vital. I must have been crazy to have fallen for that pig. Everybody advised me against it but that probably only pushed me more strongly in his direction.” She tossed her head back. “It’s over now. I made a mistake but luckily enough I was able to get out of it.”
“Want to talk about it?” he asked.
Her eyebrows shot upwards and she smiled. “Don’t take this the wrong way but you don’t exactly strike me as the listening and sensitive type. And even if you were, I wouldn’t try a session of girl talk with you if you were the last man on earth. Let’s say that I haven’t exactly been lucky in the man department and that with Graham Barrett I hit the bottom of the barrel.”
“Ow, but he must have hurt.”
The smile vanished from her face. “Too damn right it hurt but not in the way you think. Take it from me, no woman needs a Graham Barrett in their life. The subject of Barrett is closed.”
“Who was the Arab?” Kane said changing the subject.
“Sheikh Safardi, he’s one of Barrett’s many backers. Graham can get blood from a stone as far as money is concerned. Safardi seems to get a kick out of sponsoring him.”
Kane glanced at the balcony and saw that both Barrett and Safardi were still staring at him and Morweena. When he turned back, he saw that the crowd was parting before him, much as the Red Sea had parted before Moses.
“And this is the star of the show,” Morweena said, a smile breaking out on her face.
