Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Well, he’s bloody strong,’ she replied, her South African accent coming through clearly. ‘You should have seen him lift you up the ladder with all your kit still on.’

  I hadn’t seen Petre lift me, but I had felt it. I’d felt the strength in his shoulders and arms and the sense of relief my route to safety was in his hands. ‘Tell him thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Tell him yourself.’ Catherine indicated over my shoulder. As I turned, Petre was now stood just behind me, his open hand extended.

  ‘My English is not good, Robert.’ He spoke slowly, the accent East European, I guessed. ‘I just wish to say thank you for save Marica.’

  I took the hand that was offered and, once again, I felt the strength of the grip.

  Later that evening, alone in the bar with a cold beer for company, I sat and thought about that handshake and the knowing look in Petre’s eyes. There was something in that gaze – a kinship, something that soldiers have, something I figured he also saw in me.

  I’d phoned Jenny as soon as I reached the hotel, simply wanting to hear her voice. I lied about the events of the day, though, and told her what a relaxing time I’d been having. It seemed the right thing to do. Marica was in hospital overnight for observation and Petre was at her side. Ryan and Catherine had kept me company for an hour before heading off to their digs.

  The hotel was quiet now, but I was too restless to sleep. I also doubted if I would be able to focus on the Chas Collins book.

  There was nothing for it. I ordered another beer.

  Chapter 17

  Sleep proved elusive that night; in the end, I threw off the bed covers in disgust and tried making a brew. Unfortunately, Egyptian tea didn’t quite cut it for me and the only milk available was UHT from a tiny plastic container. I took one sip and decided to head out for a walk.

  The hotel and dive school were only a short distance from the beach. Wearing just a T-shirt, shorts and sandals, I wandered across the sand and settled down on one of the loungers overlooking the sea.

  Although the beach was devoid of tourists, there were local people busying to and fro, preparing for the day. Beachfront restaurants were being cleaned, pavements swept and wagons unloaded. In the east, the sun was rising higher over Saudi Arabia, its rays turning the dusky Arabian sands to gold. Dawn was my favourite time of day and, for once, I was grateful for the effects of the insomnia.

  The break of day brought back memories. Half-light is a soldier’s friend. Before the invention of light-intensifying technology, most attacks would take place at dawn. Soldiers had long ago learned from animals – in the half-light it was harder to see the hunter coming.

  Which is probably how Petre managed to get so close to me. ‘You rise early, Mr Finlay,’ he said, in a quiet voice.

  I turned my body slightly to see the stocky bodyguard just feet away. He seemed to be sharing the view over the gentle surf. ‘You surprised me, Petre,’ I answered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he shrugged. ‘Perhaps not? Perhaps your skills are old, Mr Finlay, but you still have them.’

  I was curious. As Petre sat down on a lounger just to my left, I caught another glimpse of the Legion tattoo on his arm. He noticed my glance.

  ‘You recognise?’ he asked. ‘You also served Legion étrangère?’

  I looked at Petre’s suntanned face. I guessed him to be in his midthirties. His hair was cut very short, his eyes bright blue and alert. If he had been in the Legion in his early twenties then there was every chance he might be acquainted with men I knew. At that time a lot of soldiers had left the British Army following government cutbacks and restructuring. The Legion parachute unit had been a popular destination.

  Several of the lads from the SAS squadrons had made the move rather than face civvy street. The Legion was well known for accepting trained soldiers from other countries who were in need of a regular wage or were running away from some kind of problem. It saved a fortune in training costs.

  ‘Legio Patria Nostra’ was the motto of the 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment, which was almost certain to have been where Petre served.

  ‘Not me, Petre,’ I answered. ‘Short time British Army.’ I also smiled to myself, amused by how I had dropped into Brit-speak, the stilted English we often use when talking to foreigners.

  ‘I guess. You move like soldier.’

  ‘Your tattoo gave you away, Petre.’

  Petre glanced at his arm and laughed. ‘I was young man. We drink too much, do crazy things. Some stay with us always.’

  ‘How is Marica?’ I asked.

  Petre nodded. ‘She is good, hospital take good care of her. Bit of headache and bruise, but she will be fine. I wait with her through night. First thing she say this morning is to find you. She would like to see you.’

  ‘Are they keeping her in?’

  ‘Just for one day. Concussion and checks. I take you to see her, OK?’

  I had a mostly free day. After the near disaster on the boat, Catherine had asked me to join her at a debrief with the manager of the dive school. After what had happened, it wasn’t likely I’d be told I’d passed the advanced diving course, so I wondered if they were simply looking to cover their arses in case anyone should make a claim.

  To allow enough time, I suggested to Petre we meet outside the hotel at about ten. He agreed.

  After my visitor had headed off, I stayed at the beach for nearly an hour, enjoying the sea and the sky. It was still before seven when I started the walk back to the hotel.

  Word of my exploits had spread quickly amongst the East European guests. As I walked into the breakfast room, I was aware of faces turning to look at me. On previous mornings I had been ignored; just another lone, male diver. Today it was different; the two dozen men and women gathered around the self-service counter and at their tables all became quiet.

  It was pretty obvious I was the cause of the reaction, but I was unsure exactly why; were they friendly or hostile? I didn’t have to wait long to find out. As I continued walking towards the self-service area, two overweight men stood up from their seats and approached me. Both were in brightly coloured shirts, shorts and sandals.

  I was tense for a moment until I saw their broad smiles.

  Hands were extended. We shook; they both then hugged me and uttered words in a tongue I didn’t understand. I was able to work out the sentiment, though. More men came over to pat me on the back. There were more handshakes and then a woman who spoke English approached. She was a little older than Marica, but looked similar: slim with long black hair. Her blue dress looked to be silk and oozed wealth.

  ‘I am sorry if we surprise you, sir. My friends wish to say their thanks,’ she said.

  ‘You’re friends of Marica?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, friends. The men here, they work for her father in Romania. It is said that you saved her from death under the sea. Today, you are a hero.’

  I smiled, feeling more than a little embarrassed by the attention. But as the English-speaking woman talked, I also noticed the reverence in which she seemed to be held by the others. The men gave her space; the women remained seated or at the breakfast bar.

  ‘Not a hero. Just right place, right time, that’s all,’ I replied. I wasn’t quite sure how to extricate myself from this unexpected reception. In the event, my unease seemed to be noticed. My new friend said something to the men and they all started to return to their seats. One shook my hand again and several gave me a thumbs-up signal.

  ‘Please understand, Mr Finlay—’

  ‘You know my name?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Yes, of course. I hope that does not trouble you. We are always careful about who Marica mixes with. We asked the dive school about you before it was agreed for you and Marica to be together. As I was saying, please understand our thanks. Marica is a very special person – not just the daughter of our employer, but a girl we love with all our hearts.’

  ‘As you know my name, do you mind if I ask yours?’

  ‘Anca. I am Anca Cristea;
Marica is my sister-in-law.’

  We shook hands. For someone so slim, I was surprised at the strength in her grip. There was a short round of applause from the others. I did my best to acknowledge them before heading to the breakfast bar. I was hungry.

  I chose waffles with honey, loaded a second plate with eggs and bacon, and found a seat by a window overlooking the pool. It was only then I realised that Ryan, the safety diver, was sitting at a table near me.

  Ryan said nothing. As our eyes met, he just winked. I smiled and started my breakfast. We both knew my rescue of Marica had been a fluke. As a novice diver, I had no idea of the risks and had acted on instinct. Marica had been very lucky I had reached her. If Catherine hadn’t emptied the air from my buoyancy vest and put extra weight in it, I would never have worked out how to re-descend quickly enough. It was a team effort: Ryan helped Catherine, Catherine helped me and I helped Marica. Then Petre helped all of us.

  I took my time over breakfast and then went back to my room for a rest. The Collins book was by the side of the bed. I picked it up, found my place and within two pages felt my eyelids start to close.

  Chapter 18

  An hour and a half later, I stirred. Checking my watch, I confirmed I had enough time for a quick shower before I was to be picked up and taken to the hospital.

  I found Petre waiting outside the hotel in a chauffeured Mercedes. As I approached, the driver opened a rear door for me and I climbed in. Petre sat in the front with him. The soft leather seats were cool, the air conditioning quietly keeping the interior at a pleasant temperature. I had ditched the T-shirt and shorts in favour of a light-blue denim shirt and jeans.

  It was a comfortable ride to the hospital. The more I learned about my fellow Romanian hotel residents, the more I began to understand that not all East Europeans are poor. These people had money to spend. This was demonstrated when, fifteen minutes later, we approached what I quickly realised was no run-of-the-mill facility. The drive, gardens and exterior were beautifully cared for. It was clean, free of litter and had an air of peace and comfort about it.

  Our driver pulled up outside reception and, as I followed Petre in through the glass doors, I was struck by how much the hospital waiting area, with its ochre marble floor and sumptuous seating, resembled the lobby of a luxury hotel. Spacious, opulent and quiet, it had little in common with most of the hospitals back home. This was private medicine at its most luxurious.

  A uniformed porter led us to the second floor. As the lift was occupied, we opted for the ornate, spiral staircase. A short walk along a landing and we arrived at a solid-looking wooden door. Petre knocked.

  The door was opened and Anca appeared. Behind her I could see three more women sat around a bed, laughing and chatting.

  Marica was sitting up in bed and greeted me with a warm smile. Apart from a bandage around her head, she looked intact and healthy. I was invited to sit close to her. Over the next few minutes, I once again suffered the awkward plaudits of her friends who, despite their limited command of English, seemed determined to embarrass me.

  Marica explained that, as she was soon to be married, Anca was her chaperone while Petre provided protection. Petre worked for Marica’s father, who ran an import/export business near Bucharest. It seemed her father had heard what had happened and was keen I should be told how grateful he was.

  After about ten minutes chatting, Anca declared that her charge was beginning to tire and it was time she had some more rest. As I made to leave, Marica handed me a sealed envelope.

  ‘For you,’ she said.

  I opened it. Inside was a small, white card bearing embossed silver writing, in what I guessed was Romanian.

  Seeing my puzzled look, Marica explained. ‘It’s a wedding invitation. Please say you will come, Robert.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You have a wife, perhaps? She will come too?’

  Put on the spot, there was no way I could refuse. ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure she would love to.’

  ‘Please, everybody,’ Marica demanded, waving the others towards the door. ‘Leave Robert with me a moment, alone.’

  They obeyed without question, even Anca.

  Only once we were by ourselves and the door closed, did Marica speak again. ‘I will always be grateful to you, Robert.’

  ‘Right time, right place Marica. I did nothing anyone else wouldn’t have done in the circumstances.’

  ‘Possibly. But for me, it was you. You risked your life for me. I will always remember that kiss, Robert. I remember we were coming up near the boat, then the next thing I knew you were kissing me in the water. I was weak, it seemed a dream. Then I was on the boat and Petre was tending to my head wound. Only then did I learn what had happened. But … I remember that kiss … in the water.’

  ‘I had to get you breathing.’

  ‘I know, I know. But it was special. Promise me you will tell no one of that kiss … no one.’

  I made the promise. There was no need for anyone else to know. I guessed the fiancé might be the jealous kind, so I was happy to stay silent.

  ‘And now, let me sleep,’ she said, and took my hand.

  As I made to leave she smiled again. It was such a pretty smile. One that, many years previously, would have been enough to seduce me.

  I said goodbye to everyone and travelled alone back to the hotel. Petre had work to do and I had a meeting with the dive school to get to, a bill to pay for my tuition and a suitcase to pack.

  I also wondered how much a flight to Bucharest was going to set Jenny and me back.

  Chapter 19

  MI5 office, New Scotland Yard

  The paperwork on Toni’s desk was building up.

  In the aftermath of 9/11, all priorities had changed. Although the accepted remit of MI6 had been limited to foreign soil, while MI5 concentrated on domestic security, this was being transformed; overlap was now commonplace. For Toni and many other MI5 officers, the effect was a massive shift in focus from Irish terrorism to Al Q’aeda and the large number of suspected operatives and sympathisers who were now domiciled in the UK.

  So, in addition to the paperwork, she was spending one evening each week learning Arabic. All her fellow pupils were Secret Service officers. Their tutor was an Iraqi-born MI6 agent. Not surprisingly, the officers compared notes about their work. All reported frustrations at being unable to recruit agents and informants from within the Arab and Moslem communities. They all had heavy workloads and they were all feeling the strain. Many were talking of moving on to pastures new.

  Toni was one of them.

  One job had been causing her a particular headache. Someone in northern England was providing information to two French journalists who were writing a book that was, allegedly, going to include a chapter on an MI6 Gaddafi operation.

  That suspicion stemmed back to February the previous year, when The Sunday Times had published an article claiming MI6 had worked with Al Q’aeda on a plan to assassinate Colonel Gaddafi. It was an embarrassing revelation for MI6. It was thought that the French reporters were going to expose the fact British taxpayers’ money had been used to indirectly fund an organisation hell-bent on attacking Western interests; specifically, the group that had been behind the New York attacks on September 11th.

  The source of the Sunday Times article was known to be a Manchester-based Al Q’aeda operative called Al-Liby, who had been given political asylum in Britain. In May 2000, Al-Liby had gone underground following a raid on his home in which a ‘Manual for Jihad’ had been found. Finding Al-Liby and confirming if he was the journalists’ source was now Toni’s responsibility; that was if he was still in the UK. If not, she would be forced to pass the case to MI6. And that was something she would prefer not to do.

  It was a similar story with the Chad Collins book, Cyclone. Cristea Publishing – based in Romania, of all places – was a relatively new publishing house and was still something of a mystery. Toni knew it was making waves in the literary w
orld and had signed several wellknown authors. Intelligence Services had paid little heed – nobody had thought it worthy of a personal file; until Cyclone appeared on the shelves and the CIA saw what it contained. That had put the cat amongst the pigeons, and now finding Chas Collins was a priority. He was a ghost – an expert in remaining off the Security Service radar. As Toni saw it, anyone who could get close to the author and learn his sources was likely to see their career benefit.

  Now, with Robert Finlay due home from Egypt, she had learned enough to suggest the decision to send him there had been the right one. Even though the intelligence report that Chas Collins was going to be holidaying in Egypt had proved wrong, there was good news from the dive school: Finlay had saved Cristea Publishing’s owner’s daughter from drowning and had, as a result, been invited to her wedding in Romania. Toni now had a second – and probably better – chance to engineer a meeting between the author and Finlay.

  Babysitting the Finlay family had, at first, been an unwelcome addition to her growing workload, but she had grown to like them and now it had produced a most unlikely outcome. She allowed herself a smile at a good week’s work, despite the frustrations around finishing the Hastings report.

  Debriefing Finlay, however, would also provide an opportunity to secure answers to those frustrating questions – in particular, about the gap in his military file. It was a question that had prompted her to go through his army disciplinary record that very day. There was only one entry: an admonishment for inaccurate recording of expenses.

  Yet something still niggled her. It would be easy enough to finish the report and agree with the findings but, on her initial MI5 course, her instructor had impressed upon his students something that had become indelibly engraved on her brain: ‘Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.’

  It was a piece of advice she now followed. Until every question was answered to her satisfaction, the file would remain open.