by Steve Reeder
“Don’t be an ass, Simon. That would be the unbelievable part of the story.”
I shook my head at the idea and tried the phone again; same result as before. Then I thought about my mobile again; I could not remember having it with me at the time that someone had bashed me on the head, so there was actually a good chance one of the Rodber team members did have it. I dialled my number, only getting it wrong twice. The phone rang for a full minute before it was answered.
“Hello?” I didn’t recognize the voice at first. “Bud? Is that you?” I asked.
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Bud, it’s me: Simon.”
“Simon. What the hell, where have you been? Where are you now?”
“I’m at Gatwick, Bud. Any chance that you could come and get me?”
“Not me, my friend, I’ve still got plaster casts on both legs. Dave is here somewhere; I’ll send him right over. Don’t go anywhere.”
I assured him I would wait and we agreed on a meeting point.
“Where is everyone else, Bud? Why is no one answering the phone?”
“Err - let’s talk when you get here, Simon. Things are somewhat confused.”
Nearly an hour later Dave picked me up in a second-hand Audi 500se he had bought since I had last seen him. He was wearing running shorts and a polo shirt. Summer had arrived during my absence.
Dave negotiated our way back onto the motorway before asking the inevitable question.
“So. What the hell have you been up to, Boss?” he asked, looking a bit worried at my odd appearance.
I gave him the thirty-second version up to landing at Gatwick and asked him. “Where was everyone when I phoned? Bud sounded a bit strange on the phone?”
“At the funeral. We were just driving into the driveway when you phoned.”
“Funeral?”
So Dave gave me his thirty-second version.
“Josh dropped dead of a heart attack the day after you disappeared, and that Arab geezer’s been around causing trouble. Your girlfriend cried for three days straight when you vanished and Brett sent her back to Cape Town to her parents. The Donnington Park race was a disaster for us: two non-finishers. Marsha is trying to take control of Josh’s money and the team and, er, well, Bud married Tracy.” Wow.
I put the seat back and closed my eyes. “Anyone heard from either Hammil or Jethro?”
“No. Weird that, don’t you think?” he asked, his face creased with a dark frown.
“Not as weird as the truth about them, Dave, not as weird as the truth.”
“So?” he prompted me.
“Wait till we get back, I’ll tell everyone,” I said. “What happened at Donnington?”
“Oh, umm, Brett crashed on the third lap, unhurt, and Russell suffered an engine failure two laps from the end. He was doing OK till then though.”
“How well is OK?” I asked.
“He was running in eighth place at one time and was tenth when the bike gave out on him.”
The Rodber place was deserted apart from Bud who hobbled out on crutches to greet me. Over a whiskey, medicinal only, he filled me in on what had happened while I was missing, going over what Dave had already said but in more detail.
“So now we have this problem, Simon. This Arab fellow won’t leave Julia or Marsha alone till he gets this stuff he wants, like, but Josh hasn’t left anyone knowing where it is. Or even what it is.” He stared morosely into his glass. “He was at the funeral too. The Arab geezer I mean. Standing back but making sure we could see him, like. If I’d been fit I’d bashed his flipping head in for him. Mind you, he always turns up here with four or five heavies. Handy looking lads too.”
Dave nodded sagely. “Reinforcements. That’s what we need.”
Before he could expand on this, the Rodber women arrived back with Brett. With a cry of surprise and delight Julia flung herself into my arms, sobbing with relief at seeing me. I was moved. Tarryn hugged and kissed me with more enthusiasm than she should have, and then turned bright red. Marsha said hello indifferently and went upstairs.
Brett made everyone a cup of tea and I told the whole story of my disappearance again, leaving out the violent bits. Finally, I told them the truth about Hammil and Ali Hussein. There was a stunned silence.
“So what happened with the Immigration people, Simon?” Julia asked.
I shrugged. “The passport I was given in Algiers was authentic and they would not have any reason to question it. As for why they were so helpful at the embassy? Perhaps they didn’t want the hassle, or perhaps they knew more than were letting on – Oh, I don’t know! Right now I don’t care.”
“Wait a minute,” Brett said. “You mean this whole thing was a scam of some sort to get their hands on Josh’s patent or design thingy?”
“It would seem so. Yes.” I replied. “It’s a pity Josh isn’t here to tell us more about Hussein.”
“Why don’t we go back to that so-called embassy and have a word with them Arabs?” Dave said, thumping his huge right fist into the palm of his left hand.
“There’s a good chance they won’t even be there any more, Dave. And even if they were, they outnumber us, and calling in the authorities would be pointless. There is nothing that we can really tell them apart from the info about a motor vehicle accident some weeks ago when Josh was kidnapped. And there were uniformed men here then. I just don’t know whether they were real or not.” Everyone looked a little down in the mouth. I swallowed the rest of the whiskey and stood up. “Guys, I need some decent sleep so I’m going to bed. Perhaps we can sort this out tomorrow.” I was tempted to ask about the next race meeting, but with Bud back it was no longer my concern. I smothered myself in more skin cream, crawled into bed and slept till late the next morning.
I awoke slowly as if surfacing from a deep well. Gradually I became aware that there was someone else in the room with me but it took me several seconds to drag my eyelids open. And there was the most beautiful sight in the world. Michele lay next to me smiling at my confusion.
“Michele. Honey, how did you get here? I thought you had gone back to Cape Town?” I babbled as she laughingly wrapped herself around me.
“Oh, Simon.” She cried softly into my chest. “I did, but I made Brett promise to call me as soon as there was any news. He called me yesterday as soon as he saw you and I got the first flight back here to you. I just got in a few minutes ago.”
“Well that explains why you’re still dressed,” I said kissing, her with passionate abandon. “Let me help you out of those clothes.”
When we came down for a late breakfast, very late, it was after three o’clock, only Marsha was present. She watched as Michele fried eggs and bacon and muttered something about us not being needed here anymore. When we ignored her she flounced out saying she was going to talk to her lawyer.
It was hard to take Rodber’s widow seriously, but at the same time she did have a point. With Bud back in charge of the team, I didn’t have much excuse to hang around. I decided to tackle Julia on the subject that evening. I wasn’t keen to leave just yet. Michele aside, I didn’t want to leave the whole Ali Hussein business unfinished. I was rather looking forward to meeting Hammil and Brown again. And there were questions that needed to be asked such as: how did Jethro Jones fit into the picture and since Bud had recommended him, what was Bud’s role in the affair?
I wondered who was going to inherit the Rodber fortune. This was an important question for the team’s sake. If Marsha got control of the serious money then we could kiss the team goodbye. Julia, I felt would be keen to continue even if just for Brett’s sake.
The entire team, all twenty-six members, including the riders, gathered for breakfast the next morning. Congratulating me on my safe return, Greg jokingly suggested that I refrain from taking impromptu holidays to Algeria with insufficient sun cream. I still resembled a ripe tomato, and the skin had now started to peel too.
Onto more serious stuff, Julia announced that Rodber’s will h
ad been read and she and Tarryn had inherited not only the farm and everything on it but also the bulk of his money as well. Tarryn’s share would be held in trust by a board of trustees that included her favourite uncle. Julia announced that the team would continue as before with Bud as manager and me as assistant manager because Bud could not yet get around much. I accepted gratefully and Marsha stormed out only to reappear twenty minutes later and demand that Dave drive her to the station. She was going home and she didn’t invite Tarryn to go with her.
The meeting broke up leaving a mountain of work for the cook/cleaner to contend with. Russell was going to the gym with Brett, and the rest of the engineers and technicians wandered off to the workshops to get the bikes prepared for the trip north to Knockhill Raceway the following Tuesday.
Bud, Julia, Michele and I held our own meeting and I brought them up to date with everything that had happened.
“So where does that leave me, Simon?” Julia asked. “When this so-called Sultan comes back demanding this design drawing, what am I going to do?”
“Why don’t you just call the police Julia?” Michele asked.
“Actually,” I said, “I don’t think that would help much. Unless he does something illegal that we can actually catch him at, the police are not going to be interested.”
“Yeah, particularly after they think you told them a lot of bull at the embassy,” Bud said.
I agreed with him but couldn’t help wondering if Bud would welcome a closer inspection of his own actions. But hold on a minute, Bud was badly injured when Josh had been kidnapped. Surely he would not have risked being killed voluntarily? If only I could get Jones alone for a while. He could be the key to finding out what was really going on here. Or with Hammil. Or Brown.
“Julia, what if we offer the designs to Hussein at a good price? Let’s face it: you have no need of it, do you?” I looked around at the group. “Why not just take the money while it’s on offer? If it’s on offer?” I watched Bud’s face as I said this but could tell nothing from his expression.
Julia winced and replied, “The problem is, Simon; I have no idea where Dad has hidden it.” She looked close to tears. “We have no real idea what we’re looking for, do we?”
I had an idea, but kept it to myself for the moment. Tomorrow I would drive into London.
Chapter 21
“I think I’ve just remembered why I don’t usually drive into London at seven in the morning,” I said slipping the TVR into neutral. The traffic was at a standstill.
“I did warn you not to leave the back roads, especially for the M25,” Michele replied, squeezing my thigh affectionately. “I don’t understand why we had to leave so early anyway. We’re not doing anything else today, are we?”
“Well, actually we are.” I tooted the horn impatiently and received a glare of pure hate from the driver ahead of us via his rear-view mirror. “I have a surprise for you. One that I’m sure you’ll like.”
“Oh good. I like surprises. What is it?”
“Don’t be daft, girl, if I told you what it was it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
“It’s what you were whispering to Julia about before we left this morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Ah, good.” I said as the traffic began to move again.
“So if I call Julia on my mobile, she can tell me what the surprise is?”
“Nope. I swore her to secrecy,” I teased her, ducking right and passing three office-bound BMW drivers. “By the way, Julia had a surprise for me too. Rodber apparently wrote an addendum to his will after hearing that I had a hand in his rescue. He left me a sum of money.”
“Really. How much?”
“Fifty thousand Pounds.” I laughed. “It’ll certainly make living easier this year.”
“Wow. That’s really nice of Josh. It’s over half a million Rand.”
“That’s true, Michele, but I’ve no plans to return to South Africa,” I told her.
Michele grew quiet, biting her bottom lip. Now she knew that if she agreed to marry me she would be living here. At least she seemed to be thinking about it.
I had planned to approach the fake embassy through the park and get an idea of the situation there, but as we neared the spot I changed my mind. I would take the direct approach instead.
I parked in the street just up the road from the old mansion, and telling Michele to lock the doors behind me I walked up to the gates. The sign on the wall that had been partially obscured now read, “Islamic Studies Institute.” There was no-one at the gate, which was open. I crossed to the front door, which had a small sign, “Reception.” On entering, I was unsurprised to find that the foyer now had a front desk manned by two heavily bearded Muslim men.
“Good morning,” I said in a friendly sort of way. They both looked at me blankly.
“I would like to speak to Ali Hussein please.” I smiled politely.
They didn’t bother to consult each other. “There is no one here by that name.” He didn’t even sound sorry about it. Since I had not expected anything else I wasn’t overly concerned.
“Give him this message from me. Tell him Simon Roberts was here about Rodber and I have a deal for him. OK?”
“I have told you that there is -”
“Yeah, I know. You said.” But I had seen his companion nod fractionally. I turned and left but couldn’t help sneaking a glance up the stairs as I went past. One of the Hussein bodyguards watched me from the top step.
Michele was very pleased with my surprise and didn’t mind showing it, squealing with delight at the beaches of Mallorca. Her protests at the sudden departure from England to the Mediterranean Islands had diminished with every mile we flew until she was just a bundle of giggles and smiles.
I had booked a small bungalow just outside Alcudia Old Town on the east of the island. It came fully stocked with food, wine and beer. I eyed the beer ruefully and thought about the ten-kilometre runs I was still not doing. Perhaps five-kilometre swims would suffice?
“But I’m not sure how we can be here if you are expecting Hussein to contact you?” Michele said, dripping seawater on me as I lay on the towel under the huge sunshade. She was looking incredibly sexy in a pale blue bikini.
I dragged my eyes away from her barely constrained breasts, and replied.
“Let him stew for a couple of days. I told Julia that if he does call her, to tell him she has an envelope from me addressed to him.” I planted a kiss on her shoulder. “I’m curious to see who comes to pick it up. Can we go back to the bungalow now?” I asked, letting my hand trail down her back.
“No. Now behave yourself,” she said lightly, brushing my hand away. “Does that letter contain an offer of some sort?” I nodded distractedly; it was very hard to concentrate around Michele in a wet bathing suit.
“We still don’t know what Josh did with the design plans, do we?” she asked.
“Actually, sweetheart, I think I do. Now can we please go back inside, this sun is killing my sunburn?”
“Oh God, Simon. I’m sorry,” she looked horrified, “I should have realized.” Then she smiled coyly. “I could just apply lots of sunscreen to your, well to everywhere really.”
“Everywhere?” I asked hopefully.
“Everywhere. Keeping in mind we’re in public. Of course I could just lie on top of you and shield you from the sun?” she offered with only a slight blush.
“Tempting offer, my darling, but we’re going back and I’m going to lie on you.”
Michele sighed happily and said, “You’re the fifth man to make that offer today, and the others weren’t burnt and peeling. But all right, I accept. But only because I love you.” How could a man possibly be happier?
We stayed for four happy days, and then flew back to Manchester where Dave picked us up on his way to Knockhill Raceway in Scotland.
It was cold and raining. Michele had gained a tan, and I had lost most of mine: fortunately. Dave tried hard not to stare at her legs.
�
�Anything been happening while we were gone, Dave?” I asked him.
“Russell has got a touch of the ‘flu,” he said sadly. “Marsha has been on the phone making Julia’s life miserable and your good friend Ali Hussein has been around twice demanding to speak to you. I wouldn’t be surprised to find him at the race track.”
I was pleased; things were finally beginning to happen according to my liking.
“Will Russell be okay to race?” I asked anxiously.
“He says so, but we’ll see at tomorrow’s official practice. Bud says he won’t let the kid ride if he’s not going to do well. Says it’s pointless.”
I grunted my agreement, distracted by a white Jaguar XJS speeding past us in a spray of dirty water and trailing noise pollution. I could have sworn it was Jethro Jones driving. That’s one of them, I thought. I wonder if the others will be there.
“Do you know if anyone came by to pick up an envelope I left addressed to Hussein?” I asked Dave.
“Yeah. Someone did, but it wasn’t Hussein though.”
“Really? Who was it then?”
Dave shook his head, dodged right to avoid a truck driver who was driving with two wheels into our lane. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t recognize the fellow either.”
“Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser,” I said. Dave looked at me blankly. “Alice in Wonderland, Dave.”
“What?”
“It’s a quote from Alice in Wonderland. Have you never read it?” Dave shook his head. “What a deprived childhood you had,” I exclaimed.
“Oh, I don’t know, Simon. I had my older brother’s Playboy magazines to read for as long as I can remember.” Dave chuckled. Michele sighed sadly.
“Describe him for me, Dave,” I asked. “The man who picked up the envelope, not your brother.”
Dave described him. It could only be Frank Brown. Well, well. I wonder what Hussein’s response would be to my offer? I wondered also where Jethro would be and who he was siding with.
Rain drummed hard on the roof swamping the windscreen wipers and eventually Dave pulled into a Little-Chef service centre for petrol. The downpour drove several vehicles in behind us. Michele and I dashed into the coffee shop for something hot to drink and Dave joined us to wait out the heavy rain. I was missing Mallorca already.
