Luc: A Spy Thriller

by Greg Coppin

  ‘Good. Trust, both ways, is going to be supremely important from here on in.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m glad it wasn’t you working for Giuttieri. I had rationalised that it was easy for you to quell the riots, because you had effectively started them. Now I know you didn’t, the stopping of those riots was hugely impressive. Belize needs that.’

  We were standing on the terrace of his office. A security man, present and watchful, stood just inside the door.

  ‘I just gave the orders. Those on the ground put it into action and deserve all the praise. And you can rest assured it would never have been me working for Giuttieri.’

  I nodded. ‘I’m realising that. So what now?’

  ‘Now we go after the son of a bitch.’

  ***

  ‘I thought I had it worked out,’ I said. ‘What his plan was. Getting you installed as Prime Minister while actually working for him. It made sense.’

  Falcao nodded. ‘I can see that. It would make sense, of sorts, about what’s been going on. I know for a fact there’s been some sort of organised campaign against the Prime Minister. Whispers in the media here, little accidents just at the right moment there. At first I thought it was just within the party. But it’s wider. Someone, and that someone must be Giuttieri, wants to bring down Neville Dutton.’

  ‘As we speak, he’s succeeding.’

  ‘So what about the bomb and the riots?’

  ‘Get the people scared,’ I said. ‘Get them antagonistic towards Guatemala. Ally that with a weak looking PM, you get a chance to change the leader.’

  Falcao nodded. ‘It’s a good theory. It falls down in that I’m the favourite to succeed Neville.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Trust me, Luc, I’m no part of this.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks. Except we still don’t know what his ultimate plan is.’ Falcao shook his head. He pulled a wicker chair out and sat down, clasping his hands together on the table.

  I poured out another orange juice and leaned back against the balcony’s rail.

  ***

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir.’ A suited aide poked his head out from inside.

  ‘What is it, Carminez?’ Falcao asked.

  ‘There’s a Detective Aranda downstairs who would urgently like to speak to you.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘She said she could only speak to you about it.’

  Falcao nodded. ‘Show her up.’

  I smiled at Warita Aranda as she stepped out onto the balcony. Harvey Ramos walked out behind her.

  ‘Good morning, Detective Aranda,’ Falcao said, standing and shaking hands. ‘Detective Ramos.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Warita looked a little surprised at seeing me.

  ‘You have something urgent to tell me, Detective.’

  ‘Not in front of foreigners, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Luc here is trusted. You should know he is.’

  ‘Even so, sir. This is highly sensitive information.’

  Falcao looked between Warita and Ramos. Then he looked at me. He nodded.

  ‘If you could just leave us for a moment, Luc. Thank you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Damn.

  I stepped into the carpeted office and the door was closed behind me.

  ‘You can wait over here.’ An attractive female secretary showed me to a small couch in the corner. I smiled and sat down.

  And wondered what the highly sensitive piece of information was.

  They talked out there for at least twenty minutes. The secretary had brought me a coffee which I drank.

  ‘Have you worked for Mr Falcao long?’ I asked the secretary. She had beautiful smooth brown skin and her black hair, which was straightened, came down in a curve around her neck.

  ‘Coming up to a year,’ she said.

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘He works hard, he works us hard, but he’s fair. And there’s no BS with him, unlike some I’ve worked for.’ She smiled conspiratorially. ‘I love it.’

  The door swung open, flooding the room with more sunlight. Falcao marched inside. He looked around. When he saw me in the corner he motioned with his hand.

  ‘Luc. Could you join us again?’

  Back out on the terrace Warita and Ramos were leaning against the rail.

  ‘Please sit, Luc,’ Falcao said, shutting the door behind him, so it was just the four of us again.

  Falcao sat opposite me at the table. A breeze blew against my face.

  ‘Detectives Aranda and Ramos have told me some very interesting information. It is, as was said, highly sensitive information of national concern. I have, with a lot of thought, decided to tell you this information.’

  ‘I am against that, as Mr Falcao knows,’ Warita said.

  ‘Indeed. And I appreciate that. And that will be noted. This is purely my decision.

  ‘But I do believe that Luc can provide us with specialist knowledge that we may lack. Also, as we move forward, knowing who to trust will be vital. And at the moment, I trust the three of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You can certainly trust me. And I will do everything I can to help. And, Warita,’ I looked up at the blank-faced Detective, ‘I would have said the same in your position.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Special Branch,’ Falcao indicated the pair by the rail before linking his fingers together on the table, ‘have been conducting retro-surveillance of Ernesto Giuttieri. Searching back through archive footage of CCTV and other surveillance cameras. Not just in this country. They have liaised extensively with our neighbours and even further afield. Among the handful of meetings that they could find, one in particular stood out. It was a meeting that took place in Cancun in Mexico about three months ago. They tried to shield this man’s appearance. But the camera picked him up in one shot. Aranda here sent the photo to the FBI laboratory in Quantico to clean it up, get a clearer visual on who it was. They were happy to help.’

  Falcao slid a grainy photograph across the table toward me. I looked down at the picture. A thin, bespectacled man, of harried appearance, was ducking into a doorway. I thought I briefly recognised him, but couldn’t quite place him.

  ‘That is Robert Thurton,’ Falcao said.

  ‘The name seems familiar. I’ve heard it somewhere recently.’

  ‘He’s the Minister of Industrial Development.’

  ***

  The melancholic call of a distant bird reached us on the balcony.

  ‘So what are we saying?’ I asked. ‘Giuttieri’s plan is to install Thurton as Prime Minister?’

  ‘It fits,’ Warita said.

  ‘But you’re going to win the leadership election,’ I said to Falcao. ‘It’s a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘Only if he’s still around come the election,’ Warita said matter-of-factly.

  I inclined my head. ‘You mean…’

  ‘Kill him. Yes.’

  I looked at Falcao. He gripped his hands together and nodded. ‘I think we have to view this as a distinct possibility. Thurton is second favourite to win. With me out of the way, it’s all over.’

  There was a beeping of a car horn in the street down below followed by some belligerent shouting. Traffic was getting busier.

  ‘What do we know about this Thurton?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re not on the same wing of the party,’ Falcao said. ‘He’s a curious man. He has… personal problems.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Gambling. The party whips try and keep it quiet from the public. But he’s intoxicated with it.’

  ‘So he’s vulnerable.’

  ‘He’s a very serious man. A little weak, in my view. The gambling aside, his public demeanour is one of a safe pair of hands. That’s why he’s so popular with some in the party. I’m still finding it hard to believe though. Politics is in Bob’s blood. Serving the country is in his blood.’

  ‘It’s happened before,’ Warita
said.

  ‘I’m aware of your rosy view of politicians, Detective. For Bob to do this though, it’s hard to imagine. If it got out, he’d destroy his family name.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

  Falcao looked at me. ‘His father, was, at his political height, an excellent Minister of Foreign Affairs. Bob Junior’s following in his footsteps. Why destroy that?’

  ‘He’s not destroying it,’ Ramos said. ‘He’s going one better.’

  ‘Good point,’ I said. ‘Bob Junior. His dad was also called Bob?’

  Falcao nodded. ‘A bit of a legend in the party, Bob Senior. Some of his lustre explains his son’s popularity. But really they’re not alike at all. Bob Junior’s very Americanised, for one. Likes to be known as Robert Thurton the Second. Fool.’

  I sat up straight. I looked between the three of them, my eyes widening.

  ‘I looked through Mortlake’s diary planner in his office,’ I said. ‘On one of the day’s entries, amongst other things, was, ‘Meet BT2 10.30 am.’ BT2 - could that be Bob Thurton the Second?’

  Warita was nodding slowly. ‘Got our man.’

  ***

  Down below, cars and vans criss-crossed the intersection. Workers sauntered in and out of offices, the hum of their lyrical chatter just about reaching us. People were going about their normal daily activities, unaware of the plan being played out at the top of their government.

  Falcao had ordered another round of coffees. I’d passed but Warita and Ramos now sat at the table with their drinks. I was sitting next to Warita and I got an aroma of caramel and honey.

  ‘So we move forward with the theory Giuttieri’s plan is to install Robert Thurton as Prime Minister to do his bidding,’ Falcao said. ‘He would effectively be running the country.’

  ‘I met a woman, a journalist, who knows Giuttieri well,’ I said, clasping my hands together on the table. ‘She said Giuttieri’s life has been about control. And his appetite for what to control has always increased. From gangs to businesses to bigger businesses. Now, seemingly, he’s moved up one again.’ I held my hands out. ‘Trying to control an entire country.’

  ‘Well he’s picked on the wrong country,’ Falcao said. ‘We’re not going to sit around and just watch him do it.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Warita asked.

  ‘Couldn’t something be done politically?’ I asked. ‘It’s madness that this could take place.’

  ‘Such as what?’ Falcao said. ‘We have a photograph and initials in a diary. It’s nothing. Nothing concrete. The photo is of Thurton going into one of Giuttieri’s offices three months ago. Politicians meet people all the time. No, he shouldn’t have been meeting Giuttieri in Cancun. But he could probably talk his way out of it. As for the initials. Firstly, I’m guessing they were obtained without a warrant?’ I said nothing. ‘Inadmissible. Secondly, initials? It’s hardly a smoking gun.’

  Ramos spoke up. ‘Sir, I think we should take seriously their need to remove you from the race.’

  I nodded. ‘It would be another destabilising event. Fits their pattern so far. Shock the people so much they turn to the safe pair of hands.’

  ‘What’s on your schedule for the next day, sir?’ Warita asked.

  ‘I’ve effectively cleared most of my diary to concentrate on this crisis,’ Falcao said. ‘I’m not even campaigning. It’s mostly meetings about security and logistics.’

  ‘Anything public?’

  ‘I have a Battle of St George’s Caye speech at the university.’

  ‘Cancel it,’ Warita said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Is it televised?’

  ‘It will be.’

  ‘You on a podium, in front of a large, public crowd, being broadcast on TV? If they are going to take you out, sir, that’s where they will do it.’

  ‘Warita is right,’ I said.

  ‘No, Detective Aranda is not right. I will be there at that event, giving that speech, because that is my duty to my country. That event is not about me. It’s about honouring the courage and sacrifice of our people who bravely stood and fought. I’m not honouring them by running away.’

  ‘It would be a nightmare for your security team, sir.’

  ‘Nothing is ever perfect, Detective.’

  ‘If they kill you, Thurton wins the election and Giuttieri has his hands on the levers of government. If you stay alive, you win the election and Giuttieri’s plan is finished.’

  Falcao raised his coffee cup to his lips. ‘Keep me alive then,’ he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  A rickety van was dawdling in front. A Toyota Prado, with the slim figure of Robert Thurton II sitting in the back, was two cars in front of that.

  I had the radio on and was listening to Falcao make his speech at the St George’s Caye event. I had no doubt that his personal security and Warita’s team were good. And they would need to be. It was a brave stance he was taking. But if Giuttieri was planning to take him out at this event, then Falcao was going to be very lucky to get through the day.

  In the distance I saw a curious thing. It was a large white object at a forty-five degree angle. At first I thought it looked like some sort of missile. As I got closer though, I could see it was a modern art type sculpture resting in the centre of a roundabout. I’ve got to be honest, I have no idea what it represented. The Prado swung round the roundabout and took the second turning. I watched as the rickety van took the first turning, thank you, and I indicated and took the second, following the Toyota.

  ‘Man’s bravery can be unbounded in the moment where there can be no return,’ Falcao’s words came through the radio. ‘When all is on the line. When every bridge has been burned and the only way is to go forward. At this moment bravery can burn bright.

  ‘But what of the moments when there is a choice? Or indeed many choices. A choice to run. Stay where you are. Or return to safety.

  ‘Then, bravery takes on a different hue.

  ‘Because to go forward when you can go back, that is true courage. And it is in these moments we see the truly courageous.

  ‘They choose, actually choose, make the decision, to go forward. Towards the danger.

  ‘Not without fear. In spite of the fear.

  ‘This is the courageous man.

  ‘And this is the Baymen of 1798. Those determined souls who marched forward and fought a mighty enemy. Who engaged in a battle for freedom.

  ‘And who won.

  ‘It is these who we celebrate today. These Baymen. These Belizean men.’

  The call came through.

  ‘Luc, it’s Charlie.’

  ‘Glad it’s you, Charlie.’

  ‘Yes, Warren’s been telling me you two have been getting on famously. Soulmates, I’d say. It’s a rare thing.’

  ‘Isn’t it.’

  ‘So, Luc.’ Getting down to business. ‘You’ve got a press pass. You’re Stephen Pringle, reporter for The Times. Thurton has agreed to a twenty minute interview today at 11.00 a.m. It’s at his offices at the National Assembly building. I’ll email over all the details.’

  ‘Good work, Charlie. And Charlie, try not to have any more time off. Sleep is overrated in the young.’

  ‘Gotcha, Luc.’

  ***

  The man at the security gate eyed my press pass and nodded me through. I was shown to an outer office on the first floor. I dropped the pass back in the pocket of my light blue shirt and sat on a cushioned chair. I didn’t have long to wait. A young woman with long golden earrings and a writing pad showed me into Thurton’s office.

  ‘Mr Thurton, this is Stephen Pringle from the London Times.’

  Thurton rose from his desk and held out his hand. His off-white shirt seemed too baggy for his thin, angular body.

  ‘Mr Pringle, very nice to meet you,’ he said. We shook hands. He had a thin moustache, which I didn’t think he’d had in the photograph.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all. Spent
some wonderful times in London. How’s Barney Macdougall? Is he still at The Times?’

  I smiled. ‘I try and stay out of Mac’s way. Yes, he’s still there.’

  Thurton laughed. ‘You’re probably wise. Barney’s a fearsome sub-editor. But he’s a great storyteller.’

  ‘Aye. That he is.’ We both laughed at my attempt at a Scots accent.

  A journalist is a cover that we often use. Charlie had emailed me the info again concerning The Times, but it hadn’t changed much since my training.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, pulling the smartphone from my pocket and switching on the voice recorder. I placed it onto the table midway between us. ‘First off, Mr Thurton, it’s been a pretty tumultuous few days for Belize. Are things under control now?’

  Thurton nodded soberly. ‘Yes, it has been a difficult couple of days. But we are a strong nation. And we will stay strong.’ He took his glasses off and put the end of one arm into his mouth.

  ‘Things under control?’

  ‘Yes, I hope so.’

  ‘Only hope?’ I asked.

  ‘I believe our security services have been doing a marvellous job. I continue to have full confidence in them.’

  ‘How do you think the Prime Minister has handled the crisis?’

  ‘The Prime Minister is a man of great integrity.’

  ‘Did you think the possible motion of no confidence in him was justified?’

  ‘I didn’t call for a motion.’

  ‘But did you agree with it?’

  ‘Well, it’s irrelevant now that we have a leadership contest.’

  I nodded. ‘And what do you think your chances are in the upcoming leadership election?’

  ‘Look, I leave all that to others. As long as I can continue to serve my country in some capacity - that’s what matters to me.’

  ‘Did you see this coming?’

  His forehead creased a little. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The leadership election. It seems to have come out of nowhere. Did anybody foresee it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I certainly didn’t. Wasn’t it one of your countrymen who said that a week was a long time in politics?’

  I nodded. ‘I believe that’s right.’ I leaned back and it was here that I attached the tiny microphone to the underside of my chair.