‘Carlos Ibanez. Youngest son of the head of the Ibanez clan, who hasn’t been out of Cotia since he was born. So why did he turn up in Australia of all places? And, more importantly, why, the very same day, did he take a private jet up to the Friday Islands and then pretty much disappear into thin air? Now look at this man.’ Another picture flashed up on the screen. The man was much older, a baseball cap pulled down over his hair, his skin pockmarked, his eyes flat and lifeless.
‘Not a pretty sight, is he?’ said Marcus cheerfully, handing her another croissant. ‘He’s a Gutierrez, and he arrived a week after Carlos Ibanez. Same journey up to the Friday Islands then not seen again. Followed shortly after by a member of the Garcia clan, the oldest Lopez son and a particularly nasty piece of work from the Torres family. Not to mention a couple of lawyers and accountants who work for the families. All arriving separately. None, so far as we know, have left.’
‘Didn’t you put a tail on them?’ asked Cate curiously.
Both Henri and Marcus looked slightly offended.
‘Of course, Cate,’ said Marcus. ‘But these guys either knew or expected to be followed. He pressed the remote again and pointed his finger at the aerial view that appeared on the screen. ‘The Friday Islands and surrounding coastline. As you can see, it’s a maze of tracks and wilderness, huge forests and vast groves, not to mention over one hundred small islands in less than a fifty-kilometre radius. Searching for someone who is determined not be found is, well, like looking for a needle in a million haystacks.’
He paused as if considering what to say next. ‘When Fernando Gutierrez arrived the Aussie secret service put two of their best men onto him. These guys were complete professionals who know that part of the world like the back of their hands. They tailed him for half a day, until Gutierrez boarded a large unmarked powerboat. The secret service men tried to follow him in another boat.’ He sighed. ‘They found their bodies a few hours later. They had been cut to pieces by a boat propeller. Back and forth over them a few times by the look of it. That was when the Australians called us in.’
Suddenly the room seemed very hot and stuffy and Cate felt as if she could hardly breath. Perspiration was making her tracksuit bottoms stick to the seat of the chair.
‘Sorry, Cate,’ said Marcus seeing her expression. ‘Nearly finished now. We decided that we couldn’t risk any more good men. We called in the techies, an IMIA agent got a job as a baggage handler at Sydney airport and hey presto! The Cotian boys were bugged up to their eyeballs. To be precise, we put tiny GPS trackers into the heels of their shoes and sewed bugs into their jacket linings, but they were ahead of us again. Within hours the bugs were removed or destroyed. It was incredibly frustrating. After three weeks’ work we were still no nearer to knowing who or what these people were coming to see.’
‘Didn’t you find out anything?’ asked Cate. Her nausea had gone, replaced by a feeling of excitement which was, she knew, directly as a result of seeing the IMIA agents again, hearing about their undercover work. ‘Surely the trackers must have given you some clues as to where they were going?’
Henri coughed. ‘Actually they did. Before he discovered it in the lining of his jacket, the concealed GPS told us where Miguel Lopez headed just after he landed at Passande airport and how long he was there for.’ Henri looked directly at Cate. ‘According to the GPS, sometime around nightfall, Lopez was at the Snapper Bay turtle sanctuary. Right where you, Cate, are going.’
CHAPTER 6
The Gulf Stream jet was far more spacious than it had looked from the viewing window of the VIP boarding lounge. Cate, the first to board, was seriously impressed. The main cabin smelt of expensive leather and exotic spices, the burgundy carpet was thick and deep and, although the plane was undoubtedly compact, every inch of the interior had been designed to give the feeling of space and light. It was furnished with a scattering of wide, white leather sofas and armchairs, each with a footrest and individual racks containing a TV screen and games console. A walnut table, polished to a mirrorlike sheen, ran the entire length of one wall, holding a small assortment of crystal carafes, several cocktail shakers, numerous bottles of spirits and a large LCD TV which was currently showing coverage of Black Noir’s latest tour. The front of the plane was converted entirely into a smaller, more private cabin which contained a couple of extremely comfortable-looking beds and one large double sofa.
She heard the clatter of the band climbing noisily up the metal stairway and bagged herself an armchair by a window just as they began to file onto the plane.
Pete the drummer led the way, with Daniella, the Aussie soap star that Cate had seen the night before, clinging to his arm. She was sporting a top so tight that Cate could practically count her ribs. Daniella spotted Cate and bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile before planting a possessive kiss on Pete’s stubbly cheeks. Pete caught Cate’s eye and winked broadly before pulling his new girlfriend down onto a sofa with him. Not at all offended, Cate grinned back.
The rest of the band bustled in behind them, calling for drinks from the stewardess and squabbling over storage space for their instruments.
Suddenly Cate realised that Lucas was beckoning her sharply towards him. ‘Have you seen Nancy?’ he said, crossly. ‘She disappeared after breakfast. She should have been here half an hour ago.’
‘She was last seen heading off to Paddington with a driver and bag carrier in tow,’ said Cate, trying her best not to smile. ‘Apparently the most amazing boutiques are there. She said she needed a few things for Purbeck Island.’
Lucas groaned theatrically. ‘Jeez, Cate, why the heck didn’t you stop her?’
Cate did laugh then. ‘Me stop Nancy Kyle doing something she wants to do? Not likely, Lucas!’
He smiled suddenly. ‘Fair enough, but do me a favour – you be the one to tell her that there aren’t any malls within a fifty kilometre radius of Purbeck Island.’
Cate grinned and looked out of the window at the airport. The viewing balcony was filled with people pushing and crushing against one another in a frantic bid to get a last glimpse of the jet that was bearing their idols away from them.
‘How do you cope with all that?’ She nodded towards the fans.
Lucas sat back in his seat. ‘Try to think of it as part of the job, I guess. When I was writing songs in the middle of the desert, boiling hot and either bored or frightened witless, I used to dream of this: girls chasing me, photographers wanting my picture, being recognised in restaurants. Hell,’ he laughed ruefully, ‘I even used to practise my autograph on the army loo roll. Now, well, I’ve realised fame isn’t quite what it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it’s a complete pain. But, as my dear old mum keeps telling me, I can’t have my cake and eat it. And you know, it has its compensations. I can afford to hire planes like this for a start.’
As if on cue, the pilot came towards them. ‘We’ll be ready for take off in approximately ten minutes, Sir,’ he said to Lucas politely. ‘Is that OK?’
‘No, it bloody well isn’t,’ said Lucas, his earlier good mood suddenly evaporated. ‘My flaky girlfriend has no doubt forgotten the time. I’ve a good mind to leave without her.’
‘You can’t do that, Lucas,’ said Cate in horror. ‘She’ll – she’ll go mad. She’ll call her agent and probably the newspapers while she’s at it. You’ll never hear the last of it.’
‘Like I care,’ said Lucas. ‘She’s always late.’ He picked up the latest copy of Condé Nast Traveller and began flicking through the glossy pages.
The Aussie pilot didn’t flinch. ‘No problem, Mr Black,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘I can always cancel the flight plan. Just let me know when Ms Kyle arrives.’
Just then, there was a squeal of brakes and a gleaming black Jaguar pulled up alongside the jet. The chauffeur jumped out and raced around to open the passenger door. A long pair of legs encased in very tight white jeans and impossibly high stilettos appeared, followed by several huge shopping bags, which were handed out to the
chauffeur.
‘Miss Kyle, I presume,’ said the pilot, his face deadpan. ‘I’ll get the plane prepared for take off.’
A blond head appeared at the top of the stairs and Nancy Kyle stepped gracefully into the aisle. ‘Hello, darlings,’ she called sweetly. ‘Pressies for everyone and a huge hug for my darling, handsome Lucas.’
Cate eyed the designer names on the bags enviously. She had brought very little with her for her stay at the sanctuary – a few pairs of shorts, changes of swimwear, hiking trousers in case they went bush walking, and some sandals.
Cate allowed Nancy’s chatter to wash over her as the engines started. She sat back deep into her chair and closed her eyes. She was tired, still suffering from the effects of jetlag she guessed, but her mind was racing, going over the events of the morning.
‘Cate, it’s not like last time.’ Marcus was using his persuasive voice. ‘We’re not expecting you to risk your life. We just need you to keep an eye out at the camp, see if any of the eco-warriors have potential links to the Cotians. Maybe that GPS reading was deceptive. Maybe Lopez got lost on his way to somewhere else. But perhaps he was meeting someone there. If so, we need to find out who.’
‘You’re asking me to spy on my hosts.’ Cate was horrified. ‘It makes me feel . . .’ she shrugged. ‘. . . disloyal. Dirty.’
Henri made a snorting noise. ‘Cate.’ Clearly his patience was running thin. ‘You have to think of the greater good. If the Cotians start operating in this part of the world, for whatever reason, the consequences could be disastrous. Just look at this.’
He pointed his remote control at the TV screen and suddenly Cate was watching a video of a gun battle in what looked like the high street of a small town. Women and children were running and screaming, trying to take cover. The film was jerky, erratic, but clear enough. Cate stared, horrified, as a young man half-crawled, half-rolled over the tarmac and out of the line of fire, blood seeping onto the back of his white T-shirt. Every few seconds, Cate could hear the unmistakable whipping sound of a sniper’s bullet arching towards yet another helpless target, and saw the terrified faces of a group of small children as they huddled in a doorway. One child, tears streaming down his face, was trying to comfort another smaller child. Cate thought she had never seen anything so sad.
Suddenly the street seemed to rock, flames shooting upwards and a hail of concrete raining back down on the terrified bystanders. Then the film ended.
Cate took a deep breath, trying to hide her shock.
‘Sorry,’ said Marcus. He suddenly looked tired and old. ‘Sorry to show you this, but it’s the reality of life for so many innocent people caught up in the drug wars in Cotia and the surrounding countries. And if the Cotians get a foothold in our backyard, if they are planning some kind of drug war, then God help us as well.’
Cate thought of her friends at school. A few of them had talked about smoking a joint at weekends, one or two had even boasted about trying harder substances. Cate had never bought into the idea that drugs were fun or cool. In her experience, the girls who boasted about experimenting always seemed to be the unhappiest ones, discontented with their looks, their parents, their lives. In any case, Cate had seen far too many casualties on her trips to visit her mum in LA. Once clever, talented people could now hardly string a few sentences together. They had lost wives and children and even their homes because of their addictions. And now she had another reason not to take drugs – the savagery of drug wars carried out in far away countries which made the lives a misery for so many innocent people.
‘OK,’ she said, nodding slowly. ‘Whatever you want. I’ll do it.’
‘Wicked!’ said Marcus, giving her a high five.
‘Well done, old girl,’ said Henri, shaking her by the other hand. He went behind the desk and pulled open a drawer. It squeaked angrily as if it hadn’t been opened for a while. Marcus winked at Cate as Henri pulled out a washbag decorated with large pink roses. ‘We don’t like to send any of our agents out without basic equipment, so Cate, we took the liberty of preparing a small package of things that might come in handy in a place like Snapper Bay.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cate, impressed. Gadgets always cheered her up. She took the bag, unzipped it and looked inside. It contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and a hairbrush.
‘Look again,’ said Marcus, laughing at her puzzled expression.
She felt around the inside of the bag, running her fingers along the zip and into the tiny interior pockets. ‘You’ve done a really good job,’ she said. ‘I can’t feel a thing.’
‘Don’t just look at the bag,’ said Marcus. ‘And that’s the last clue I’m giving you, superspy!’
Cate thought for a few seconds and then grinned. She picked up the hairbrush and began twisting the handle. There was a tiny click and the head of a brown pen appeared.
Henri took it and waved it at her. ‘This is a small but incredibly powerful camera. It’s got infrared to take pictures at night, can be used underwater and has a one-hundred-metre zoom. It’s solar-powered too, so you don’t have to worry about batteries.’
‘Wow,’ said Cate. ‘Smart.’
‘Now take a quick look at the other stuff. There are bugs stored in the handle of the toothbrush, and the tracker devices slot rather nicely into the back of the soap holder. There’s money in the base of the bag – a good amount of US and Australian dollars. Buying your way out of trouble is often the simplest and least painful way to be a spy.
‘Last but not least, the latest secure mobile numbers for Henri and me,’ said Marcus. ‘If you do need us, just call and no one will be able to trace our conversation either from your phone or ours.’ He held out a piece of paper. Cate took it and went to put it in her pocket. ‘Not so fast,’ said Marcus. ‘I said they’re secure numbers. You can’t write them down. You need to commit them to memory before you leave this room.’
Cate was grateful her dad had taught her a foolproof method of remembering numbers no matter how long they were. You broke them down into small recognisable sections, for example people’s birthdays, ages, dates from history. Much easier to remember than a string of random numbers.
A minute later, she handed the paper back to Marcus who dunked it in his glass of water. As Cate watched the numbers dissolving into a meaningless blur of black ink, she managed to work out just why she hadn’t put up more of a fight before she agreed to work with the IMIA again. The truth was, several times over the last few months, when she had been sitting bored in class, or enduring another endless traffic jam on the bus home from school, Cate had relived her adventures of the summer, relishing the feeling of adrenalin pounding through her veins. It had been a terrifying time, but Cate had felt more challenged, more alert, more alive than she had ever done in her life before and she knew she wanted – needed – that feeling again.
She also wondered if she should tell the IMIA about the attack on the Eco Headquarters, but she knew she wasn’t ready to break her word to Miles and Matthias. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.
The band members were quiet now too, either dozing in their seats or gulping down copious amounts of coffee. Not only were they still suffering from the effects of the flight from Thailand the previous day, but apparently the pool party hadn’t broken up until four in the morning.
Yet somehow Nancy looked as beautiful as ever as she snuggled up next to Lucas. She must have sensed someone was staring at her for she opened her eyes and smiled blearily. ‘Hey, babe,’ she said, reaching down into one of the shopping bags. ‘I saw this fab outfit and I thought of you. Go on, try it on.’
‘Oh Nancy,’ said Cate. ‘Really, you shouldn’t have. I’m meant to be travelling light.’
‘Oh go on, Cate,’ said Lucas, mimicking his girlfriend. ‘Try it on.’
Flushing with embarrassment, Cate reached out and took the clothes, then bit her lip as she saw the label. ‘Nancy, I can’t take these. They’re Armani. They must have cost a fortune.’
Na
ncy smiled a wide, contented smile. ‘Babe, when you’re Nancy Kyle, the fashion world is your very own great big fat oyster. If Nancy Kyle wants, Nancy Kyle gets.’
Cate was helpless to resist. She went to the bathroom near the front of the plane and locked the door. The shorts reached elegantly to just above her knees. The linen felt like silk and the narrow leather belt soft and supple. Cate pulled it tight around her waist and eagerly slipped the V-necked top over her head. It was fitted, but not tight and Cate had to admit that the khaki suited her dark blond hair and accentuated her green eyes.
At the bottom of the bag she found a pair of high, wedged sandals, with delicate straps made of the softest brown leather woven through heavy brass circlets. Gucci. A work of art. She put them on, enjoying being several inches taller, but the shoes still felt incredibly comfortable and secure.
She stared in the full-length mirror, marvelling at how different she looked from the girl of a few minutes ago. She didn’t look older, but more sophisticated somehow, more confident. Looking at this stranger staring back at her, she could see how people got hooked on fashion.
Before her courage failed her, she picked up her discarded clothes, took a deep breath and opened the door. A loud wolf whistle greeted her, followed by a cheer from the back of the plane.
‘Hey, Cate,’ called Pete. ‘You look amazing.’
‘Hot hot hot,’ called Paddy, the bass guitarist who had woken up from his nap. ‘Dinner tonight?’
‘Leave her alone, you lot,’ Nancy trilled. ‘You’re all way too old for her anyway.’ She smiled proudly. ‘You look gorgeous, sweetie. I knew that colour would be fab on you. I wanted you to look your best for Michel. You haven’t seen him for ages and if you’d have turned up at the airport wearing that tat . . .’ she nodded at the clothes in Cate’s hand. ‘. . . well, he would have turned tail and run for the hills. He is French, after all.’
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