Constantly changing strip lighting ran along the window of the show venue and the smartly-dressed doorman looked her up and down.
“Can I help you?” He had a handsome face and from the cadence of his faultless English, she assessed him as South American, probably Peruvian.
“I've an appointment with Dante Jones.”
The doorman stepped aside and she noted his earpiece and its adjacent, small coil of wiring. Interesting. People only paid for expensive security when they’d got important assets to protect.
Entering a dark corridor, she could hear pounding music and she followed the sound into the back. Passing through a nineteen-eighties-style bead curtain, she entered a large, dimly lit bar area arranged with small tables. No naked women pranced on a catwalk, rather a fully clothed, female singer entertained the audience from a front stage. The woman sang a jazz number, accompanied by a pianist. Scanning the audience, Kal counted some twenty on-lookers, most of them sitting alone, their drinks standing solitary on the table tops. The clientele seemed to be relatively mainstream members of the London population.
The doorman must have called ahead, because a waitress approached with intent.
“Dante is expecting you. If you'd like a drink from the bar, I'll bring one through. Meantime, please would you follow me?”
On stage, the singer completed her number to a round of applause.
“Who's up next?” Kal asked the waitress.
“It's Roxy with a burlesque number, you can watch later if you like?”
The waitress tossed her tumbling, red hair and strutted off. They reached a rear door and the red-head knocked.
“In you go, don't be shy.” The woman acted as if she spoke to a teenager, and Kal thought drily that the waitress most likely assumed she was here for a job.
The door swung open to reveal a room of huge proportions. She scanned quickly - orange washed walls reminiscent of Moroccan styling, a giant flat screen television, two three-seater sofas, a snooker table set up for a new game, no windows to the outside. One man, tall and wide-shouldered, sat behind a gigantic desk. A Miro print hung behind him, the print a swathe of blue with a red heart and a moon, half white half black, and part of Kal wondered if it might be an original.
Kal walked towards Dante. The room reeked of drug culture. Impossible to put her finger on exactly why, she could just smell it, as if the walls themselves had witnessed countless extortion deals and threats of violence and absorbed them, and the man sitting behind the desk was stamped with the mark of dirty money.
When she'd spoken to Dante on the phone, she’d listened attentively to his voice. In his intonation, she'd detected the constant vigilance of someone who'd earned too many enemies. In their exchange, Dante said he'd been expecting her to call. He said Scott had asked him as a favour to meet her and that, yes, he'd be delighted.
A hefty, white man, now that he stood, she saw Dante had the build and appearance of a gangster from a seventies movie. He wore his hair gelled back, which created a somewhat suave effect, and in his younger days his looks may well have been striking. However, time and neglect had taken its toll, and now his sallow complexion and soul-less eyes betrayed his allegiances, showing that something inside him had been destroyed and could never be rebuilt. Nevertheless, Dante affected a coating of style, with his expensive suit and cologne. He must be a senior member in his organisation. A hardened man.
“Kal, what a pleasure to meet you, you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you?” Dante walked around the desk and bent his large frame into a half-bow. “You're as beautiful as your father boasted.”
Her hands had drifted behind her back, as if she expected him to reach out and attempt to kiss the back of one of them. Returning to his chair, Dante smiled. A secretive smile, she thought, like he anticipated her thoughts.
“Please, take a seat, and make yourself at home.”
A soft knock sounded and the waitress entered. The red-head placed two glasses delicately on the desk and pattered out. Kal hardly wanted to breathe the cologne-laden air, let alone ingest the contents of that glass. She sat bolt upright in the chair opposite Dante. She’d chosen black, flared trousers and a dark purple, skin-tight jumper reaching to her thighs. Sweeping back her hair, she looked straight across the desk.
“I want to know the truth about David Khan.”
“A bold statement. I like that, I like that very much indeed.” Dante rested his elbows on the desktop. “And what makes you think you don't know the truth already?”
“I'm here for information not riddles. Richard Scott made serious accusations against my father and I’m here for facts. Now in what capacity did you know David Khan and what can you tell me about him?”
“I've no intention of patronising you, Kal.”
Dante opened a desk drawer and pulled out a fist-sized, cellophane bag and a buff file. The plastic bag landed on the desktop with a clatter, closely followed by the file. As Dante extracted a sweet from the bag, she caught a whiff of peppermint.
“I'm giving up smoking for the millionth time. Would you like a mint?” Dante asked.
“Please get to the point.”
He popped a peppermint into his mouth. “You have Indian ancestry, so I'm sure you're aware the links between the Pashtun people in Pakistan and those in northwest India run deep. It was the British who partitioned Pakistan from India in the nineteen forties, cutting across ancestral allegiances that existed for millennia. The Pashtun people of Pakistan also have deep tribal links across their northern border with Afghanistan. Let me paint a picture for you - that region includes the Hindu Kush, the Himalayas and the Khyber Pass and the extensive foothills are home to the poppy harvest, principally on the Afghan side. Each year the poppy harvest is taken across the border to Pakistan to be processed. The heroin is produced in hundreds of ramshackle laboratories hidden in those same foothills. The poverty, the power and allegiances of the tribal leaders, and the difficulties posed in accessing highly remote areas, all contribute to record harvests and production that international agencies struggle, and mostly fail, to quell.”
When he paused, she could hear the crunch of Dante’s teeth against the mints.
“That's my world - the drugs world. Merchandise is trafficked from Pakistan and northern India to the American and European markets.” Dante reached for another sweet. “As a freelance journalist, your father investigated the tribal factions in the remote areas, back in the days when the tribal leaders in neighbouring Afghanistan were called upon to be freedom fighters. David Khan became familiar with the Pashtuns, probably got to like them. There's plenty to like in their warrior spirit and their fierce love of their land. “
When Dante spoke, a faint scent of peppermint escaped his lips, to mingle with the fumes of his cologne.
“I knew your father from his early days. I suppose we started out in the business around the same time. He was talented and he was ambitious. He started by passing on information he picked up about planned raids on the cartel’s activities. Having an uncanny ability to gather intelligence, he quickly rose up the ranks and used his cover as a journalist to travel freely. The cartel nurtured his talents, backed him, invested in him. In short, in the space of a decade, he succeeded in infiltrating the highest levels of anti-drug operations and became responsible for neutralising threats to the cartel in whatever way was necessary. He had the baron’s resources available to him at all times, though he mostly worked alone. He was what we call a ‘lone wolf’ – carrying out his operations in Pakistan, India, London, the States – wherever it was required.”
Dante opened the file and splayed a sheaf of photographs on the desktop.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why your father died as he did? David Khan was an excellent rider, and of course, used a motorbike frequently in the Pakistan foothills, it’s one of the most practical means of transport, aside from trekking the passes.”
Kal stared at the photographs – a man and woman, lying in a pool
of blood in what appeared to be an extravagant home, in somewhere like Malibu beach.
“I don’t understand.”
“David Khan was killed by the British secret service, MI6 as the public like to call them. His death, and the manner of it, is the strongest evidence I can give you of his activities. It was a perfectly orchestrated hit, and one which the police will never make progress with - only special services can organise that type of ‘accident’. Khan’s death was carried out largely as a favour for the Americans, because Khan’s last job had been the assassination of a senior, American intelligence officer and his family.”
She stared at the photographs. There were several, taken from various angles, of the man slumped on a sofa, and the woman, lying face up on a crimson-stained carpet. The room was intact, indicating no struggle, though an arterial spray of blood had hit one of the walls. A further set of images displayed the body of a teenage boy floating in a swimming pool, the water a horrible dark shade.
Dante pointed to the dead man. “This intelligence officer, Todd Cartwright, had been responsible for masterminding some of the most successful raids on the cartel’s activities. Cartwright’s network was working its way closer and closer to the heart of our organisation. Your father had been shadowing Cartwright’s activities for some time, and then one of the baron’s sons was killed in New York and the finger was pointed at Cartwright’s team. Which meant he had to be eliminated, though first, he had to be forced to tell about his sources, because it seemed the cartel might have a high-level informant.”
Bile forced its way up Kal’s throat.
“There's not much more to say. David Khan had been responsible for the deaths of many people over the years. The baron took the elimination of Cartwright seriously enough to send one of his top men, and he chose your father.”
“How do I know what you're telling me is correct?”
“It speaks for itself.” Dante swept his hand to indicate the photographs. “What I’m telling you is the truth. Special forces arranged your father’s death because of his activities for the cartel.”
She forced herself to examine the file. Picked up the sheaf of photographs and flicked through image after nauseating image. Then read newspaper articles on the deaths. The articles cited the family’s killing as a drugs related assassination. There was a print out of an internal document from the CIA which ran to several pages and she turned the pages like an automaton. One small paragraph stated there had been a survivor. A younger child had survived the shooting.
The room fell silent except for the crunch of Dante's peppermints. There was no way for her to corroborate this information. Though Dante was undoubtedly a professional liar, she detected no blips in his story, no tell-tale signs of an emotional snag or oversell, no unconscious errors. His story fitted with Spinks’ discoveries, and it was impossible to lie one-hundred-percent effectively, at least not all the time, and not from all angles. More importantly, her own instincts told her that she finally faced the truth. The truth beneath the excitement and the daring and the hard discipline she’d shared with her father. That’s why her heart had gone so heavy and hard and cold. As if it threatened to stop beating. As if her spirit had given up and died.
“You said my father boasted about me. Did he ever show you a picture or talk to you about me?”
“I never saw a photograph, no. We were professionals in passing, each with our own areas of expertise. Though I remember a Christmas celebration in India one time, in some colonial-style mansion full of important guests, where politicians rubbed shoulders with dirty men like me and pretended we were all friends. Your father and I ended up side by side at the bar. He told me how he’d just chosen a martial arts club for you. In Battersea wasn't it? He'd seen the Master of the club give a demonstration in the States, and he'd been so impressed he'd tracked him down in London, and you know what an expert your father was in martial arts, so he recognised expertise when he saw it.”
Master Yeung. Her father told her he’d seen a martial arts display on his travels and that’s how he chose Master Yeung. Her ears rang as the blood drained from her face and chest, pooling in her legs. Dante was telling the truth.
“What about my mother, what was her part in it?”
“Since he was a master of deceit, I’m sure your mother knew nothing about Khan’s activities.”
“She’s missing.”
“That’s not something I can help with.”
“Then tell me about this.” She slapped a picture down on the desk. She’d designed it on the computer - a crescent moon and sky studded with stars, just as the man had worn in Kolkata. For a micro-second, Dante’s teeth paused in their crunch.
“The pieces bearing this insignia are fashioned on the baron’s instructions, by an artisan at the historical Bazaar in Peshawar. I once watched the silversmith melting the silver in the fire. I caution you not to show this in public. The Pakistani mafia is strong in London and they would react unpredictably. The insignia is the personal mark of the baron. He gives such pieces only to his favoured operatives.”
“So where’s yours?”
“I lost it.”
“That tells me it was the cartel who shot the driver in Kolkata and saved my life. Why would they do that?”
“The baron has his reasons for everything. Perhaps the cartel was reminding Chatrawalia and the other judges to keep in line, or maybe it’s because, as I said, your father was one of the baron’s favourites.”
“And he was killed undertaking the baron’s business.”
“There’s nothing unusual about that.”
“Isn’t there?” Kal scanned the photos again. She felt sick. Utterly sick to her stomach. The article cited the teenager to have been fifteen years old. Had David Khan tortured them? What about all the other people her father killed? She felt contaminated, her heart turned to stone, yet, inside she knew part of her had always known the truth. And she’d tried to run away from it. Always denied it. Never wanting to face the fact her beloved father had been a highly skilled infiltrator and a trained killer who enjoyed his work.
“Why did you agree to see me? Why are you doing a favour for Richard Scott, he can’t be anything to the cartel.”
Dante wafted his hand as if he swatted a fly. “He isn’t. The activities of his ‘organisation’ are of no significance to us. His network is a mere ripple in the pool and those with such vices only open themselves to the baron’s use.”
Kal stared across the desk, using all her powers of deduction.
“Maybe the baron owes my father. Maybe you agreed to see me to close the circle after my father’s death, and this interview has nothing to do with Richard Scott, it has to do with my father and with me.”
Dante sucked on his sweets. “If that’s true, then any debt has been repaid, hasn’t it, in our intervention in India? Really, was it a good idea to meddle in affairs that are no business of yours? It was unwise to travel to Kolkata.”
“I want the cartel to help find my mother.”
“The baron is answerable to no one. Besides which, you should be careful what you wish for.”
She banged the flat of her hand on the desk. “I want the baron to help find my mother! I’m making a request, dammit.”
“I could put it to the baron on your behalf, though I strongly caution you to reconsider because firstly, I’m sure the answer will be negative, and secondly, it would be better, much better for you, if it were.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean!”
“It means that if the cartel does a favour for you, then someday a favour might be asked in return, and you will have no choice but to comply. You will be placing yourself in the baron’s debt.”
She didn’t care. It was Alesha’s last chance. Kal knew she was out of time. Once Spinks closed in, the syndicate would do everything in their power to destroy anyone and anything that could be used against them.
Dante leaned back in his chair. “Are you still certain about your reque
st?”
“Yes.”
He pulled a memory stick from the buff file.
“What's that?”
“Something which, though disturbing, might put the nightmares to rest. Facing reality is always the best way to move forward. Sandy will bring you a laptop and you can study the information, though I'm afraid I can't let you take it away.”
Dante got to his feet, indicating her audience with him had come to an end. She stood, steadying herself on the back of the chair and for a moment, the blues and reds of the Miro print swum together. Dante didn't move a muscle as she swayed, righted herself, then turned and walked towards the door. It felt like it was miles away. Only once she was safely on the other side did Kal let herself cave, and the whole force of her father’s betrayal came crushing down, threatening to stifle the life out of her. She stumbled the few steps back to the bar and collapsed at the nearest table.
Chapter Forty-nine
Kal lost herself in the throbbing music of the bar, knowing in her heart everything Dante said was true. David Khan had been insatiably ambitious and dangerous as a viper and though he’d shielded the bad part of himself from her, its suggestion had lingered around him, tainting his sweat, clinging to his pores. He was a murderer. A killer. That her father be operating as a lone wolf for the cartel, was in perfect keeping with his profile.
Gradually, she became aware of Roxy’s lacy-knickered butt, swaying on stage in time to the music. The red-headed waitress came alongside Kal’s table and placed down a drink and a laptop. The waitress pitched her voice to be heard amidst the music.
“I thought at first you were here for employment, only I guess that's not the case, though I can always tell by the way a woman walks whether she'd be a good mover on stage, and, take it from me, you'd be great.”
“I suppose that’s a compliment.”
“Don't mention it, and maybe you'd like something stronger than an apple juice? Looks like the boss really socked it to you.”
On some distant level, Kal noticed the waitress had the faintest trace of an accent. That minute detail acted like an anchor. One place of firm footing in a bleak sea.
Good Girl Bad Girl Page 25
