That shook me. I was going to have to give up poker. I think I went a little pale. Piet, of course, knew nothing about my escapades in Switzerland. He looked at me curiously.
‘They are at the bottom of the lake, with your aeroplane.’
‘I thought so. You did not even try to save them? Or did you perhaps keep them for yourself?’
I sat down and told him the whole story, how I’d tried to get everything out, the slide to the bottom of the lake, how I’d had to cut the bag free. I didn’t tell him about what happened on the surface afterwards.
Piet seemed to enjoy the story; he sat rapt, shaking his head now and then. When I got to the bit where I was trapped inside the aircraft and it began to slide he grimaced, thrust his hands between his legs and clamped them together.
‘No problem.’
‘What?’
‘No problem. We are very happy you saved the osmium, the rest was small change, an opportunity, a little business from my associates.’
‘The money; counterfeit?’ I asked.
‘Very good Mister Stark.’
‘So you’re not angry with me?’
‘Of course not. How can I help you now?’
No more small talk. ‘Can you supply five hundred tons of yellowcake?’
‘No problem.’
‘How much?’
‘He looked me straight in the eye. ‘Twenty-five thousand dollars per ton.’
It didn’t take me long to work out that there would be nothing left for me. I didn’t want to be greedy, but I had to get something to make this all worthwhile. I pursed my lips, shook my head, ‘Sorry, with the governor’s cut that’s over my budget. Twenty-three? ‘ I expected him to haggle; I really did. But he surprised me. ‘No problem my friend. Now we drink.’ The deal was concluded without even a handshake. He raised his glass, waited for us to do the same and then swallowed the lot.
Piet and I downed ours. The vodka was cold, viscous, strong; it slid down my throat like an angry oyster.
We finished the bottle. Before the next was empty we were carousing like old friends at a high school reunion. We hugged, kissed and regaled each other with tales of battle (Piet and I) and murder (Vladimir). When the second bottle was finished Piet and I finally managed to tear ourselves away and, with our arms around each other’s shoulders, weaved our way back to his house. It was in darkness: Caprice had not bothered leaving a welcome lamp on.
We tried to keep as quiet as possible and failed miserably. We bumped noisily into the furniture and stumbled over each other, like two drunks in a melodrama. Eventually Piet managed to find my room for me, left me there, disappeared to his.
I stripped off, left my clothes next to the bed where they had fallen. When I lay down I expected the room to spin, but it didn’t. I wasn’t as drunk as I thought I was.
Sleep was about to take me, there was a noise from the door. The curtain was still open and by the light of the moon I saw the door handle move.
Chapter 43
I stared at the handle for a moment, thought it was a trick of the light, my alcohol addled brain playing jokes on me. Then the door began opening, slowly, a millimetre at a time. I lay frozen with indecision.
Mossad had managed to find me, get past the security. There was nowhere for me to go. The window was barred. And if I did make it outside, what then?
I decided to feign sleep, wait until the assassin approached and then, when he was close enough, go down fighting. Rather the Light Brigade than a firing squad. I lay still and watched with slitted eyes. There was enough moonlight for me to see a figure entering the room, but not enough to be sure who it was. The figure approached the bed. I tensed. A hand reached down for my face, I waited, waited for the last moment; my only weapon was surprise.
The hand clamped down on my mouth; long cold fingers. Not a man’s fingers, Caprice’s!
‘What the fuck?’ Her hand muffled my protest.
‘Shshsh. You’ll wake Piet.’ She took her hand away and stood up.
‘Christ you gave me a fright.’ I whispered, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘What do you think?’
My eyes were getting used to the light. She was wearing a diaphanous nightdress that hid nothing. She dropped it on the floor and knelt down next to the bed.
‘Go back to your room.’ I hissed. ‘Piet will fucking kill us.’
‘He’ll kill you.’
‘Christ.’
She slid a hand under the sheet, grabbed my dick. It flinched. She smiled. Keeping a firm grip on my growing erection, she whipped the sheet off me with her other hand.
I made a last ditch attempt to prevent the inevitable. ‘Why me? Why don’t you go and fuck your husband?’
‘I’m bored.’
The lights finally came on for me. ‘And you get your kicks by fucking your husband’s friends. It’s the thrill of getting caught isn’t it?’
She put her free hand over her mouth, pretending to be shocked. Then she smiled, and swallowed me.
According to Bill Clinton a blowjob isn’t sex. Yeah right. I can vouch for the fact that it definitely is. I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy it, I did. But afterwards I felt used, like an abandoned dildo. When she had finished with me she went as silently as she had come, left me lying there in my own juices. I had some idea what it was like to be raped.
The next morning after I had showered and dressed I found them in the kitchen, eating breakfast. Piet looked like shit. Caprice was swaddled in a more conservative nightgown.
‘Come and have some breakfast.’ Piet said, spraying bits of toast onto the table. ‘Sit. Caprice will make something for you.’
Like the dutiful housewife she stood and went over to the kettle. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Tea please; and a slice of toast.’
‘Nothing else?’ There wasn’t the slightest trace of innuendo in her voice, but we both knew what she meant.
‘No thanks, just tea and toast.’
Piet wiped a smear of Marmite from his lip with his napkin. ‘You sleep well?’
‘Yes thanks. You?’
‘Like a brick. Don’t remember a thing ‘till I woke up this morning.’
‘Me too. Out like a light. Don’t remember a thing.’
The kettle boiled; Caprice brought me a cup of steaming tea and two slices of toast. She sat opposite me.
‘What’s your plan today?’ Piet asked.
‘I need to use your phone, contact the buyer if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure.’
I was just taking the second bite of my toast when I felt something warm near my groin. Caprice smiled; it was her foot pressing gently into my crotch. I’d never met a nymphomaniac before. I’d fantasised about it of course, but never actually met one. And now that I had, I wished I hadn’t. She winked and set to work with her toes. She wasn’t just a nymphomaniac, she was psychotic.
Piet was too intent on his fried egg and bacon to notice what was going on. I shifted back in my seat, tried to get out of her reach. But she just slipped down in her seat a little and continued the massage. Despite my best intentions, I had a growing hard on. There was no doubt that Caprice was enjoying my discomfort. So I played my only trump, I ignored her. She soon lost interest, took her foot back, sucked air noisily through her teeth. Piet looked up from his egg at her. She smiled and took his hand in hers, reached over and kissed him on the cheek. I knew that I had to get out of there immediately, knew I couldn’t spend another night in that place. I’d rather face Mossad than Caprice on a good day.
I finished the last of my breakfast and took the satellite phone outside to make my calls.
I called Jahangir first.
‘Balé.’
‘It’s Noah.’
‘You have the goods?’ He sounded excited.
‘Yes.’
‘At the price we discussed?’
‘Yes. I will give you the details before delivery. But I need my commission in cash.’ Vladimir’s acceptance of the t
wenty-three thousand left two thousand per ton for me: a million dollars. I wanted it in cash, no more having my money tied up in a bank by the CIA.
‘Good, good. There is an airport nearby?’
‘Close enough,’ I said. ‘They will deliver it to the airport.’
‘There is one more thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We have an expert who wants to verify the purity of the consignment before delivery.’
That was exactly what the CIA wanted; but I didn’t want to be seen to be baiting the hook myself. ‘Can’t we send him a sample?’
‘No. He would like to see the production for himself.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. When does he want to come?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow! That soon. How will he get here?’
‘I will tell you as soon as I know where you are.’
‘Of course. I forgot. Lubumbashi in the DRC.’
‘Can you organise landing clearance for our aircraft?’
‘Sure. That’s part of the deal.’
He gave me the details of the aircraft, a Ukrainian registered Ilyushin 76, a huge four-engine jet transport once used by the Russian military. They weren’t wasting any time.
I called Bill next. Radka answered.‘Prosím?’
‘Ahoj Radka. Is Bill there?’
‘I put you through Mister Noah.’ No pleasantries; unusual for Radka.
‘Hello?’
‘Bill it’s Noah.’
‘Noah?’ he sounded shocked.
‘Yes. Noah. Your partner. Remember?’
‘Bloody hell Noah. You back?’
‘No. Did you find out anything about Denis?’
‘Yeah. He’s staying with his sister in some place called Rock Billy, or something like that.’
‘Rock Billy? Where the fuck’s that?’
‘How should I know? South of France somewhere, I think. Radka found the sister online. She gave me the address. I’ve got it here somewhere…’ I could hear the rustle of papers on Bill’s desk as he searched vainly for the note.
‘I didn’t know Denis had a sister.’ I said.
‘Didn’t you?’ He seemed uninterested.
‘He never told me.’
‘No. I suppose he didn’t want you sniffing around there while he wasn’t looking. Where the fuck is this paper? RADKA….’
I lost the connection, didn’t bother calling back. Denis seemed to be okay, probably had switched his phone off for a bit of peace and quiet.
I slipped quietly back into the she-wolf’s den, hoping for a bit of peace and quiet of my own.
Chapter 44
Back in the house, Piet and Caprice were both dressed, waiting.
‘You find him?’ Piet asked.
‘Yes… No… It seems he’s gone to visit his sister somewhere in the south of France.’
‘I didn’t know Denis had a sister.’ Piet said.
‘Neither did I.’
‘The buyer is arriving tomorrow to verify the quality of the yellowcake. They’re coming to Lubumbashi in an Ilyushin.’ Piet said.
‘They’re not wasting any time.’
‘No. I need to get back to Lubumbashi to organise the landing clearances and make sure the governor gets his money.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘It’s not necessary.’
‘I want to. There’s bugger all for me to do here anyway.’ He went to his bedroom and emerged a few seconds later with two pistols. He strapped one to his belt and handed me the other. ‘Just in case.’
It was a Browning 9mm: old but reliable. He also gave me a vest, the type big game hunters wear when they want to look macho: padded right shoulder and cartridge loops on the front. It would serve to hide the gun without cooking me at the same time.
‘Thanks.’
He put an arm around my shoulders, squeezed, ‘Just like old times hey?’
‘Yeah.’
When we arrived in Lubumbashi, we went straight to the governor. He had exchanged his flag-suit for one in lavender. If it wasn’t for the wife I would have thought him a poof.
He ushered us through to his study, dominated by a large gilt framed portrait of the assassinated President. I was about to ask, ‘Why Laurent? Why not Joseph?’ but he had other things on his mind.
‘Et alors!’ He rubbed his hands together – fact. ‘How were your negotiations at the mine?’
‘Très bien.’ For a moment I thought of getting greedy, trying to push his price down, trying to make a bit more for myself. But to be honest all I wanted to do was get the whole thing over with, get back to Prague and Martina. I just wanted it all to be over. ‘The Russians are tough, but there was just enough left over for your fees. I have notified the buyer and they have already transferred the full amount.’ Of course I was blagging, didn’t know anything of the sort, but it had the desired effect.
‘Excellent, excellent.’ If he rubbed any harder he was going to start a fire. ‘Would you like a small Cognac to celebrate?’
I was about to shake my head, get up and go; but Piet put a hand on my arm. ‘Ja. We’d love to thank you.’ He looked at me; I got the message. It was an essential part of the grease; we needed to follow the rules.
It was a damn good Cognac. Martel Cordon Bleu I think. I don’t normally drink Cognac in the morning, after breakfast. But it slipped down like satin; very moreish.
We stayed for more, then went to Piet’s office, sent a fax to Jahangir with the governor’s bank details, asked him to do the transfer right away. There was nothing else to do but wait, so we returned to the Park Hotel, checked in, went to the bar for a few beers.
Chapter 45
The beer finished the job that the Cognac had started. Piet asked about how I had come to be selling uranium; I took that as an invitation to regurgitate the whole story. By the time I had finished a few beers later, Piet knew everything too. I’m normally the strong silent type, don’t give anything away, but I’m a real blabbermouth when I’m pissed.
We spent the rest of the day sucking beers, ignoring the relentless sun: talking more shit.
He told me that after leaving the Legion he’d got a job as a professional hunter in South Africa. It didn’t last.
‘You ever done any hunting?’ he slurred.
‘Animals? No.’
He laughed, shook his head. ‘Some of the clients were okay. Just wanted a piece of Africa, a story to take home. But the okes that wanted to shoot the predators, most of them are arseholes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well what you want to shoot a lion for anyway hey?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Ja, I know you don’t. But some okes do. They think it makes them a man.’ He grabbed his crotch to illustrate the point. Fortunately it was too early for the night fighters. They would have been all over him like ants on condensed milk. ‘They want to go home and tell their mates that they’ve shot a lion or a leopard. But it’s all bullshit.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re never in any danger and most of them can’t shoot straight anyway. Well maybe they can, on a range, but when it comes to potting a lion most of them can’t hit a bloody thing. I ended up doing the job for them. Then they pose for pictures and probably tell all their mates how they tracked it down single-handed. Makes me sick.’
‘That why you left?’
‘Ja. There was this one oke: an American. He wanted to shoot a Rhino.’
‘Black?’
‘No he was a white oke.’
‘Not the hunter, the rhino.’
‘Oh… No… He couldn’t afford a black rhino. He couldn’t shoot straight either, so I had to shoot the bloody rhino after he potted it in the leg.’
‘What happened?’
‘He died.’
‘The rhino?’
‘Ja; and the yank too.’
‘You shoot him?’
‘No man, he died in a plane crash. That’s why I gave up the
hunting. Then I came here.’
We’d both obviously had too much beer. Piet wasn’t making any sense, so I dragged him through to the restaurant to get some food in us before the wheels really fell off.
There’s nothing like a half a kilogram of filet to sober you up. Trouble was we washed it down with two bottles of red. Through a small window of lucidity Piet told me how he’d spotted the job in the Sunday paper.
‘I saw an ad in the Rapport, ‘Head of Security required for a mine in the DRC.’ I phoned them the next day. Some Russian answered and I met him for lunch at Menlyn Park. He offered me a shit load of money, so I said ‘Okay, what the hell,’ and here I am.’
‘When was that?’ I asked
‘About eighteen months ago. They were still finalising the contract, didn’t need me for a month. But they started paying me straight away so I went to Italy on holiday. Always wanted to go there.’
‘And that’s where you met…’
‘…Caprice.’
The waiter filled our wine glasses. Piet broke stride, sipped, stared silently into the ruby liquid.
I was about to change the subject when he suddenly looked me in the eyes and asked, ‘You ever been in love man?’
This wasn’t the normal dinner talk between two soldiers, but I saw that he was hurting, so I answered honestly, ‘Yes.’
He was surprised, ‘Really? You!’
‘What’s so surprising about that?’ Defensive.
‘Nothing. Just I never thought you… I mean… It’s just you always nailed anything with a pulse.’
‘That bad?’
‘Ja.’
My turn for silence. But when I’d thought about it for a few seconds I realised he was right. Well, not anything; it had to be female.
‘Who?’
‘What?’
‘Who were you in love with?’
‘Not was; am.’
‘Dinkum?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Martina?’
I’d told him about her earlier, during my drunken monologue. ‘Yeah.’
Piet reached across, patted me on the back with an unsteady hand. ‘I hope she’s not nailing those two Yugoslav okes while you’re away.’
‘Kosovars.’
Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller Page 21
