SKELETON GOLD: Dark Tide (James Pace Book 4)

by Andy Lucas

  They had only flown back to London the night before and now he was here for an update on the entire mess.

  ‘So,’ Pace started the conversation. ‘Where are we with everything?’

  ‘It’s all been cleaned up and nobody is any the wiser.’

  ‘What about Deborah Miles? As a journalist who has an axe to grind against ARC, won’t she be hard to manage?’

  McEntire shook his head, absently rubbing a dull ache in his left arm. Pace did not seem to notice. ‘I have a large media arm here, you know that. I have made her an offer she can’t refuse, in a senior role. I have also promised to spare no expense finding Josephine Roche and then making sure that the surgery is reversed.’

  ‘Quite right to,’ agreed Pace. ‘What about ARC though? It killed a lot of people and would have devastated whole countries if we hadn’t stopped them, especially as diseases rarely tend to remain contained and often spread far wider than predicted.’

  ‘ARC is an interesting one. In the same way as ourselves, the majority of their employees work in legitimate areas and run the genuine machinery of business. It was only a few select people, at the very top, who were involved. Some of them are obviously protecting their boss but we will find her, and make her pay for her actions. Maybe not publicly,’ he conceded darkly. ‘Anyway, we have withdrawn our technology and made sure that other suppliers have done the same. The executive will be very busy over the next few years staving off financial ruin and getting back on track. They won’t be threatening anyone again.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Pace remembered something suddenly. ‘What were you going to tell me about ARC, when we were dealing with the escaping flying boat? Is it still important?’

  McEntire nodded, reaching into a drawer and pulling out the three yellowed letters, hand-written by Paul Pringle, and recovered by his daughter and Charlene from her parents’ house. He pushed them across the desk, saying nothing.

  Sarah had refused to discuss the letters with him so now he read them himself, carefully digesting their contents. When he finished, he slid them back across the polished desktop and regarded McEntire intently.

  ‘As you can see, it is very clear why you found a German U-Boat at an abandoned British base in Antarctica.’

  ‘And why Paul Pringle found himself fighting for his life against German troops at the other base after the K-19 was hijacked. There must have been German infiltrators within the crew.’

  ‘Another U-Boat was probably moored nearby and landed the men who Pringle described in his last entries. Somehow, he managed to slip away from the base, despite his wounds, only to die alone in the desert and become buried by a century of shifting sand.’ McEntire was convincing.

  ‘Pringle suspected that something was up but he was old school. He would never have thought to question the loyalty of such a prominent person,’ suggested Pace. ‘These letters are disturbing.’

  ‘Especially when you consider that the founder of ARC was a German officer in the Second World War. Where do you think the money came to get things started? After the First World War, nobody had any money. Yet ARC started in the midst of chaos, growing with regular investments, year on year. I’ve had the historical records checked and most of the money comes from unspecified benefactors and unrecorded donors. But the really telling thing is that...’

  ‘All these injections of cash were made in gold, perhaps?’ guessed Pace correctly. ‘So that answers the question of where the gold from Antarctica went.’ McEntire nodded. ‘At some point, another submarine or small cargo ship rolled up and took it all away.’

  ‘Possible but that still doesn’t explain where the British personnel went. I’ve managed to obtain a list of who they were. All of them are listed as missing, lost at sea on an expedition to the Falkland Islands in November 1914. There is no record of any of them ever being seen again. And my list has thirty three names on it.’

  ‘It also doesn’t explain an entire crew of dead submariners either, or a U-Boat that looked as if it could be sailed away.’

  McEntire took a swallow of his own tea and rubbed his arm again. This time, Pace noticed. ‘Have you had that checked yet, or do I need to tell your daughter about your heart problem?’

  McEntire shot him a sour look, not even bothering to deny it. His private, in-the-know, specialist had now diagnosed angina, with the onset of heart disease brought on by too many years of fine food, smoking, stress, murder and mayhem. McEntire needed at least a triple heart by-pass within the next few months or risk suffering a catastrophic heart attack. He had agreed but had yet to book himself in for the knife.

  ‘Let’s stick to the matter at hand,’ he cautioned. ‘My team in Antarctica has run some tests on the bodies. There is enough evidence in some of the remaining, mummified tissue to suggest they died from bubonic plague. How, or why, I have no idea but infection must have swept over the entire crew, killing them all within a few hours.’

  ‘The U-Boat commander may have deliberately shut them inside that room to prevent anyone trying to leave. They knew what they were dealing with clearly,’ Pace nodded at the letters, ‘so the last thing they would have wanted is for Scorpion to make its way back to Germany. An accidental release from the lab seems most likely.’

  ‘Or a booby-trap left behind by fleeing British scientists?’ suggested McEntire. ‘That still leaves the problem of the gold. The amount injected into ARC over the years would hardly have made a dent in another two ton shipment. The rest is still out there, somewhere.’

  Pace didn’t care about the gold any longer. He was already thinking about getting back home so he could fall back into the loving arms of McEntire’s daughter. ‘In a nutshell then, this most secret of projects was compromised long before the K-19 was even seized. The Germans knew everything and planned to steal it for themselves.’

  ‘Rats were everywhere in the trenches,’ said McEntire. ‘All that the British needed to do was vaccinate their own troops using Dark Tide, and then infect all the rats in the battlefields with Scorpion. The German soldiers would contract a strain of bubonic plague that mutated to pneumonic faster than anything they could have known. In the days before antibiotics, it could have won the war for them almost overnight.’

  ‘They never used it, though,’ countered Pace. ‘Why go to all this trouble, and massive expense, and then not use it?’ Before McEntire could reply, the truth hit Pace between the eyes. Something that Fiona had said. That Dark Tide did not work. He said as much to McEntire, who nodded again.

  ‘The British found out that Dark Tide would not protect their men so the whole plan was shelved. They also knew there was a high profile traitor in their midst, feeding the Germans every secret but they didn’t know who. It seems they just cut their losses and tried to close everything down but the Germans beat them to it.’

  ‘Whatever happened to Charlene?’ Pace suddenly remembered her. He had found out all about her after his return to London. Her input had been invaluable, especially with the letters.

  ‘She has also joined us,’ McEntire chuckled. ‘She’s a feisty one, I can tell you, and will make an excellent addition to the business. We are always looking for the brightest talent and her mathematical genius will come in very useful.’

  ‘So, everything is fine,’ decided Pace. ‘I can leave this office, go home, and book myself another holiday. I keep getting paid a salary but never seem to be able to spend any of it,’ he added good-naturedly. ‘Unless something else needs sorting?’

  McEntire regarded him thoughtfully. ‘No, not at the moment, although there’s something a little disturbing over in Nepal right now. I haven’t been asked to get involved yet but it may happen. If it does, you’ll be back in the thick of it.’

  ‘That’s for another day. I’m off.’ He stood up, leaned over, quietly reminding McEntire to follow whatever doctors’ orders he had been given. McEntire sent him away with a bubonic plague-free flea in his ear.

  Down on the street, Pace hailed a cab. He had chosen no
t to drive that morning and instead had opted for a taxi, door to door. It was expensive but he was still a little jet-lagged and did not see the point in taking unnecessary risks. For any McEntire-related risks, his ankle holster always held the familiar shape of a small .25 Colt, loaded with hollow point bullets.

  On a whim, he asked the driver to take him past Buckingham Palace and The Mall before heading out of the city. Seated in the back of the ubiquitous London black cab, he looked at the historic palace with new eyes, remembering the contents of Pringle’s secret letters to his wife.

  Pace now understood how the Germans had learned about Scorpion and Dark Tide. A traitor had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of men. A traitor who, until today, had lain shrouded in the veil of history. One thing was for sure, he knew he would never be able to think about the monarchy in the same way again.

  ‘Okay. That’s fine,’ he said to the driver. ‘Take me home please.’

  Back in his office, alone again, Doyle McEntire took out a huge Cuban cigar, bit off the end, lit it with a desk lighter and puffed on it contentedly for a moment, watching the aromatic swirls of blue smoke rise to the ceiling. Because he smoked in his office, it did not have a smoke detector fitted, which came in handy for his next job.

  One by one, he used the lighter to ignite the corners of Pringle’s letters. The secret they contained was better off staying a secret. Adding the burning letters to a large, glass ashtray, he watched them all burn to ash. When the final piece of yellow paper turned crisp and black, he let out a sigh.

  Now, he only had one more unpleasant task ahead of him. Picking up his encrypted phone, he dialled a number. It was answered rapidly.

  ‘That job we talked about. I don’t like it but I think you’re right. It does need cleaning up. I am leaving for home now so feel free to tidy up as soon as you want.’

  Cutting off the call, stubbing out his cigar in the ashtray, he left his office, closing and locking the door behind him. At her desk, the ever form of Rachel bade him farewell, watching him disappear into the elevator.

  All alone again, she sighed and got back to writing a letter that she was only half finished writing.

  Epilogue

  The elevator rode up from the empty foyer smoothly, passing the top floor that was accessible to all the McEntire employees and continuing to rise into the inner sanctum of the man himself. The occupant was well versed in the McEntire Corporation’s nefarious ways and had such a high security clearance that her thumbprint on the button granted her access to Doyle McEntire’s personal office floor.

  Set at the peak of the two-storey glass-encased pyramid that topped the high-rise McEntire Building, the elevator doors slid silently open without the typical electronic voice that usually announced an arrival.

  The reception area outside McEntire’s office lay largely in darkness except for a pool of soft light thrown by a desk lamp, positioned on the end of a desk that was guarding the entrance door into his private office.

  Rachel Crown sat at her desk and looked up, surprised to see the elevator arrive, especially since she had not been notified by lobby security and the voice software had been disabled.

  Instantly alert, she pulled her Sig Sauer P226 handgun from her desk drawer and rose, stepping away from the light, into the shadows, raising the automatic pistol.

  Her surprise was intensified as the slim figure of a woman emerged. Dressed in a dark blue trouser suit with matching flat shoes, her normally shoulder-length grey hair was neatly arranged into a bun on the top of her head in a manner that gave her the look of a prim and proper headmistress.

  The woman was of average height and very slim. She either exercised like a demon every day or did not eat much. Her hair colour, together with the visible wrinkles around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, hinted at an age in excess of fifty, perhaps even nudging sixty. The suit was also very tightly fitted and Rachel could tell immediately that there was no bulge of a weapon anywhere on her person.

  She lowered her gun and slipped it around to the small of her back, tucking it under of the thin leather belt that she was wearing; an unnecessary fashion accessory for the expensive cocktail dress she had slipped into only a few minutes earlier. A traditional little black dress, her shapely legs were clad in sheer stockings and her exclusive stilettos were from a designer store.

  Rachel had a night out planned with her girlfriends and she needed to get rid of whoever this was, quickly. Stepping back into the light, she coughed to get the visitor’s attention.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Rachel asked. ‘This area is off-limits, I’m afraid.’

  The woman regarded her thoughtfully through violet eyes. ‘I know that dear. I’ve been with the company for many years. Too many, probably.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ she said, attempting to hide her irritation. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is Doyle in his office,’ she enquired softly.

  Rachel frowned. ‘Is he expecting you?’ She ignored the question.

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘And your name?’

  The woman smiled wanly. ‘Barbara. Barbara Balvenie.’ As if she felt further explanation was needed, she added, ‘I’ve known Doyle for a very long time.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Rachel. ‘Unfortunately, nobody sees Mr McEntire without an appointment, no matter how long they’ve known him. And,’ she stressed the word, ‘I mean nobody.’

  ‘I was told that his secretary was someone to be reckoned with,’ Barbara chuckled, stepping further inside the room, allowing the sensitive doors to close behind her. ‘You must be Rachel?’

  Something wasn’t right. A nagging doubt began to claw at the pit of Rachel’s belly but she could not understand why.

  The stranger was no threat to her but the situation was very wrong. McEntire security was virtually impenetrable and yet here she was, waltzing into a secure area, as bold as brass. She must have the right security clearance, Rachel knew, for the elevator to bring her up to McEntire’s private floor but there was no appointment for her nor had anyone informed her that someone was coming up, as the protocol demanded.

  ‘Barbara,’ Rachel said coldly. ‘Mr McEntire is not here so you need to leave. I will let him know that you dropped by when he next comes in.’

  ‘Why did you do it, Rachel?’ Barbara asked suddenly. ‘Doyle pays very well and I’ve read your record. You have an impressive history in the field, working for us. I don’t understand.’

  The icy fear of realisation flashed across Rachel’s heart and her mind fumbled for a rebuttal at the same time that her hand flew back around to the gun.

  Barbara had argued with Doyle McEntire a couple of times since the ultra-sophisticated computer tracking software had followed a clever series of blinds and dead ends, right back to Rachel’s door. She had told him that Rachel was far too dangerous to try to reason with. There was no way she would give up her contact, or explain herself. When cornered, she would fight to the death.

  McEntire had reluctantly agreed, on this basis, to let Barbara handle things her way. He still hoped Rachel could be turned back but he’d been in the business long enough to know that a viper, so close to the nest, could not be allowed to remain.

  The flick of her wrist was imperceptible. Based on the Hollywood-glamorised systems from the Wild West, where a small Derringer would fly into a card shark’s desperate grip propelled by a mechanical device strapped to the forearm, the modern equivalent worked flawlessly. Instead of a stubby Derringer pistol, Barbara’s hand was instantly filled with a .25 Colt automatic, loaded with vicious hollow-point ammunition. It even sported a very short silencer.

  Rachel knew she was beaten even as her fingertips closed around the butt of her own gun. For a moment, she froze, momentarily undecided.

  ‘Don’t,’ warned Barbara coldly. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Rachel, still amazed at the speed at which she had been caught out.

  ‘My nam
e is Barbara Balvenie, I told you,’ she said. ‘You might know me by a more familiar code name. After all, you have been inside this organisation for years.’ Barbara paused, levelling the gun at Rachel’s chest. ‘They call me The Janitor.’

  Death pricked up fleshless ears at the sound of the name, which was a familiar one to Rachel. Like ringing the dinner bell, or chumming a stretch of ocean with blood and fish guts, use of that particular name usually meant a soul needed reaping.

  ‘The Janitor,’ repeated Rachel, suddenly understanding the full extent of her own failure. Of course she had heard the name. The Janitor was the McEntire Organisation’s very own enforcer. Spoken of in hushed tones but typically written off as a myth, created by Doyle McEntire right back in the early days to add teeth to his expectations of total loyalty and secrecy.

  ‘I am here to help you clear your desk, so to speak. Your services are no longer required.’

  Rachel was not a helpless victim and a plan was hatching in the back of her mind. Careful not to move her arm, or give Barbara any excuse to shoot, she wondered if this supreme killer’s ego could be baited.

  ‘I am impressed,’ she began slowly. ‘I won’t bother denying anything. You wouldn’t be here if there was any doubt, I’m guessing?’ Barbara shrugged, her eyes never twitching away from Rachel. ‘McEntire does pay well and I have been loyal for years. I don’t have anything against him but an offer came my way that was just too good to turn down.’

  ‘Who are you working for? Josephine Roche, I assume?’

  Rachel smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  ‘You can tell me now, or while you are dying,’ countered Barbara with a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘’Your arrogance seems linked to that little pea shooter of yours,’ sniggered Rachel. ‘Hollow points? I’m sure they are.’ She paused for effect. ‘I guess your reputation is warranted after all. Only, people have always thought that The Janitor was a supreme assassin. A man who would take apart any transgressor with his bare hands.’ Barbara’s gun arm did not waver. ‘Still, I guess that’s why you’ve been around for so long. An old woman who gets the drop on people with trickery. Nice, ' she added lightly.