Chapter 6
The little girl ran along the pavement in the French town of Le Havre, smiling in excitement and clinging to the dog lead as hard as her small hands could manage. At the end of it, the stout Papillon puppy seemed just as eager to be outside.
This latest addition to the family had been brought home just days earlier, and so far it was proving much more fun than Cassius, their balding, half deaf, half blind cat with only three teeth left – but sadly a full set of sharp claws.
How was it possible, the little girl wondered, to have a pet that was only good for scratching her hands whenever she tried to stroke it? No, Alphonse here was definitely much more fun, and he liked spending time outside with her, rather than wanting only to curl up on the sofa and stink up the house with a smelly litter tray, which she herself had to empty every day!
The girl came to a sudden stop alongside Alphonse as the dog became rather enamoured of a freshly painted lamppost.
Still smiling, she waited patiently as he did his business against it. That’s right, Alphonse. Do your thing, and when we get home we can go and chase that silly, boring cat around the house.
The thought made her giggle, and when Alphonse attempted to drag her away, she pulled at his lead and wagged her finger. ‘No, Alphonse, we have to wait here for Maman. She’ll be here very soon.’ As she continued to talk to her new best friend, she was oblivious to the loud voices emerging from inside the nearby jeweller’s shop with the small, varnished sign reading ‘Madame Bisset’ hanging above it.
‘Flawless, absolutely flawless,’ Madame Bisset exclaimed loudly, sounding extremely happy. ‘The fire within them is exquisite and the cut…’
Her customer, Herbert Pelosi, watched his potential buyer enthusiastically rotate the five-carat diamond between her fingers, as she scrutinised it with a magnifying loupe nestling in her right eye.
The woman lowered her hand and let the loupe drop into it. ‘Where did you get these?’
A barely noticeable smile formed on Pelosi’s lips. ‘They weren’t stolen, if that’s your concern.’
‘Ah, conflict diamonds. No difference to me.’ The woman’s head tilted back and she returned his smile. ‘How many do you have?’
Pelosi nervously looked over at the intimidating six-foot man wearing jeans and a navy zip jacket, sitting spread-legged on the edge of the leather couch and staring at him as if he was a juicy appetiser ready to be gobbled up.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ the woman said soothingly. ‘He only gets involved if a deal starts to get lively.’
Her words seemed to do little to reassure Pelosi, but he gave an understanding nod as she leant across the oak partner’s desk, her hands folded.
‘So, how many of these do you have?’
The small jeweller’s shop barely had enough room to accommodate all three of them given the glass display cases against every wall and the oversized desk they were sitting at. With a noticeably shaking hand, Pelosi reached into the pocket of his thick, grey duffel coat and pulled out a sizeable, purple velvet pouch. He carefully placed it on the table before her, then pulled on one of its drawstrings to release a batch of shimmering diamonds onto the green leather surface. ‘Forty of them,’ he said proudly, spreading out the stones with care. ‘And all of the same quality.’
The woman’s eyes lit up intensely and she returned the loupe to her eye and began moving it from stone to stone with enthusiasm. ‘Yes, yes, these are excellent.’
A few minutes of silent examination followed, then Madame Bisset sat back in her chair and rotated the loupe between her fingers. ‘I can offer you two hundred thousand.’
Her offer hung in the air like a bad smell and, still looking nervous, Pelosi gave a slight shake of his head. ‘They’re worth at least five.’
The woman stared at him blankly. ‘Maybe in the shops, but I take a cut to get them there. And besides, let’s not forget where they come from.’ She looked over at the goon on the couch and he now sat upright slowly, glaring at Pelosi. ‘Things aren’t going to get lively, are they?’
Pelosi glanced over at the man and then gulped anxiously. ‘Two and a half?’
She began to make clicking sounds with her tongue, swaying her head slowly from side to side. ‘I don’t think so but, if you insist, I could take these off your hands for nothing.’
The veiled threat was made worse as the man began to tap his large index finger impatiently upon his thigh. Pelosi gulped again and his breathing began to quicken as he offered a nod. ‘Two hundred thousand then.’
‘Good decision,’ the woman replied with an arrogant smirk. She then motioned to the goon, who stood up and unlocked a walnut panel in the wall behind him to reveal a small cast-iron safe.
‘Now, let’s seal it with a drink to show there’s no hard feelings.’
She reached into her desk drawer and retrieved a half-empty bottle of cognac along with three crystal tumblers, which she set out before her. The goon’s head re-emerged from the safe and he brandished a hefty stack of Euro notes.
‘I have to say, you’re a lot smaller than the usual delivery man,’ the woman remarked, eyeing Pelosi’s diminutive frame as she poured three glasses. ‘Something of a drawback in your business, I would have thought.’
Pelosi gave a weak smile, then he gestured to the pouch of diamonds still on the desktop. ‘It’s not about the size but the quality, wouldn’t you agree?’
This remark had the woman grinning, and with a nod she held the tumbler of whisky out towards him.
But the offer received a wagging finger from Pelosi. ‘I’m teetotal,’ he said, whereupon the glass was retracted and she reached once more into her desk and placed a juice carton before him. ‘Maybe this will be more to your liking.’
The goon, meanwhile, dropped the wad of notes in front of him, picked up one of the drinks and joined the woman in raising his glass. Pelosi tore off the straw, pricked it into the silver hole and raised the small carton in the air.
‘Santé,’ the woman announced before she and the goon both slugged their drinks down, while Pelosi gave a cautious suck on his straw.
‘And one for the road,’ the woman declared, picking up the spare tumbler and swigging it as quickly as the first. ‘Now, I would be happy to take any more of these darlings off your hands if they come along,’ she said, scooping all the diamonds back into the pouch. ‘But the price remains the same, given their… exotic origin.’
Pelosi sat expressionless for a moment, as all signs of nervousness evaporated, then he placed his drink carton down on the table and clasped his hands together. ‘I have to applaud your negotiating skills, but your lack of security surprises me.’
The woman immediately glanced over at the open safe, with its further bundles of cash lying inside.
‘Not really, as you would need a blowtorch to get into that,’ she replied confidently.
Pelosi’s whole demeanour continued changing as he sat up straight in his chair, with both arms draped casually over the armrests. A look of disdain now crept across his features.
‘That’s not what I was referring to.’
The larger man was now starting to sweat profusely. His lips tightened as he lurched forward, gripping his stomach.
‘This building’s security was child’s play and that lock on your desk isn’t worth the steel it’s made out of.’
As the goon now fell back onto the couch, writhing in pain, the woman also began to tremble. She stared over at the half-empty bottle, then seized it in her hand only to drop it to the floor before grasping at her chest.
‘What did you put in it?’ she choked out, as she now gripped her left arm, her whole body becoming rigid.
‘In your case, I think a heart attack.’
Pelosi rose from his chair and casually plucked the velvet pouch of diamonds off the table, sliding them back into his coat pocket. He then pulled out a black plastic bag from his other pocket, sucked the last dregs of his juice and dropped it into the bag along
with the stacks of Euros.
‘Mr Berger sends his condolences, but he believes you’ve started to become too greedy,’ Pelosi announced, stepping over the goon thrashing about in agony and beginning to bag the rest of the cash from the safe. ‘And greed always leads to conflict, does it not?’
With the last stack of notes secured, Pelosi looked down at the convulsing woman, then he leant over and wiped away the single tear rolling down her cheek. ‘First rule of business: the customer is always right.’
With a smile he turned and made his way past the now motionless goon to the opposite side of the desk. ‘The second rule is never underestimate the competition.’
As he watched the last moments of life draining from the woman, the mobile in his pocket began to vibrate. He retrieved it and took note of the number displayed, before tapping the green accept button.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re needed,’ a voice said coldly. ‘Is our business concluded?’
Pelosi looked down at the woman as her body slowly collapsed forward and her head struck the desktop with a hard thud. ‘It is now, Mr Berger.’
‘Good,’ Berger continued. ‘We need you here in the UK.’
Pelosi eyed his steel Tag Heuer watch and then made his way out of the shop. ‘I can be there soon,’ he said, only just missing the puddle of dog urine as he hurried onto the street, glaring menacingly at the giggling little girl holding the puppy’s leash. ‘Give me a couple of hours.’
There was a slight pause on the line before Berger’s cold voice returned. ‘Quick as you can, then. Your particular talents are required.’
Chapter 7
Dark blue waves lapped foamy brine against pale grey rocks below as Harker gazed out across the Strait of Gibraltar towards the northern tip of Africa, so clearly visible upon the horizon on this glorious morning. With only nine miles separating the two continents, it must have seemed such a tease to early African travellers yearning to know what lay beyond the towering limestone cliffs they could only see but not touch. Although in the modern era it was only a short trip by boat, back then it must have seemed like a formidable expanse that only dreamers might contemplate and only conquerors dare to attempt.
Harker closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath of clean salty air, enjoying a moment of tranquillity before once again this was shattered by the sounds of raised voices from a blue Portakabin behind him.
They had taken the jet from Bristol after a frustrating delay due to engine problems, most of which time Harker had spent snoozing on an uncomfortable airport lounger, until the pilot had finally woken him and informed him the issue had been resolved. The good news, though, had become tainted when Doggie appeared, looking far more refreshed, and explained that they had both been allowed access to the far more comfortable business-class lounge.
‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ was the dean’s excuse, but the wry smile accompanying his apology had only served to rile Harker further. So he didn’t feel too sorry for him when, during their landing at Gibraltar airport under a heavy wind, Doggie had gripped the edge of the armrest, his knuckles turning white, as their aircraft was buffeted back and forth until both its wheels touched the runway.
The trip had taken a little under three hours, followed by a short ten minutes’ drive in a rental car to Europa Point at the southernmost tip of the Rock. There Doggie had insisted that Harker wait until he had cleared the air with Barbara Holtz. But after five minutes of raised voices, this didn’t seem to be making any difference.
With his patience beginning to fray, Harker took a final deep breath of invigorating air and headed over to the Portakabin, which was guarded by a local policemen, courtesy of Xavier Botha. After an approving nod from the officer, Harker rested his hand on the door handle, then paused as he hearde paused at he dfjdefl; his name being yelled in anger for the umpteenth time. It was obvious now that Dr Holtz had far from forgiven him his past transgression, and with a dismayed shake of the head he swung the door open and entered.
Harker barely had time to close it behind him before a gravelly voice yelled at him accusingly. ‘You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face here, Alex Harker.’
Barbara Holtz was not a woman to be trifled with. Hailing from Glasgow, she had a brash, unyielding Scottish accent and – despite a five-foot-two physique – lungs that could have frightened a fully grown elephant seal during mating season.
‘It’s good to see you too, Barbara,’ Harker replied, mustering a smile despite Doggie’s discouraging frown.
‘Not long enough since last time,’ Holtz growled, taking a moment to straighten the blue T-shirt tucked into her worn khaki shorts. ‘I hoped never to see your miserable-looking face again.’
When confronted with someone who would clearly have your guts for garters, there are only two things you can do: either grovel profusely or fight back in earnest. And given the woman’s loathing for anyone showing the slightest weakness of character, Harker opted for the latter. ‘Believe me, the feeling’s mutual. But seeing as your life may be in severe danger, I decided it was worth making the trip.’
That single sentence produced more of an effect than Harker expected. Although she was still visibly fuming, Holtz’s demeanour appeared to soften – although not by much.
‘So you’re the one to thank for the policeman at my door, are you? Yes, Tom here already told me.’
‘As I was just explaining to Barbara, we believe the deaths of Dr Khan and Dr Wexler may not have been as accidental as they might appear,’ Doggie ventured.
‘Ridiculous! Marsouk smoked like a chimney, so he was just begging for a heart attack, and as for Michael…’ Holtz paused, and for the first time she looked concerned. ‘Well, he’s been suffering from depression on and off for years.’
‘So you did know them both?’ Harker said.
‘I took over their positions here in Gibraltar,’ she replied glibly, resuming her defensive stance, ‘and that’s that.’
‘Perhaps… or perhaps not,’ Harker replied, whereupon she began to shake her head and clench both fists tightly.
‘Perhaps rubbish, and anyway, I told you last time we saw each other that I never wanted to see your face again.’
The event leading to the breakdown in their relationship had been unfortunate but in no way deliberate on Harker’s part. During a function at Cambridge University to honour a selection of renowned archaeologists from around the world, Harker had been asked to make a welcoming speech to his fellow scholars. The short speech had gone fine, and even received a few laughs in the right places, but it was the selfie he had taken whilst giving it, and then posted on the university website, that had caused all the trouble. The photo had not only included himself but also the next speaker, Barbara Holtz, waiting just offstage, who had arrived late for the event and was still frantically slipping into her evening dress. The white, shiny gleam of Barbara Holtz’s bottom was captured in the lower left hand corner of the frame and the image had managed to remain on the website for a whole twenty-four hours before being noticed and then deleted by Harker himself. Unfortunately for Barbara, most of the evening’s attendees – and pretty much the entire student body – had viewed it by then. She had never forgiven him, believing wholeheartedly he had done it deliberately. As university professors within the archaeology department, there had always been a healthy rivalry between them, but after the ‘Moongate’ scandal, as it became known, their relationship had descended into a deep hatred on Barbara’s part. She had left Cambridge a few months later to focus on fieldwork, and even though her teaching position had always been considered temporary, Harker suspected her departure had been hastened by his embarrassing faux pas.
‘Now, Barbara, I swear I never took that photograph deliberately. And as I’ve said so many times before, I am truly sorry about it. Isn’t it time now we put all this behind us—’ He stopped mid-sentence as Holtz’s eyes widened at his choice of words. ‘What I mean is can you please forgive me?’
Barba
ra Holtz eyed him with deep suspicion for an uncomfortable further ten seconds and then, with a shrug, she offered him a nod. ‘Fine, Alex, but don’t ever expect us to be great friends.’
As Harker mouthed a thank you, Doggie’s face was already lighting up with satisfaction.
‘You see, it’s all now water under the bridge,’ he said, before transferring his full attention to their hostess. ‘No one even talks about Moongate anymore.’
That flinty-eyed look of annoyance was back and Holtz briefly rubbed her forehead in frustration before glaring back in Harker’s direction. ‘What do you want, Alex?’ she snapped.
This was probably as civil as it was likely to get, so Harker grasped the opportunity before Doggie – now looking somewhat embarrassed – could manage to screw things up any further.
‘I was hoping you could take a look at this.’ He pulled out his smartphone, brought up an image of the tattoo Mr Cordon had sent him a few hours earlier, and passed it over to her. ‘What do you make of it?’
At first Holtz gave the image only a fleeting glance, but then, squinting, she began to study the screen with closer scrutiny. ‘Where did you take this?’ she asked, not bothering to look at him but transfixed by the photo.
‘It was taken from the body of a dead man,’ Harker announced, not yet wanting to confuse the issue by describing the corpse’s bizarre appearance. ‘Tattooed on the inside of his skin.’
‘What?’ Holtz gasped, appearing uncharacteristically flustered.
‘The man had clearly been tortured, and we believe he revealed your name, along with those of your former – now deceased – associates, to his tormentors.’
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