The Black Rose Conspiracy

by James McKenna

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Pug.”

  “You’re late,” Sean said, knowing now how the man got his name.

  “I’ve been watching you, mate, making sure nobody else watched you.”

  “Why should they? I’m playing in the open.”

  “That’s on one level, but the Wicked Witch has you set up for another, or didn’t she tell you?”

  “Only to watch for Victoria.”

  Pug grinned. “If only life could be so pleasant. I’ve a surprise for you. Finish your drink then turn left out the bar. Follow the water line to the far beach. Before the sand you’ll find steps leading up above the town. I’ll see you at the top. There are no lights up there, no houses, just a road.” Pug paid for his drink and manoeuvred back amongst the crowd.

  Ten minutes later Sean left the bar and strolled along the front amidst the buzz of promenading people. More yachts now lay in the still waters. Occasionally a dinghy ferrying between yachts and harbour, caused a ripple on the surface and disturbed the reflected circles of portholes beneath gleaming hulls. Down a dozen narrow turnings leading from the waterfront back through the town, market stalls and tavernas vied for night trade. Bouzouki music wafted down every street and the smell of cooking drifted from doorways. Passing the white shirted waiters who extolled the wondrous cuisine of their restaurants, Sean felt the first onset of hunger and looked with envy at the women who sat in clusters around pavement tables. For the first time he realised how many single females were in Lakka, hundreds of them, maybe thousands.

  Along the waterfront more women crowded the dozen bars whilst others sat beneath the string of lanterns looped from pole to pole. Occasional men stood amidst their company, a lot of them holding hands.

  The lanterns ended with the concrete and Sean continued on a sandy path until he saw steps rising between the beachfront houses. In semi-darkness and isolation, he began to climb the steep gradient, stopping twice to ensure he wasn’t followed. Pug waited at the top, his dark silhouette lit only by the stars and moonlight.

  “OK, Pug,” Sean said. “What’s the situation here? Just who are we hiding from?”

  “I wish I knew, but according to the Witch they kill people. That’s enough for me, I don’t want to fuck with them.” He led off down the road with Sean striding beside him.

  “Pug, I don’t walk blind. Just what the fuck are we doing?”

  “From information received, Krata will arrive on a yacht tomorrow. He’s a flash bastard so it will be big, something to impress our widows. That means it will need deep water anchorage and the only safe place is below the cliff midway to the headland, away from the harbour but close to a secluded beach. The hillside there is covered in olive trees and because it’s hard to reach, few people go there. But it’s ideal to look down on a yacht below.”

  “You going to keep watch there?”

  “No, mate, you are. I’ve spent the last five nights digging a hole and getting rid of the soil before daybreak.”

  Pug stopped and climbed over a wall. During the five minutes since leaving the town Sean’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and he saw a reasonable outline of what lay around him. Slipping over the wall he watched Pug lift a finger for silence.

  “The track stops here,” Pug whispered. “Up to the left is a farm where an old boy and his missus live. Fortunately they never go anywhere, but watch out for their dog.”

  Around the bay the bright lights of Lakka were alive with noise and people. In between, the tall masts of yachts stood in isolation from each other. Pug stopped and lined himself up with red and green lights which festooned the bars across the water.

  “They’re your reference points,” Pug said. “We’re about three metres from the cliff edge and deep water anchorage. Your OP is here.” He knelt and pulled back a timber weave of olive branches, earth and grass. Below lay the dark shadow of a dugout. “Get yourself in before dawn,” Pug whispered. “That's when Krata's yacht arrives. You’ll be holed up all day or they’ll see you. Bring plenty water. I’ve left a black plastic sack for you to shit in.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” Sean said, thinking of the prospect. “Do we know if Krata will hold a meeting with the widows, and what if it’s not on the boat?”

  “All these boats have a big afterdeck where people can sit and pose. If any, that’s where Krata will hold his meeting. It’s his temporary home turf and he can impress. I’ve directional mikes and cameras at the cliff edge, all with zoom lenses. There's a central recorder and control panel in the OP. With luck you’ll see and possibly hear everything they say. If you take the recordings out before morning I’ll get them flown to London.” He eased the cover back over the OP. “Your danger is in getting caught. Krata will have heavies and being spied on will get him uppity.”

  “I believe you,” Sean said, remembering his warning from the Wicked Witch. He was here without backup, without official protection, perhaps not even with official sanction. “But at least I’ve got a bag to shit in,” he said, and followed Pug back through the trees, both walking in silence until they reached the bar.

  “The night’s now yours mate,” Pug said.

  “Fine. So, you fancy a beer?”

  “Too risky, mate. If you get caught, they’ll kill you. And if I’m associated, they’ll kill me too.”

  “You’re very reassuring, Pug.”

  “I do my best, mate, and in case you're curious, the nose got blown off by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. Been called Pug ever since. Now, I'm going to look for a geezer called Joe Carver, ex-Army, ex-Police and total piss head. But I'm told he might be very useful.” He grinned and walked off into the crowd.

  Being cautious, Sean walked the whole town before deciding on a suitable restaurant. The bars were busy, the eating tavernas less so now the evening had moved on. Women were still in abundance, still the same age groups and ratio to men. As a single male he felt helped by the presence of the yachting fraternity. They were solid people and he was taken as one of them.

  He picked a taverna on the waterfront. It looked expensive, the setting edged the harbour and the clientele were conservatively dressed, the sort of place he figured senior DJP members might frequent. Of the two duties thrust upon him, he found it easier to socialise than be shot at.

  His smile for the waiters won him a waterside seat. On the neighbouring table three men and two women sat discussing the DJP. Sean ordered calamari, kleftiko and a carafe of white Demestica. Occasionally he smiled at the people opposite and received small twitches of recognition in return. All the time he listened to their conversation, waiting for an opportunity to make a comment. It came at the last moment after the group paid for their meal and were preparing to leave. One of the women said, “The police are utterly disillusioned. They catch criminals, then the courts let them go.”

  “As a serving policeman I couldn’t agree more,” Sean cut in, before anyone could reply. “Habitual criminals walk the streets not because their guilt is unproven but because of lenient courts.”

  All six stared at him, as if balancing whether to be affronted by his intrusion. Then one of the men nodded. “Are you here to attend the meeting?” he asked.

  “Yes, and more. To join the DJP at a level where my position can make a contribution.”

  “Well, Mr …”

  “Fagan,” Sean said. “Detective Chief Inspector Fagan.”

  “I’m Allsop.” The man extended his hand. “We certainly need men of your calibre, Chief Inspector. There’s a bar called Nicola further up the beach. It’s a bit female butch for me, but they have a list of all that’s going on. You should call in, mention my name. In fact there’s a party tonight. Villa Maria, just up the hill. See you there.”

  “Thanks,” Sean nodded and watched the group depart. Socialise, that’s what he had been told to do. Thank Christ there were at least some men in the DJP. He lifted his wine and toasted his own success. Across the open terrace another group rose to leave. All women this t
ime, Victoria and Denise among them. In the warmth of a velvet night both wore short skirts and skimpy tops. Both had their backs to him. He considered following, finding where Victoria was staying and asking her to come back for a drink at his secluded little hut.

  He watched as two of the girls in the group kissed, lightly but definitely sexually. He imagined Victoria’s tight smile of tolerance. Too straight-laced that woman, he thought. Then he watched Denise’s arm go around Victoria’s waist, watched Victoria kiss Denise’s ear and her thumb hook into the other girl’s waistband. Denise lowered her hand over Victoria’s rump then gently caressed as she pulled her closer.

  Sean sat with his glass poised between table and mouth and stayed motionless until they had left. Now that would explain a lot of things, he thought, and drank the wine in one swallow.

  Sean watched them pass. Was she pretending? Had she gone off men and into women? Surely she was play acting, surely. Staring after her departing figure he became aware the old woman who ran the bar was tugging at his sleeve.

  “Fifteen euros.” She held out her hand. Her body was draped in black, her face furrowed by wrinkles, her eyes held a hint of mockery. When young and the husband she now mourned was far away at war, had she found consolation for frustrated passion in the arms of another woman? Does she remember, during her wait for death, that illicit love of long ago? Would Victoria remember his love? Or had her desire for men become so cold she would never think back. Did the old woman’s husband return? Had she wanted his return? And where lay her fond memories, with her husband, or the other woman?

  “Fifteen euros.” Sean placed the money into her withered hand.

  She glanced to the girls and back again, her lips suddenly creased in a cynical smile as if to say, tough shit, we can do without you.

  “Efhareesto.” He returned her smile and dumped the straw Panama on his head. Walking along the harbour front he mused over what the hell he was doing. Why was he in love with a lesbian and dedicated to a job with no definable future? By dictate of his duty he was about to spend one, maybe two days laid up in holes for no definable reason, and to make sense of it, if he were caught, someone would shoot him. What he needed most was another beer.

  CHAPTER 17

  Nicola’s place had an open thatched bar which nestled beneath olive trees five metres from the water’s edge. A dozen tables stood in between, their chipped plastic tops hidden by pink paper tablecloths. A muscled, tattooed girl sat on a high stool out front, a prettier one poured drinks behind the bar while another grilled fish on a sizzling barbecue. The air lay heavy with the sweet scent of charcoal cooking and joss sticks. Two cats waited in anticipation. Another sat on the rock hard thighs of Nicola, chin up as it received her absent-minded attention.

  Victoria stepped off the concrete path on to the bar’s wooden decking. To one side a long trestle table bore a cardboard sign proclaiming it the offices of the DJP. All eyes were on her and Denise but Sammy’s eyes shone with recognition and surprise. The blonde girl sitting beside her also showed recognition, but her expression remained sullen. Both wore tee shirt dresses with the DJP logo.

  Sammy immediately stood to kiss Victoria’s cheek. “Welcome to our international office, Victoria. I’d rather meet here than in rainy London.”

  Victoria smiled back. “This is my friend Denise.”

  “And this is Jennifer, one of our American colleagues over to give a hand.”

  “We’ve met.” Victoria maintained her smile. “On a tube train, would you believe?”

  Jennifer’s expression attempted disinterest. “Welcome to dykes’ island. Looks like you’re enjoying your day.”

  Victoria returned her attention to Sammy, conscious the other girl’s eyes moved from body to her face. “We’re just looking to see if we can join in,” Victoria said. “Any gatherings or parties, you know.”

  “Sure,” Jennifer said. “But they’re all sleep around parties. You guys into sleeping around?” She put her feet on a chair and stared directly at Victoria.

  “We’re an item,” Denise said, also directing her gaze. “And we don’t sleep around, no matter what’s on offer.”

  Jennifer closed her knees. “Just testing.”

  “Take no notice of her, ladies,” Sammy said. “Underneath she’s simply a tart with a heart of gold.”

  Jennifer put out her tongue.

  Sammy picked up two cards from the table. “You want to go to a grown-up party there’s one running late into the night. The DJP leadership arrived this afternoon and there’s a reception at Villa Maria run by a guy called Allsop. Dress, smart-casual.” Sammy passed the card over. “We need people up there with intelligence. Jennifer will be serving drinks so no doubt you’ll take joy in keeping her busy.”

  “My pleasure,” said Denise.

  “You mean wear a longer skirt?” Victoria said, thinking she could hook up with Sammy for information. Denise could target the American blonde. The odd groping from Sammy would be worth the price. Also, she would feel less like the possession of Denise and more able to face Sean if they met by chance.

  “You want to be taken serious, dress discreetly,” Sammy said.

  “Can you get me introductions?” Victoria spoke straight to Sammy, excluding Denise.

  “If you want.” Sammy smiled back.

  “Item, my arse.” Jennifer stood and walked off to the bar.

  Denise stayed silent as they strolled to the beach, her hands thrust in her pockets, her gaze out across the harbour.

  “I trust we’re not sulking,” Victoria finally said.

  “You’re getting to be a brave little pussy.” Denise smirked. “Sammy’s only intention is getting her hand in your knickers. Sure you’re game?”

  “If I can ward off men, I can ward off Sammy. You concentrate on Jennifer. She’s one of a group looking after Eileen Baxter. So while you’re with her, allow her breath to talk.”

  Joe relaxed and watched the people walk by. Already on his second beer and with a ration of four, he drank slowly. The promenading was in full swing, visitors taking the evening air, admiring the yachts, judging the bars, the restaurants and each other. Joe ID’d the nationalities by their dress code. Germans in casual splendour, Dutch in faded shorts and singlets, Italians in the latest fashions. True Brits in polo shirts, collars rumpled, khaki slacks, sandals and socks; slap heads in vests and baggy shorts. Women strolled in summer skirts, no slip beneath, proudly brazen with holiday indifference to immodesty. Younger girls showed no modesty at all. Tikki’s bar felt a good place to sit.

  Away from the harbour, velvet blackness wrapped the night, the hills became boundaries closed by shadows. Lights gave the town a cocoon of activity showing coloured ribbons on the water, opaque green where it lapped the harbour wall. Joe sat in serious deliberation, to have another beer, or eat?

  The chatter of English voices came with a clutch of middle-aged women, two arm in arm, two deep in conversation, trailed by an Amazonian. Joe watched their progress, caught their glances in his direction, unobtrusive but scrutinising. He was conscious of straightening his back, lifting his head. Their clothes were smart, bodies honed. Too smart and honed to have incumbent men; divorcees. Kids grown, husbands dumped, these were their last years to make adventure. Watching the first he did not see the last until she had passed. The attraction was instinctive. Even from behind she was striking, short blonde hair, tight, trim figure. A loose white skirt allowed light to silhouette slim legs and hips. Only slight slackness in the upper arms betrayed her age. Joe swallowed his beer, ignored the warning of hair tingling at his neck. When had a good-looking woman ever been dangerous? His eyes remained on the movement of her retreating figure. Every male instinct told him to follow, every sensible one said no. He watched her receding amidst the strollers. To extract one woman from amongst five would be a formidable exercise. Maybe he was getting old, too old. Tikki brought him another beer.

  The blonde reappeared out of half-light, striking amongst those around h
er. She looked straight at him, frowned in disbelief, then smiled with pleasure. Her grey blue eyes remained the same, her smile was still sensual. In thirty plus years only soft lines had changed her face. She looked wiser, more mature but the magnetism remained, he felt the tingle as she touched his hand.

  “Joe Carver!”

  “Laura Manning.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” they said, simultaneously, both laughed. He clasped her arms, she his.

  “I always knew Paxos was magic.” He kissed her cheek and drew back to see her eyes glowing with emotion.

  In that moment the outer world ceased. Colour and noise became a shell which held them in isolation. A thousand memories had walked out of time past, to time present, beautiful memories wrapped in sadness.

  “Joe,” she embraced him. “How are you?”

  “Shocked.”

  “I don’t believe this can be true.” She moved back, keeping hold of his hands. “How long, twenty-five years, more?”

  “Thirty years at least. And I still have your Dear John letter.”

  She put hand to mouth. “Another life time, another world. But you look good, real good.”

  “You’re still gorgeous. How’s Silverman? Is he here?”

  Her smile faded. “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We parted long ago. When I passed first time you were looking at my friends, but I was looking at you. In the shock I walked straight by. I couldn’t believe it. I told my friends I had to come back.”

  “You must sit down, have a drink.”

  She half smiled, half grimaced. “I can’t. I’m with the DJP and we have a small social event in an hour. Any second now a snatch squad will materialise.”

  “Are you here long?”

  “Three days. We’re staying at a small hotel in Loggos.”

  On these words all four of her companions reappeared with the stealth of commandos grouped in battle formation, handbags held for close quarter combat, full body encounter if needed. Joe could see no quarter given. Clearly they considered one of their number in enemy hands.