Sunstroke

by Madge Swindells

  ‘He has many interests – shipping, wholesaling, distribution, many products.’ She waved her hands to take in the whole world. ‘I will have the cash sent to you. Give me your address before you leave. But meantime… Come, my dear. I will introduce you to some of my friends.’

  I gave her my card as she led me outside to the group of men beside the pool, who hardly bothered to be polite. They were talking about currency speculation, a subject on which I could hold my own. While I tossed in a few comments I was analysing their faces, trying to memorize their names, faces, accents and mannerisms, which would enable Father to find their true identities. Perhaps his paid waiter informer could supply their fingerprints, too.

  Each one of them looked like a caricature of a crook. Strange, that. Why did police always look the part, too? And undertakers. Really weird. And what was it that branded my companions? Their predatory eyes? Or their prematurely lined faces? What if they weren’t Mafia at all, but my bankers? In that unlikely case I would transfer my account elsewhere, I decided, smiling inwardly. I hung around until one a.m., and then I went home.

  No matter how late it was, I always reported to Father by e-mail. Lately my letters had been full of fears that our plan wasn’t working. Father always gave the same answer: ‘Be patient, we’ll soon get a nibble at the bait.’ At last I had a major breakthrough to report. I was about to launder a million dollars for Vittorio Cassellari, the man who had put a million dollars into Wolf’s Sarajevo account. We were getting somewhere at last.

  Chapter 53

  It was past midnight and I was on my usual beat, trying to look as if I enjoyed gambling. I was pocketing some chips when a waiter arrived with a martini on a tray.

  ‘I didn’t order anything.’

  ‘It’s from the gentleman over there. He sent this note.’

  I looked up and saw David. He winked and looked away, and so did I, but one brief glance was enough to send my blood racing, my eyes smarting, my hands trembling. I fumbled to open the note. ‘Must see you. Come to the yacht basin. There’s a boat called La Belle, which is moored at the quay immediately below the bus stop. I’ll wait there.’ I scribbled, ‘Yes!’ in bold letters across his note. ‘Give him this,’ I told the waiter.

  Nothing could keep me from him. I walked through the night, unhurried, loving the smell of the fresh sea mist. At midnight in Monaco, only the mountains are dark. Lights twinkle under a midnight blue sky.

  Why was I hurrying to meet David? Perhaps because I was sick of hungering for him and all that that entailed: nights of longing, dreams of lust, the passive state of being without love, where every joy turned tasteless. Enough was enough.

  David was crouched on a pile of planks. He stood up and caught hold of me, pulling me roughly against him.

  ‘You’ll never know how much I missed you, Naomi.’

  The dear, familiar sight of him, and the urgency of his desire, took me by surprise, releasing a flood of feelings. Once again I was running out of control.

  ‘Hurry,’ he muttered, clutching my hand, and leading me up the gangway. He pulled me into a cabin and lifted my skirt in clumsy, fumbling movements.

  ‘I nearly went crazy when you left. Oh, God. I love you, Naomi.’

  ‘I love you. I love you,’ I heard myself muttering.

  As we wrenched off our clothes, I gasped at the force of my passion. We fell back on the bed, arms wrapped around each other, lips and tongues mingling, bodies intertwined.

  ‘Naomi, darling.’ David groaned.

  Then it was over and I was lying on his shoulder loving the sight of him, wishing the night could last for ever. I felt sad about all the lies that were still to come and the gulf that must always keep us apart.

  Oh, God! Help me! Help me! There’s no place for love in my life.

  I lay there for a long time, clutching David, not wanting to speak, knowing that we had reached a point of no return.

  *

  We made love several times that night, but dawn came bringing sanity. I felt damp and soiled and furious with myself. I must have gone crazy. I sat up and glared at him. ‘Let’s forget this ever happened.’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘It’s only lust. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. This mistake won’t happen again.’

  We frowned at each other. I had never seen David look so tense, or so concerned. He kept running his hands through the stubble of his hair while shooting despairing glances my way.

  ‘Are you sure that’s what you want, Naomi? For how long can you keep lying to yourself? Why can’t you accept that you love me?’

  ‘I’m going to shower. Where’s the bathroom?’

  David pointed to a quilted pink door with gold thread all over it.

  ‘Enough to make you puke at this time in the morning,’ I grumbled. For the first time, I looked around.

  ‘Ugh!’ The room was huge, the bed enormous, and the decor was pink and gold and very glitzy.

  ‘The bed was soft, wasn’t it?’

  I could see that La Belle was an ocean-going yacht that must have put someone back several millions.

  ‘Whose boat is this?’

  ‘Belongs to a Syrian merchant who hires it out, so it’s mine for a while.’

  ‘And how did you find me?’

  ‘Not very difficult. I have good banking contacts. I picked up your trail through a credit check put out by the garage wrhere you bought your convertible. Then I thought, Where else would you look for criminals laundering their cash? I was going to wait every night for a week. This was the second night.’

  ‘Well done,’ I said flatly.

  In the bathroom, I considered my position. I had been extremely foolish. It would not happen again. I scowled at my reflection in the mirror. Stupid bitch! What was more important? My son’s life, or an affair? My eyes blurred with tears until I couldn’t see my reflection.

  I took a scalding hot shower, then drenched myself with ice-cold water, needing to punish myself and drive out weak emotions. Pulling my comb through my hair, I tried to work out why everything had gone so horribly wrong. The cabin was empty, and I was about to leave when David returned with two mugs of coffee.

  ‘Oh, thanks. Just what I need. David, listen, I think I’m getting somewhere. Things are moving at last. A woman called Carla has asked me to launder a million dollars. She’s giving me the money in cash tonight. The night before last I met Sergei Romanovitch at the casino and I went to his home. He wants me to team up with him, using the money Pm laundering to buy Russian antique jewellery for auction in Britain. This way Carla will get a cheque from the auction house in return for her dollars.’

  ‘Carla who?’ David said sharply.

  ‘Carla Maria Lo Bello. Sergei says he doesn’t have the cash to buy the pieces on offer right now. Also that dealers would put up their prices if they recognized him.’

  ‘What if he’s setting you up with fakes, Naomi? The seller could be his accomplice. This woman is linked with one of the biggest drug dealers in Europe. Try to think what he would do if you lost his money. It’s a phoney story and you’re being conned. Don’t do it.’

  ‘I must.’

  ‘You’re a hard-headed, stupid bitch. Is there any point in begging you not to?’

  ‘None at all, David. Sooner or later I’ll meet someone who will lead me to… to the man who set us up.’

  ‘But are you any better than him, Naomi? You’re breaking the law daily and kidding yourself that it’s permissible. You look so angelic,’ David said moodily, ‘but the truth is, you’re the opposite. You work for the worst kind of criminal and you stand to make a great deal of money out of it.’

  ‘In this case the end justifies the means,’ I said primly.

  ‘The end never justifies the means,’ David retaliated. ‘How much will you make from this deal with Sergei and Carla?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘I’m making you my business. I’m determined you’ll see the error of your ways. Do yo
u wonder that I lose faith in you, Naomi? So many lies, so much secrecy, and so much profit as the end result.’

  ‘God, David, you can be so self-righteous. I’ve told you, nothing counts except finding… our Anselmo con.’

  ‘For revenge?’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘To recoup your losses?’

  ‘You could put it like that.’

  ‘You have no possible justification for what you’re doing.’

  One of these monsters is bringing up my son, David. I need to get him back fast. That’s enough justification for me.

  ‘Yes, David, I believe that I do.’

  ‘Is revenge that important?’

  I hesitated. ‘Yes, it is.’ I was tempted to blab out everything and implore him to help me, but common sense prevailed. ‘David,’ I began tentatively, ‘if you knew that I was breaking the law because of something bad that had happened to me, would you help me do what I have to do?’

  ‘Not if it means helping these criminals to launder their money.’

  ‘Isn’t love unconditional? Wouldn’t you break the law to help me with something that was far more important to me than my own life?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But, David, suppose you had a child and it was threatened. Wouldn’t you do anything at all to safeguard your child?’

  ‘Forget it, Naomi. I would never give in to criminal demands.’

  ‘You have a lot of learning ahead, David.’ I felt sadness weighing me down.

  David saw my expression and this made him angry. ‘Don’t try to bamboozle me. It’s greed that’s driving you – greed for money, greed to get back what Anselmo owes you. You even believe the comforting lies you tell yourself. I’ve told you that I’ll find this man for you. If it’s revenge you want, I promise you he’ll get a life sentence. Leave it to me. You can work with me, if you like.’

  ‘No, David. You shouldn’t have come looking for me. Just keep away.’

  David insisted on walking me to my car to say goodbye. I drove away, confused by warring emotions: shame, guilt, compassion. If only I could confide in David, but our priorities differed.

  *

  David’s fears of Sergei proved unfounded, although I had a few uneasy moments when I paid over Carla’s one million dollars to an antique jewellery dealer in Prague to purchase the necklace and other chosen pieces. There were no hitches and I caught the next flight to Heathrow, wearing an exquisitely designed diamond and ruby necklace and the rest of the jewels, once owned by Princess Marie of Hesse.

  Sitting in the first-class cabin, I gnawed my fingernails and promised myself in future never to lay out more than I could repay, just in case I was stuck with a fake while Sergei and the dealer absconded with my client’s cash. Little and often would be my guideline.

  A neat Scotch did nothing to dispel my anxiety. Had I been conned? This arrangement with Sergei seemed too good to be true.

  The jewellery fetched four million pounds when the items were auctioned. I took my five per cent fee, which included my cut of Sergei’s profits, and netted me almost fifty thousand pounds. Not bad for two days’ work. The cash went into the kitty to help reimburse my father.

  The following evening, when I gave Carla her cheque drawn on a leading London auction house she looked very satisfied.

  ‘My lover has other amounts for you to work on,’ she whispered, leaning close to me so that her hair brushed my cheeks and I inhaled her marvellous perfume. ‘Ten million dollars this time. Can you handle it?’ Her eyes were glittering with anxiety.

  ‘Child’s play, dear Carla.’

  ‘But, Naomi, please remember that he is a very exacting and efficient man. One might call him a perfectionist. He comes down hard on those who fail him. Don’t come unless you are sure you can cope.’

  She looked concerned, but did she really care, I wondered?

  Sergei had been right. Her lover’s name was Vittorio Cassellari and I was to spend the weekend at his Sardinian stronghold.

  Chapter 54

  A sensation of floating interrupted my light sleep when the Air France Boeing began its slow descent towards Sardinia. I watched the emerald green island materialize out of the afternoon haze, and the dark blue shimmer of deep water change to turquoise as we descended over offshore shallows. Moments later we were circling the western beaches with their rash of millionaire hotels, splendid residences and the blue oblongs of swimming-pools. We raced through the dark green mountains of the interior and saw the late-afternoon sun flash its gold on bright snakes of tumbling rivers and streams. The sun had already set on the other side of the mountain and we swooped into violet shadows to land at Elmas in Cagliari.

  ‘Hope you enjoy your stay, ma’am,’ the immigration officer said, with a smile. I only had hand baggage so I went directly to the barrier where a small crowd awaited the passengers. A placard said, ‘Naomi Hunter, welcome.’ It was held by a stocky uniformed driver with a lined leathery skin and an anxious expression.

  ‘That’s me. Here I am.’

  ‘Welcome, welcome. I am Alberto.’ He gripped my hand with his calloused one. I winced, handed over my bag since he insisted, and allowed him to take my arm and guide me through the crowd to the exit. The car, a black Mercedes SL600 with shaded windows, was parked in a non-parking zone and an airport official was guarding it. He saluted as we arrived.

  As we moved off along the hibiscus-fringed beach road towards the north, I leaned back and made an effort to put my fears aside and enjoy the beauty of the scenery. I could not help admiring the magnificent mansions we passed. Night fell, lights twinkled, but the rush of air was still warm and scented.

  Alberto remembered the old days and told me about them at great length. ‘There were no houses or pools when I was a boy. You could put up a shack near the beach and live happily for next to nothing. All this has changed. Well, that’s modern life for you, eh? There are advantages and disadvantages.’

  Alberto was in a philosophical frame of mind and his heavily accented voice droned on and on.

  Forty-five minutes later, we turned on to a hairpin road up a steep slope into a thickly overgrown indigenous forest, and almost total darkness. Eventually we emerged on to a plateau overlooking the forest and the sea. Before us was a gate set into a tall, razor-topped wire fence where an armed guard with a Rottweiler scanned the car. Moments later, the gate swung open, and then came the scent of tobacco flowers, honeysuckle and lemon verbena as we drove through a shrubbery towards distant twinkling lights. We passed floodlit tennis courts, where a group of youngsters were watching the players, and an Olympic-size pool shimmering turquoise.

  The exterior of the Cassellari home was painted rosy pink and it looked gay and busy, with overhanging balustrades and nooks where flowers and cherubs lurked. There were sun blinds in deep red, and huge pots of scarlet and rose bougainvilleas. The french windows were flung open and I could hear someone playing Mozart proficiently. I had not envisaged a home so full of charm and gaiety, and my Calvinistic conscience rebelled.

  I had hardly emerged from the car when I was welcomed with extraordinary deference by an old-fashioned, black-clad housekeeper. She led me through corridors hung with art treasures to a large room overlooking the pool.

  ‘You’ll have a magnificent view of the sea and the forests in the morning,’ she said, in a thick provincial Italian accent. ‘I’ll leave you to change. Would you like me to run your bath?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll take a shower.’

  ‘Shall I unpack?’ She eyed my one suitcase with disapproval.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Plenty of drinks here. I mix you a gin and lime, perhaps? Or a cocktail?’

  ‘Really, I’m fine.’

  She gave up with a sigh. ‘Dinner is at eight. Signor Cassellari insists that everyone be on time, yes? The dining room is down the stairs and on the left.’ She gave an odd little curtsy and left.

  I took a fresh lime from the fruit bowl, squeezed the juice into some
tonic water and sat on the balcony, looking out across the pool. The moon had risen, a huge golden orb poised over the sea and its paler reflection.

  ‘Naomi Hunter,’ I murmured. ‘I am Naomi Hunter. I am tough, resilient, grasping and very, very good at my job. I am about to enter the inner sanctum of one of the world’s most powerful drug dealers, but this does not faze me. I am only concerned with how much I can charge Cassellari when he puts his deal to me.’

  When I felt sufficiently competent to play my role, I hung up my dress and had my shower.

  *

  Vittorio Cassellari met me at the dining-room door. He was a small man with a glaring simian resemblance. His hair was thick and black, clipped black hairs protruded from his ears and nostrils, his eyebrows met across his lined, leathery forehead and the lower part of his face was obscured by a trim black beard. The most striking thing about him was his eyes, which sparked energy and a fierce intensity. They were dark brown, set against unusually clear whites, and they did not seem to belong to his face.

  ‘Ah, Miss Naomi Hunter, my dear young lady. What a pleasure to meet you, and what a surprise.’ His deep voice had hardly a trace of an Italian accent. He took my hand and led me into a room decorated in blue and white that was as costly as it was tasteful.

  ‘How can anyone be so lovely and yet so wise?’ he purred. ‘Carla has told me of the wonderful help you gave her. Likewise you saved me considerable embarrassment. You will learn that I know how to show my gratitude. There is a great deal of business that I can put your way, my dear, but we will talk about these things later.’

  The guests were on the terrace, except for one man, standing on the other side of the dining room pouring himself some sherry from a cut-glass decanter.

  ‘Come and meet Miss Hunter, Boris,’ Cassellari called, catching hold of his arm.

  The man turned abruptly, and I found myself staring into the steely eyes of the intruder who had shot Brigit, a lifetime ago, in my Constantia home.

  ‘Naomi, meet Boris Borovoi.’

  Leaden-footed and with my mouth set in a rigid grimace, I took a few steps forward and shook his hand. His eyes narrowed and his mouth flickered into the faintest smile.