Hot Ice (13 page)

‘When Father died, he left the factory in the hands of a management group. I became a remittance man, bumming around, doing very little, while the so-called management ruined the business and inflation ate into what was left of my income. I made a bit here and there, buying and selling. Still do.’

‘But why Africa?’

‘That’s where my heart is.’

So he has one…or so he claims.

‘Guy mentioned that you spent nine months in prison in Equatorial Guinea. Fortunately you were rescued.’

‘Guy said that?’ He tries to conceal to his anger.

‘It served me right. I was drunk…in an Islamic state. I was flung into a hellhole, euphemistically called a prison. By the time I was rescued I was pretty badly beaten up and emaciated.’

‘You were lucky to get out in time. Who rescued you?’

‘A visiting Imam contacted the nearest vicar, who called in a group of Christian missionaries. They paid good money donated by the faithful to rescue this miserable sinner, along with several others. Three of the rescued prisoners had to have their feet amputated. They had gangrene from the filth we were forced to stand in.’

‘Oh, my God! How horrible!’

‘An episode never to be repeated.’ He shudders.

The shudder is real. Chris could swear to that, but as Jim spins out his tale of bumming through Africa, she decides that nothing else is real. How could he be a drifter. He is far too smart. She will have to accept his silly stories and wait for the truth to reveal itself.

‘Lately I decided I needed a better income, so I borrowed the cash to start a security company. Unfortunately it failed, leaving me with a stack of debts, so when I saw the job of security chief advertised, I applied for it. Satisfied?’

By no means, she decides silently. What was it David said? ‘Jim Stark has no scruples whatsoever. He’s a thief and a liar.’

Chris’ legal training and experience has taught her to home in on lies, but despite her patient questioning, she can’t fault him. His story is perfect and he can provide lengthy explanations for any part of his background she cares to pick on. And she does, as they visit Jim’s favourite nightclubs and dance through the night.

By five a.m. they are sitting in an all-night café on Fifth Avenue with bacon and egg sandwiches and good, strong black coffee. Strangely she’s not a bit tired.

‘What exactly is your brief,’ Jim asks her. He yawns to show that he’s only asking out of politeness. ‘Obviously it’s commercial, yet it has something to do with Arab fundamentalism.
Husam, by the way, is a babe in the woods. His only crime is arrogance. He thinks he can make a difference.’

‘I came to that conclusion, too. Only later I changed my mind.’

‘Has it occurred to you, Chris, that we could save a hell of a lot of time by joining forces?’

The gain would be all on his side, she reckons, so she smiles. ‘How could you possibly help me, Jim, since you’re out of work?’

He ignores her taunt. ‘What did you think of Moses Freeman? Did he wear a top hat? He’s got his hands in the cookie jar.’

Chris tries not to show how startled she is. The truth hits home…she’s outclassed and in danger.

‘Who’s Moses Freeman. I don’t think I know…’

‘He called the prince right after you left. Now he knows you’re a fake, he’s hopping mad. Don’t go near him.’

‘Since you’re here, how could you possibly know that?’

‘I have a few friends back at headquarters. Strange guy, even for a Liberian. I guess you know that Liberia was created by the Americans, specifically President Monroe, hence the capital, Monrovia.’

‘No, I didn’t know.’

‘When the US abolished slavery, a small number of the ex-slaves opted to be repatriated to Africa, so they shipped them back and deliberately set them
up as a ruling class, mainly to serve US interests. Those guys made themselves the masters in no uncertain terms. They built plantation-style mansions and turned the locals into virtual slaves. They even wore top hats and waistcoats, and this habit survived until very recently. Freeman’s one of the old school. He’s salted away the prince’s money all over Central Africa and Switzerland and he’s got his finger into so many pies: oil, diamonds, gold, copper, armaments…’ He breaks off and smiles his very best smile.

‘You’re such a novice, Chris. Tell me what your brief is. I can help you.’

She almost falls for it. This is worse than an inquisition. She says: ‘This Freeman sounds a real character. I wish I’d met him.’

He looks at her sharply. ‘Play it your way. There’s no limit to their corruption. Liberia has always been a mess and the current civil war isn’t helping. It’s lasted fourteen years? The capital’s in ruins and the countryside is choked with mines.’

For some reason Jim badly wants to know what she’s investigating. Is that why he copied her keys? But what possible interest could it be to a man like him? Yet she has to admit to herself that she has no real idea of what kind of a man Jim is. There’s a barrier, like a
Star Wars
shield, all about him…invisible, but impenetrable, and she senses that it has been there forever.

Dawn is breaking in a purple and scarlet
extravaganza that covers half the sky, but Chris is only conscious of Jim’s arm around her shoulders and his breath on her neck. She’s trying to fathom out how she could lust over a man she neither knows nor trusts. 

It’s seven a.m. on Monday morning and it’s raining in London. FI’s offices are deserted. Chris, who returned from New York the previous evening, sighs with relief as she locks the door behind her. She can work without interruption and avoid Rowan for a while. Hopefully her report will deflect some of his fury, depending on how well she writes it. Checking the email, she finds an intriguing note from their Bombay office…another plus for her report. Humming quietly, she starts typing.

Chris is about to send her memo to Rowan when she notices that she has received another email from the American FI team currently stationed in Nigeria and working on an oil scam. It’s a report from someone called Andy Benson and it reads:

Chris staples the email to her report and adds her comment:

Chris glances at her watch. It is just past
seven-thirty
. Rowan seldom arrives before eight. She decides to leave her report on his desk and work in the IT room for a while, where he might not find her. Entering her password, Chris sees another email has just arrived from David Marais:

Once again you’ve taken flight and no one seems to know where you are. ‘On holiday,’ your watchdog insists. I don’t believe her. Hope you haven’t forgotten our dinner date on Monday evening and that you’re back in time. Let’s meet at our usual place at nine p.m. Impatiently, David.

Surely she didn’t make a firm commitment? In fact, Chris clearly remembers saying ‘no’, but why not go anyway. David might have some news for her. It seems so long since she last spoke to him. So much has changed since then. Dear David! Why can’t she fall for one of the good, straight, reliable guys?

She types a short note back:
Make it ten p.m. and you’re on. I have to catch up on some work
. Once that’s dispatched Chris turns to a pile of mail.

The phone rings. It’s Jean.

‘Rowan’s looking for you. Are you taking calls?’

‘Yes, but don’t tell him where I am.’

‘I have James Stark on the line.’

Then comes Jim’s voice saying: ‘How about dinner tonight?’

She pauses for too long.

‘I prefer New York’s weather right now. I suspect a cold front’s about to hit me over here.’

‘Sorry, I can’t make it tonight, Jim.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting “making it”. Just dinner.’

‘I have a prior engagement,’ she says primly. Jim and his innuendoes. Is this trumped up attraction for real? And if it’s not, what on earth is he after?

‘Tomorrow then?’

‘Lunch tomorrow,’ she says firmly.

‘Whatever you wish. Meet you at Green’s. One o’clock.’

‘Yes. That’s fine.’ An impersonal click terminates the conversation.

Wow! Talk about sulky.

Sharp at ten, Chris receives a stern request via Mary to see Rowan at once.

Rowan is a natty dresser, and this morning he’s excelled himself in a tailor-made mohair suit of steel grey, a blue and white striped shirt and a dark blue silk cravat. Rowan is strictly traditional in his tastes, but he always looks as if he is on the catwalk and wherever he goes an aura of costly aftershave
surrounds him. This morning his face registers the utmost disapproval as he sits motionlessly in his leather chair, watching her with his pale grey eyes.

Two can play at that game. Chris gazes back silently as the seconds pass. Rowan cracks first.

‘I’ve read your report, Chris. It’s good, although I don’t approve of your methods. What are you trying to prove? Surely you realised the risks you were taking. After Ben’s tragic death I would have thought you’d be more circumspect. I’m sure you remember that I specifically told you not to see Freeman.’

‘There was no other way forward. You and I both know that. What else could I do? I’m sure you remember that when I arrived, you told me I had a totally free hand. You said that only results counted.’

‘I know what I said.’ Now he looks intensely irritated and Chris guesses that he’s torn between a desire to get the case solved and his abhorrence of publicity. It won’t look good if his staff go down like ninepins.

She tries to humour him: ‘Listen, Rowan. My friend has been kidnapped. Ben…’

‘Please don’t get sentimental. I shall express my utter disapproval of your methods of procedure in writing. After that it’s up to you.’

‘Thanks.’ So she is free to do what she likes.

‘I’ll be straightforward with you, Chris. A great deal rests on this case. Our original client was a Central African government acting through David
Marais. At the same time, a powerful American NGO initiated the self-same search with our American head office. There was no point in duplicating the work, so it was a toss-up as to who took the brief: our US colleagues or us. Finally, because of Ben’s reputation, it landed on our desks. Quite honestly, we can’t afford to fail. Because of Ben’s death, the Americans want it back.’

‘Screw them! All the more reason…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Rowan interrupts her. ‘There’s something that puzzles me, Chris. Ben was on this case for three months. According to what he told me, he was getting nowhere fast. What changed the situation so much that Ben became a danger to these criminals, whoever they are? Something that Ben or you uncovered must have led to his death. Freeman and the prince are the only new elements in your investigation, so one of them must be involved in some way. It looks as if our suspicions of Prince Husam are very relevant.’

And Jim, Chris thinks with a shiver.

‘Is there another factor you haven’t told me about?’

She shakes her head. ‘It sounds logical when you put it like that, but I had hardly got the job at the Provident when Ben disappeared. Freeman turned grey with fear when I told him about the note that lured Ben into the taxi. I’m convinced that he didn’t know about it. Besides, why would he incriminate himself?’

‘He was arrested, but never charged. He had an alibi, so they deported him. That’s all I know. Are you sure you’ve come clean, Chris?’

‘There is something else…another lead… someone has been following me, even to New York. He says he’s the head of Prince Husam’s security. It’s too early to comment, but I’m playing along.’

‘Good God! But that’s madness.’ Momentarily, Rowan loses his equanimity as he leans across his desk, his eyes searching hers. ‘What drives you, Chris?’

How can she explain, even to herself? Her motives are confused. She has to prove herself worthwhile, but to whom? Certainly not Rowan, nor her colleagues here. Or is it to herself? Not really, she surmises, standing up. ‘I can’t answer that, so I’d better get back to work.’

‘Sit down. You don’t have any appointments now, do you? How about coffee?’ He rings through to the kitchen. ‘So tell me about yourself.’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she says stiffly. Rowan has absolutely no right to ask. He’s prodding for flaws. Just look at his eyes gleaming and intent.

The coffee arrives while she sits in stubborn silence, trying to ignore a throbbing pain that is starting up just above her left temple. Unbelievably Rowan is fetching a file from his cabinet. It’s marked
Personnel
and she guesses it’s hers. Sipping her coffee, she watches Rowan going through the forms. He won’t find much there.

‘A brilliant record. You’ve excelled in everything you’ve ever tried.’ He says admiringly.

‘Not everything,’ she mutters, thinking of Sienna.

‘I see that all your sporting activities are aggressive by nature. You like fighting.’

She shrugs.

‘I often sense your aggression directed against me, yet you know nothing about me. In a way, I’m your Rorschach test.’

Chris is unwilling to enter into this crude probing, but she’s curious. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a basic psychological test whereby the viewer is presented with a shaded page of ink blots which he – or she – can interpret in any way they choose. Some see a small boy being beaten, some a loving mother, others see murder and violence or a starving youngster. It gives an idea of what’s going on in the person’s mind. Men are your enemy, Chris.’

‘Some of my best friends are men,’ she answers facetiously.

‘Think about it, Chris. As for me, I’ve already deduced that there was an early problem with the man in your life. Perhaps he abandoned you, a father, perhaps, so now you despise him, but you also want to impress him. Yet he has long since faded away and become all the men in your life. You want to show them how good you are while knocking them down.’

‘Don’t take up psychology, Rowan. You’re way
off target,’ she lies, lurching to her feet. She knows she’s flushing.

Rowan is smiling in a silly, superior way while toying with his pen. ‘It’s not worth risking your life, because this person, whoever he is, isn’t around to see you win.’

‘Fuck you, Rowan,’ she swears silently, but all he hears is ‘
Ciao,
’ as she sweeps out of his office.