Luc: A Spy Thriller (10 page)

The party looked like it would be going on for some time.

I put the Toyota in reverse and swung round and drove off the way I’d come.

I was going back to his office.

***

Ray Mortlake’s office was situated in Belize City’s commercial centre in Albert. A detached colonial style building with a first floor wooden veranda.

I parked the Toyota and called Charlie.

‘Hello, Luc.’

That wasn’t Charlie’s voice. ‘Who’s this?’ I asked.

‘Warren.’

‘Where the hell’s Charlie?’

‘Charlie’s shift ends at ten. You’ve got me now.’

‘And who the hell are you?’

‘I told you. I’m Warren.’

‘I’ve never heard of you.’

‘I couldn’t exactly write an in-depth biography about you, either. Given your name. Told, no, it’s pronounced Luke. That’s about it.’

‘Charlie’s shift ends at
ten
?’

‘You want me to put that in a letter or something?’

‘Warren, are you up to speed with what I’m doing?’

‘In what way?’

‘Jesus. You’re not serious?’

‘Be specific for me here, Luc.’

‘Charlie was going to temporarily deactivate the security system on a building. Has she done that?’

‘She hasn’t done that. I’m doing it.’

‘You’re doing it?’

‘We got there. We got there.’

‘Warren - you’re doing it? In other words you haven’t yet done it?’

‘That’s correct. I am currently still doing it. Have you ever deactivated a security system? It’s not an uncomplicated practice.’

‘Warren, listen to me. I need to get into that building.’

‘So, er, you want to keep nattering to me? Or do you want me to get on with it?’

I sighed and cut the call. Stared moodily at a green-painted office in the distance.

Ten minutes later I got a call back.

‘All done there for you, Luc,’ he said. I wiped some sweat from my forehead.

‘It’s deactivated?’

‘That’s precisely what it is.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Am I sure? I like your style, Luc. I work my arse off, I get no thanks in return and now you progress to calling me incompetent.’

‘Warren, thank you.’

‘No - .’ I cut the call, got out of the Toyota and crossed the street. There were CCTV cameras around the front of Mortlake’s building. But I’d seen that the building next to it on the right had no cameras. I walked across the small front lawn of the next door’s building, slipped round to the side and began scaling the fence. I swung my legs over and dropped down the other side. I remained crouched for a few more seconds, watching, listening, and then stood and stared at the side of Ray Mortlake’s office building. There were no cameras, that I could see, trained down here.

Now was the time to see if Warren was or was not incompetent.

A couple, a man and a woman, passed noisily by in the street. I faded into the darkness again and waited for them to disappear. When they did, and their laughter faded to nothing, I waited a little longer, made sure all was relatively quiet, and then I started to climb the large metal drainpipe.

It wasn’t too difficult actually. Imagining I was Harold Lloyd in a black and white silent always seems to help.

I was now level with the first floor. I was about to reach out with my left foot, for the beginning of the veranda, when lights swung over me.

I froze.

The sound of an engine bit into another gear and sped off, taking the lights with it. It was all right. It was just a car turning the corner.

I reached out again and straddled the empty void between drainpipe and veranda. With my left foot on the wooden edge of the veranda, I leant towards it, gripped hold of the wooden rail, and swung my right leg across. I flipped both legs over the rail and silently crept around to the front of the building.

There were two patio style doors leading out onto the veranda. I chose the first. A Yale lock. I pulled out my own set of keys, the one we’d been issued with in Wiltshire. Seven keys, which, so we’d been told, opened 93% of the world’s locks.

Ten seconds later I turned the key, opened the door and walked inside. Thank you, Wiltshire.

Thank you, Warren.

Closing the door behind me, I walked through the office and out into a waiting area with two secretaries desks. I glanced around and found what I was looking for: discreet metal name cards on the walls next to the office doors.

The one I’d just came out of was for Jacaranda Thomas. Paralegal Assistant. I stepped over to the adjacent office. The card read, Ray Mortlake. Lawyer.

I went inside.

***

The office had a large desk and a large executive chair behind it. On the walls I could see framed prints of waterfalls. It was dark, but not pitch black, as there was some light coming from a nearby street lamp outside. I went behind the desk and tried to open the bottom drawer. Locked.

But happily part of the 93%.

I slipped the keys back in my pocket and opened the bottom drawer. A Sig Sauer 9mm handgun rested on top of a large brown envelope. I brought my phone out and took a photograph of the two. I then took out the gun and the envelope. I pulled out the contents of the envelope, a bundle of papers.

And then froze.

I had reacted to a sudden noise. After a couple of seconds I worked out that it was a muffled musical ring tone from a mobile phone. It sounded like it was inside one of the cupboards. I recognised the music as ‘Start Me Up,’ a Rolling Stones number.

Then it stopped. Silence again.

I went back to looking through the papers. It was a contract of some sort. The parties involved seemed to be Giuttieri Inc. and Parebo Brokers of New York. I used my phone again. Took pictures of each page. I put the contract back in the envelope, and then using the photo I’d taken of them, I put the envelope and the gun back in the drawer, how I found them. Closed and locked the drawer.

I unlocked the top drawer.

Inside was a large diary. Again, I photographed it to make sure I put it back as I’d found it. Then I pulled it out and opened it up. It was a lined, page-a-day affair.

Entries were in blue ink. Things like, ‘Meet BT2. 10.30 a.m.’ ‘Phone SA. 2.15 p.m.’ I -

Light under the door.

Just a faint light sweeping across. So faint I began to think I’d imagined it.

But then I saw it again.

And then heard the creak.

I think someone was coming up the stairs with a torch.

I quickly flicked towards the latest entries in the diary.

For today, in amongst the meetings, was this entry: ‘7 p.m. Publicity.’ The time the bomb had gone off.

Whoever was out there was reaching the top of the stairs. I quickly looked at tomorrow’s entry. Curiously just the one. ‘G. 11.50 a.m. CBM.’

I closed up the diary and put it quietly back in the drawer. I matched it up with the photo and then gently eased the drawer closed. There was a little squeak as it went home and I could only hope the newcomer didn’t hear it. I locked the drawer and the room suddenly got lighter.

My head snapped up. The door was still closed. I swung round and saw a light bathing the veranda.

The light was coming from next door. The newcomer was in Jacaranda’s office.

I padded over to the patio doors. The light from next door streamed across the veranda. I saw a shadow moving about. Looked like a man’s shadow. The patio doors in there were still unlocked from when I’d come in. If they tried the doors, they’d know someone had got in.

I didn’t want anybody to know that I’d been here.

If what I’d read about tomorrow, was what I thought was happening tomorrow, then that meeting must take place. If they got a whiff that someone had been in here, they might just cancel.

In the shorter term, if the man next door discovered the unlocked doors I’d have to get to him quickly. Before he alerted anybody else and who knows how many of them would suddenly descend on me.

I inserted the key in the lock and slowly twisted.

The shadow was quite large now. They were close to the window. It sinisterly stretched out across the floor of the veranda and up onto the rail. And it wasn’t moving. Had he seen something?

I pulled down on the door handle, opened it a fraction of an inch.

If his door opened, I’d have to go for him.

He stood there, stock still. I focused intently on that shadow.

And yet, another part of my brain had sensed something else. Out of the corner of my right eye I could see a dark spot. I thought I saw it move.

My eyes flicked to the right. Creeping slowly down and around the fold of the curtain was a large black spider with a hideously bulbous body.

My throat, knees and buttocks tensed. Cold sweat prickled my forehead. My hand on the door handle started to slightly tremble. I was in the fight or flight reaction mode. I wanted to shout and run. I couldn’t. My arm that held the door handle rested against the curtain. The spider was creeping slowly, delicately towards it. My arm was rigid with fear. I tried to swallow. It was difficult. My hand still trembled and I feared a spasm from my arm, which would undoubtedly make a noise with the handle. The spindly legs of the arachnid reached out, testing for secure footing, crawling within an inch now of my arm.

And then the shadow outside began to creep back across the veranda.

And then the light was extinguished.

I swung the door open and stepped out. I’d have to be swift. I quickly and quietly closed the door. Slotted the key in and I saw through the glass the office door beginning to open. I gently turned the key, removed it and swung round as light bathed everything.

I stayed where I was for a few seconds: midway between the two offices, my back flat against the wooden wall, my heart pumping fast, trying silently to suck in air. I couldn’t resist glancing down at my arm. All clear. I looked up.

I was almost sure the man hadn’t seen me. But you can never be certain. He may have glimpsed a faint fraction of movement. It didn’t even have to be consciously. His subconscious may have detected something, triggering him to step over and investigate.

I looked at his shadow on the floor of the veranda next to me. He hadn’t come rushing out here. I couldn’t hear any talking on his mobile or walkie-talkie. From his shadow, he looked to be ambling about, checking the room.

I slid away. Quietly locked Jacaranda’s office patio doors and then padded around the corner of the veranda. I quietly lowered myself down the drainpipe and melted away into the night.

Later, as I was threading the Toyota through Belize City’s night-time streets, I thought of ‘G. 11.50 a.m. CBM.’

And really hoped it was Giuttieri. 11.50 a.m. At the Cucumber Beach Marina.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

His eyes were like small black dots. He held mine for a few seconds and then darted off, snaking away.

I paddled with my feet, over the beautiful coral. Other fish and marine life were all around. The colours down here were extraordinary. In the distance I saw a giant turtle swooping and gliding about.

I liked being a part of this world. I liked being accepted into this world.

The other two divers were now pushing back up to the surface, and I took a last look around this amazing kingdom, and reluctantly followed.

With the water lapping around me and slapping and gurgling against the scuffed wooden hull, I reached a hand up and was helped back into the boat and the three of us who had paid sat on the wet sandy bench and talked of how serene and magical it was down there, as our salty, laid-back guides returned us to the marina.

As we neared the shore the man with a mushroom afro gave one final burst of the engine and we surged up the bank.

We jumped out into the shallow water and were told to take the goggles and tank, etc., back to the hut and I chatted for a few minutes with Belinda, the friendly owner.

Saying goodbye to the couple who had accompanied me on the dive I then went across to a beach cafe and had a refreshing glass of mango juice.

I looked at my watch. 11.05 a.m. If I was correct Giuttieri should, hopefully, be here in less than fifty minutes.

I relaxed back into my seat, felt the warming glow of the sun on my face. We were entering a new phase of the mission. We were about to go up a gear.

I kept looking at the sun worshippers on the sandy beach. Hadn’t seen one yet that fitted the bill. There was a gorgeous looking woman I’d seen earlier, but she was sadly too far away to the right.

Shortly after 11.30, the long legs of a woman in a bikini strode across the sand. She unfurled her king size towel and lay down on it, facing up to the sun.

I paid for the drink and also bought one of the bottles of suntan lotion they were selling. I took it and my towel down to the beach. I walked barefoot across the baking sand until I got to the bikinied lovely. I stretched my towel out next to hers and took off my T-shirt and lay down on my back in my dark blue shorts. I could see her turn her head and scrutinize me for a few seconds and then look back at the sun.