RACE AMAZON: False Dawn (James Pace novels Book 1) (8 page)

The hotel was
one of the thirty-storey monoliths of tinted glass. It occupied, Pace judged, about one hundred and fifty feet of the beachfront. Although it was too dark to see, Pace had done his homework and knew that the hotel’s grounds were laid to a mixture of lawn and exotic flowerbeds, allegedly maintained in rainbow bloom. 

An immaculately uniformed commissionaire, his burgundy outfit decked with gold braiding and epaulets that matched his black and gold flat cap, waved a hand towards the taxi.  A couple of younger men in similar uniforms, minus the braiding, appeared from behind the gleaming revolving glass entrance door.  They skipped neatly down the three stone steps and busied themselves helping the driver unload the luggage.

Conversation had been light between all of them during the ride; nobody had the energy for anything heavier.  They were all in need of a shower and a good night’s sleep. Turning to suck in a deep lungful of warm evening air, rich with the scent of orchids and other expertly blended wild flowers, Pace stole a glance back the way they had come. 

From this side of the gates it was now possible to see that the large stone pillars were not entirely solid entities. A small portal had been hewn into each one, large enough for a man to stand within, which was exactly what the security guards were doing.

Inside, the hotel was every bit as modern and luxurious as the outside led them to believe. They rode the escorted lift up to the twenty-ninth floor penthouse; Pace had been one out on his height guesswork, where they each took up residence in one of its three separate bedrooms. The penthouse was huge, having a lounge area, a bar, sauna and three bathrooms to complement each of the bedrooms individually. The entire space was expensively decorated and lavishly furnished.  

Once he’d dumped his cases into a huge bed Pace had a good look around.  Finding a set of ornate patio doors, he went outside and up a small flight of stone steps that brought him out on to the flat roof of the hotel.  He expected to find some sort of little balcony but was amazed to find himself standing on a huge veranda. 

The veranda housed a decent-sized swimming pool and an adjacent hot tub, together with a small patio area complete with sun loungers, table, six padded chairs and a large gas barbeque.  The whole area was subtly lit and the hot tub already bubbled away invitingly.  Black wrought-iron railings securely hemmed in all sides of the hotel’s roof – it would not do to lose guests over the edge he supposed – yet still afforded him a birds-eye view out over the ocean that was nothing short of breathtaking.

Looking out across the dark water, sparkling under moonlight in eternal motion, he felt a sense of inner peace he couldn’t remember feeling before in his life. High above everyone else, ensconced within a paradise, within paradise, any remaining cares about his decision met a timely end. Whatever happens, he thought, it was worth coming just to see this.

The other thing about finding himself in such an open, airy space was that it made him quickly realise just how hot and sticky he felt, especially when the gradually cooling sea breeze wafted his own smell up his nostrils.  It wasn’t a sweet smell either.  If he didn’t like it then nobody else would. 

Pace dragged himself back inside reluctantly.  He quickly unpacked, taking no more than fifteen minutes to do so, and then dived into a shower that could happily accommodate a football team, with its four separate shower heads inside a ten-foot square, beautifully engraved glass cubicle. Like the other bathrooms he’d peeked into, these shower taps were gold-plated, as were the towel rings, toilet fittings and closet handles. He had hardly ever dreamed of such opulence.

He turned on the shower and water cascaded down from all sides, hot and pounding against his skin. Half an hour later, scrubbed clean, he slipped on a pair of swimming shorts, grabbed a towel, and headed back up to the roof. Nobody else had finished in their respective bathrooms and he had ten minutes of wonderful solitude, lazing in the open pool before being joined by Sarah.  

She nearly took his breath away, clad only in a white bikini that left extremely little of her lithe figure to the imagination. Heaven had sent him a beach goddess and he could die a happy man.  Slipping into the water she stroked across the fifteen-foot distance between them and stopped with barely a ripple before disappearing beneath the surface with a deep breath, to sit on the bottom perhaps five feet below him. 

The water was clean and pleasantly warm and being completely immersed in it seemed a great idea, so Pace joined her.  Together they sat on the bottom, facing each other in the ethereal glow from several underwater pool lights, for no good reason he could think of.  It turned into a good-natured breath holding contest.  Sarah surfaced first, but not by much.  She wiped water from her eyes with a big smile on her lips.

‘Now that feels better,’ she breathed.  ‘It’s so nice to stretch my muscles out in water, and what a view.’

‘Amazing isn’t it.’

‘It’s the best they have.  It’s my father’s treat for us all.’

‘Always thought he was a nice chap,’ Pace quipped.  

‘When you’re struggling through a steaming jungle and trying to tackle the set challenges, or just trying to keep your footing over permanently flooded roads, think of this place and be happy.’

‘You say that so easily for a person who gets to stay in a nice hotel the whole time.’

‘I’ll be with you in spirit,’ she laughed lightly.  

‘Oh, that’s okay then,’ he shot back.

Turning over onto her back, she allowed her body to just float as she stared up into the starry night sky, not moving.  Pace headed off on his own but Sarah soon rejoined him and they spent ages laughing and splashing, generally blowing off steam like a couple of kids on the first day of summer break, suddenly freed from the prison of a stuffy classroom.

Hammond hadn’t joined them and Pace was glad.  It was great to have Sarah’s company all to himself.  At times they raced but mainly they lazily matched each other’s speed so they could talk.

Pace’s pulse remained raised for the entire time, for reasons besides the energy he was using in the pool.  Sarah was graceful in the water, moving easily as though it was her natural habitat.  Her nearly-there bikini also hinted maddeningly at transparency whenever she stopped to stand up, at times lounging warmly against his shoulder for support. 

An hour passed at least and Pace had kissed her, in his mind anyway, a dozen times before the chance to do so for real presented itself. Beneath a tropical night sky, lit in tandem by a bright full moon and sprinkling of stars, her hair plastered wetly down her back, Sarah leaned against him for another rest.  He slipped an arm around her waist and she slowly looked at him.  Her brown eyes were unreadable but suggested mild humour.

Was she waiting for him to kiss her?  Was she just amused by his indecision, or was he getting his signals all mixed up? 

You could always bloody help me out, he thought angrily, feeling his cheeks flush hotly.  He was grateful for the soft lighting and the wealth of cast shadows all around but resolved to do it anyway.  Sadly, painfully, the kiss did not come.

As he started to move forwards she made no attempt to avert her gaze or move away. Then, a fraction of a second before their lips were to meet, his racing heart froze as Hammond’s voice cut across the moment. How long he’d been out there Pace could only guess at.  He hadn’t heard him because his eyes had been otherwise engaged.

‘Sarah.’ That word in itself was fine. It was what came next that crushed him flat. ‘Telephone for you. It’s your husband.’ A pause for effect.  ‘I’ll tell him you’re busy, shall I?’

‘No,’ she snapped at him.  The mood evaporated and she pulled away from Pace sharply. ‘I’ll come down and take it in my room.’ 

She pulled herself out of the water, wrapped a towel angrily around her shoulders and flew down the steps. Hammond followed. 

Neither of them came back. 

The pool felt suddenly chilly to him. It was purely a psychological phenomenon but Pace got out anyway, towelled dry for the second time that evening and returned to his room.  He pulled on a pair of black jeans and light blue cotton shirt.  On went a pair of trainers and he brushed his hair neatly in front of a large, gilded mirror before heading back to the lounge. 

Hammond was nowhere to be seen and Sarah was still in her room because he heard the muffles of conversation from behind her bedroom door as he headed for the front door. Riding down within the walls of a lift large enough to have been called a room in its own right, he chided himself. 

She wore no ring, so how was he to know she had a husband? She didn’t act like a married woman and had never mentioned a husband. What stung most was that he liked her; he really liked her.   The lift stopped on the ground floor and he made his way across the polished marble floor towards several restaurants and bars that were advertised.  Suddenly he needed a drink.  Fundador.  

Although technically a cheap Spanish brandy, alongside Jack Daniels it ranked as a personal favourite. Mocked by friends with more pretentious tastes, it was obviously well exported because a bottle of it sat behind the first bar he came to. 

He quickly took refuge inside a glass of it, swallowing most of it down in one before the understanding bartender smoothly refilled it almost before he set it back down on the bar.   Despite the late hour, a smiling waitress showed him to a small table and took his order.

Pace chose a hot chicken salad, which was delivered to his table within five minutes. When it came, there were at least two breast fillets, thinly sliced and coated with a chilli peanut sauce, layered on a bed of green salad, the strips seared black in places.  A large spoonful of the sauce was piled on top and the whole plate was garnished with a mixture of finely chopped spring onions, red chilli peppers and toasted sesame seeds.  He wolfed it down and finished his meal with a third brandy. In need of some fresh air, he then took himself out onto the hotel’s ocean patio, the route well signposted in several languages. 

Outside, a light breeze blew in from the beach to ruffle at his hair, coaxing him to relax on a full stomach and to keep sipping at his drink.  He took a good look around him.  Cane furniture filled a large flag-stoned area.   Like the restaurant, it was bustling.     Couples of all ages, singles, children with their parents, and small groups of men and women, were all being very dutifully attended to by professionally unobtrusive waiters. Relaxing music played from concealed speakers, setting the mood nicely.  

At that moment, though, he wasn’t in the mood to sit with company.  Instead, he ambled down some granite steps to his left and crunched his way across the wide, dark beach until water lapped the shore barely a foot in front of him.  

Music wafted faintly across from the hotel behind him but the sound of the waves hitting the beach kept it in the background. The ocean was loud and predictable in motion, yet peaceful at the same time.  The air smelled strongly of salt, and of adventure, as he sat down on the sand to look up; pondering the moon and the stars.  

He sipped slowly at his drink while the fingers of his free hand dug aimless shapes in the sand.  It was the perfect place and time to reflect and he quickly grew lost in thought.

Back in his own room, Hammond was worried.  It wasn’t the telephone call that had agitated him – Sarah’s love life was her own affair.  No, he was worried because the carefully laid plans designed to recover the missing cargo seemed to be unravelling before his eyes.

He’d heard James leave the suite an hour earlier, followed by Sarah about half an hour later.  Now alone, he dug his mobile phone out of his pocket, flipped up the screen, and punched in a pre-set number.  The call was recognised at the other end and a familiar voice sounded in his ear.

‘What’s the latest?’ Hammond asked quickly, forcing himself to relax and allow the tension to drain from his shoulders.

Doyle McEntire was used to having to alter plans on the flip of a coin, so he was less agitated than his company accountant; despite having more intimate knowledge of just how dangerous things were looking. 

‘Sorry, Max.  Wish I had better news but the other side are adamant.  Our main contact claims to know nothing about the disappearance.  According to him, the plane was left where it should have been and was in perfect working order.  He has no idea why it never finished its run, or where it might be now.  He suggested treachery at our end but I set him straight there.  We both know Charlie was as honest as they come; she would never have double-crossed us.’

‘I agree,’ sighed Hammond wearily, and he meant it.  Any treachery had come from an outside quarter, and they were both increasingly aware of who that meant.  ‘What do we do about Cathera?  I don’t think our man is lying.  He’s been running the link with our Russian friends for several years.  I trust him.’

‘I agree, but I had to push him a little just to see if he had any idea.  As you said, that leaves Cathera and what we do about him.’

‘Do you think he’s found the plane, and Charlie’s body?’  Hammond knew it was almost certain that she was dead; the tracking unit built into her flying boots had been sending its signal ever since the plane vanished.  The signal had not moved, even by so much as a metre in all that time.  They knew exactly where the aircraft was; getting to it without raising suspicion was the thorn in their side.  Hammond didn’t bother to mention the lethal cargo that had been snugly tucked up inside the Harrier’s nose section.  Its loss was an enormous problem that didn’t need any discussion.