Den of Snakes

by Damian Vargas

  Eddie found himself again unable to speak. It was as if a tornado had been unleashed inside his skull. Everything was spinning.

  Veronica pulled the case out of the closet, and it fell loudly onto the hard tiled floor. ‘Open it. Then you’ll understand’.

  Eddie stared at the case, a growing sense that everything he thought he knew was about to be re-written.

  ‘Open it,’ she pleaded. He lowered himself down to kneel in front of the metal box, then thumbed each of the combinations, one wheel at a time.

  2-4-0-4

  1-2-0-6

  Eddie pressed the two round buttons, and the metal latches snapped open in unison. He lifted the lid, then sat back.

  Veronica kneeled down next to him and rummaged through the packed contents. There were wads of photos wrapped in elastic bands. A myriad of documents, audio cassettes and videotapes, each with hand-written labels. She sat back, one VHS tape in her hand, then held it out to Eddie.

  He took it from her and looked at the white sticker on it.

  Dirty Schoolgirls - Veronica Peters, audition, 18th May 1977.

  ‘I was seventeen, Eddie. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. They got me drunk. Gave me pills. They made me do things’. She took the cassette from him and slid her nails into the little groove that gave access to the black magnetic tape inside.

  ‘Charlie was blackmailing you?’ said Eddie, incredulous.

  Veronica was removing the black tape now, tugging at it until there was an enormous pile on the floor next to her.

  ‘He paid two thousand pounds for it, just so he could control me. I’d have gone home two years ago otherwise. I had offers to audition, good offers. Television and films, but I couldn’t go. He told me if I left Mikey, he’d send copies to the media. To my agent. He said he’d destroy me’.

  She stood up, collected the bundle of tape and deposited it into the fireplace, then reached for a matchbox on the shelf above.

  ‘I told you, Eddie. If you go digging, you won’t like the answers. This town is a den of snakes. Get out while you still can’.

  Veronica struck a match and dropped it onto the tape, which ignited in an instant. She stared as it burned, her eyes red and tears streaming down her face. ‘I know you want to fix everything,’ she said. ‘But you can’t. Go home and forget about all of this. Forget about Charlie. Forget about me’.

  She handed him a set of car keys. ‘It’s a blue Mini Metro. On the second car park level’.

  She turned her back on him and ambled towards the bedroom. But there was one more thing Eddie needed to know.

  ‘Why did you burn the bar?’ he said. ‘I’d never have known it was you if you hadn’t done that’.

  Veronica stopped, her hand on the door knob. ‘I wasn’t going to. It wasn’t why I went there. But when I found myself down in that room, it all came flooding back. What he did to me. What he made me do. How he hurt me’. She peered back over her shoulder, tears trickling down her cheek. ‘And I knew that for the first time I could hurt Charlie too. So I did. I burned down his bloody bar’. She opened the door. ‘Do what you want with that case. It’s your responsibility now’.

  Eddie took the lift down to the subterranean car park beneath the apartment block, found the car and placed the big case in the back.

  The exit was around the corner from the entrance at the front of the building where the two policemen sat in their patrol car. The automatic gates opened, and he drove away with the two uniformed officers clueless to his presence.

  Under different circumstanced it would have been a moment that would have amused him, but Eddie was in no mood for laughter.

  He was on a mission now.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  All Is Not What It Seems

  Eddie found a cheap hotel and booked himself in for two nights. Other, more discerning travellers may have questioned how the establishment had secured its second star, such was the grim state of the room and common areas, but Eddie cared not. It had a cheap grocery store next door in which he purchased some basic food and a bottle of questionable Scotch.

  Back in his room, Eddie gobbled down an entire baguette and a slab of smoked cheese, and filled a plastic tumbler with the amber liquor, then sat staring at Charlie’s case. It was the size of a medium suitcase but fashioned from aluminium. The steel hinges and lock mechanisms were of an industrial nature. It must have weighed over eighty pounds with its load of illicit contents. He supposed its original purpose was for the transportation of valuable electronic equipment to destinations of uncertain security. He downed his drink, then knelt in front of the case and entered the two number combinations.

  Quite what he was searching for, he was not sure - something that might shed light on who had ambushed the lorry and killed Charlie, Bill and Roger? Maybe. Information that might shine a light on what malevolent entity was pulling the strings that had led to the deaths of Mike, Debbie, and Soparla and his girlfriend, perhaps? He sifted through the multi-coloured files, manilla envelopes, plastic wallets, cassette tapes, and wads of photos, barely noting the contents as if he would sense what was relevant, and what was not.

  Eddie sat back after twenty minutes, surrounded by the various paraphernalia and stared at it all, none the wiser. He forced himself to his feet, stretched his aching back and poured a fourth serving of the dubious whiskey.

  ‘What the fuck am I doing,’ he thought.

  He kicked at the case out of frustration and lifted his tumbler to his mouth. At that moment, something, which had been propped up inside the case, fell over. It was an A5-sized black and red notebook. He reached down and thumbed through it. The book was half-full, and contained summarised, hand-written notes of what seemed to be phone calls. The date of the most recent conversation was just a week earlier, a call between Charlie and some planning official at the council. He leafed back through the pages, one by one, until another note stood out at him.

  July 17th, 1985.

  13:22

  Eddie called HAWKWOOD. UK number. Confirmed travel Kinshasa.

  Eddie stared at the date. It was the week he had first arrived in Marbella and was a shorthand note of his call to Colonel Hawkwood, the owner of the mercenary company and Eddie’s former commanding officer in the Paras. Charlie, or maybe Lucian, had been listening in on the call.

  Eddie’s head, fuelled on cheap forty percent proof liquor, reeled at the possibilities. Had Charlie been playing him since he had first arrived in Marbella? He felt a heavy, nauseating sensation in the pit of his stomach. Everything that had happened since - the parties, Veronica, the United Security robbery, the arguments and fights, the boat journey to the middle of the Mediterranean, the torturous drive north to the French border, the deaths, all of it. Had it all happened because his half-brother had been manipulating him just as he did to so many others? Had Eddie been just another puppet to Charlie all this time? Veronica had claimed Charlie had forced her to deceive Eddie, but maybe she was in on it too? What about Kenny?

  Eddie fumbled for the bottle of liquor, filled the tumbler and gulped at the contents. He hadn’t felt this lost and directionless since being kicked out of the army. Back then, in 1983, he had been to visit a psychiatrist several times. It had been a condition imposed upon him by the sympathetic judge who had shown Eddie considerable leniency, after the police arrested him for his part in a bar brawl in Sheffield. The shrink had prescribed Eddie some “special pills” to help him get through the darker moments. He had not taken one for over a year, but boy did he crave one now.

  He refilled the plastic container again and again, and drunk himself into a stupor, then collapsed on the floor surrounded by the contents of Charlie’s case of secrets.

  Eddie came to again the next day, gasping for water and with the mother of all hangovers. Once he was able to open his eyes and to focus sufficiently to read the time on his watch, he established that he had been asleep for around thirteen hours. His body had evidently shut down after the cumulative stresses
and strains of the previous days and weeks. He pushed himself up only then to realise that he had been laying in a puddle of his own urine. Luckily, given he had no spare clothing with him, his drunken self had possessed the sense to remove his jeans before letting loose. A voice screamed at him from the deepest recesses of his head.

  Get a fucking grip, soldier.

  It was the voice of his drill instructor from basic training. Eddie had hated the old bastard when, as a snotty raw recruit, he had first encountered the man, but had come to respect him in the months that had followed. His bellowing, commanding voice had stuck with Eddie and frequently made itself known in his subconscious.

  He stood up, rubbed his eyes and went to the bathroom where he then took a long, cold shower then downed several glasses of water. He wrapped a towel around his midriff then sat back on the bed. He was not yet willing to give in to the temptation of despair and self-pity. He picked up his wallet and removed the business card of Col. John J Hawkwood (retired), the reached for the hotel phone and dialled the number. It took nearly ten seconds for the line to connect to the office in London, but it was answered after a single ring.

  ‘Hawkwood International,’ said a woman. Eddie cleared his throat.

  ‘Hi, my name is Eddie Lawson. I’m a friend of the Colonel’.

  ‘Mr Lawson? Oh, yes. We tried to contact you a few weeks ago. You had been expected for a placement overseas, but we hadn’t heard from you. The colonel was quite concerned’.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. There was some…miscommunication here, on my end. I’m very sorry. Would it be possible to speak to the colonel about it? I’d like to explain’.

  ‘He is out of the country at present, but I can get a message to him if you would like?’

  Eddie could feel the relief surging through him. He felt sure that the colonel would understand what had taken place if only Eddie could talk to him. ‘That would be -’.

  He halted mid-sentence. At his feet was a brown A4 folder from which a batch of black and white photos were protruding. He could only see a small portion of one of the images, but it was instantly recognisable and made his blood run cold. He squatted down and opened the folder to reveal a series of covertly surveillance photos of a woman and a young girl - Eddie’s former wife, Hayley, and their young daughter, Mary.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ the woman on the end of the line exclaimed. Eddie placed the receiver back down onto the phone and thumbed through the photos.

  They had been snapped in several locations on different days. Each was dated, the most recent being in January of that year - five months before Eddie has turned up at Charlie’s Bar seeking his brother’s help.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ he snarled. He immediately picked up the phone again and dialled a number from memory. He felt a nervous apprehension in his chest as the phone rang for an agonisingly long time before, finally, a voice answered.

  ‘Hellooooo,’ said his daughter.

  ‘Mary? Honey. It’s me. It’s Daddy’.

  ‘Daddy? Where are you?’ she answered, all matter of fact. A wave of painful emotions seeped over him.

  ‘I’m in Spain, baby. How are you? How’s mummy. Are you all okay?’ He did not get an answer but could hear her mother speaking in the background. Mary, it was clear, was not supposed to be answering telephones.

  ‘Hello, who is this?’ his ex-wife said, curtly.

  ‘It’s me’.

  ‘Eddie?’ she said in a hushed voice.

  ‘How are you? How’s Mary?’

  ‘We’re doing…fine, Eddie. All things considered. Why are you calling? I suppose you’re drunk again?’

  ‘No. No, it’s not like that,’ he said. ‘It’s just…I wanted to make sure you were okay’.

  ‘We’re fine. Listen, I’m sorry, but I can’t -’.

  ‘Wait, it’s not like that. I’m in Spain’.

  ‘Spain?’

  ‘I came out here a month ago. To see Charlie’.

  ‘Your brother Charlie?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Eddie.

  ‘What’s that selfish bastard up to these days?’ she said. Eddie looked at the photos in his left hand.

  ‘Not much. Listen, I got myself into a mess. A real bad one’.

  ‘Oh, Eddie. When are you going to learn? What is it this time? Another fight? Drugs again? Look, I’ve moved on. I can’t get dragged into -’.

  ‘That’s not why I’m calling’.

  ‘Then what?’ she said. ‘Why are you calling?’

  He paused. Why am I calling her? ‘It’s just -’.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just…it’s…I don’t know what to do’.

  Eddie heard her let out a tired sigh.

  ‘I’m not your counsellor, Eddie. You left us, remember?’

  ‘I know, but you always had the answers, Hayley. I just thought…forget it. I’m sorry. I’ll let you be’.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Whatever this problem is, and I don’t want to know what it is, just…just do the right thing’.

  ‘How do I know what that is?’ he asked. There was silence on the end of the line. ‘How do I know?’

  ‘You’re a good man, Eddie. You’ll know. I’m sure of it. I’ve got to go’.

  ‘I’m sorry. Sorry for everything I put you through. All that shit’.

  ‘I know you are,’ she said sympathetically. ‘I know’.

  ‘Tell Mary I love her,’ he said.

  ‘Take care of yourself, soldier’. She hung up.

  It was all Eddie could do to hold back the tears.

  Toughen up, Soldier.

  He took another look at the black and white photographs in his hand then put them back into the folder. At that moment, Eddie knew that he could not leave Marbella. Not until it was all over. Not until he had finished what Charlie had started. Whatever it took.

  Felix Suarez, the desk manager at the Hotel Fuerte, stood surveying the brightly lit entrance lobby, smiling. He was having an excellent day. All of his team had turned up for work for once, and everything was running smoothly. There had been not a single complaint from any of the over three hundred guests.

  Felix liked days like this one. It meant he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of an angry tirade from one of the hotel’s tight-arsed owners at the end of his shift, and that was beneficial for both his angina and his blood pressure.

  ‘Felix,’ a voice called. It was one of the receptionists. She was holding a phone receiver in one hand and waving it at him.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked as he strolled towards her, still smiling.

  ‘He said his name is Lawson,’ the receptionist said. The smile slipped away from Felix’s face.

  He took the phone, turned away from his colleague and lowered his voice. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Felix Suarez?’ the voice on the end of the line asked.

  ‘Who is this, please?’

  ‘My name is Eddie Lawson. Charlie’s brother. We met a few weeks ago if you remember?’

  ‘Mr Lawson, of course. I heard about Charlie. I am so very sorry, señor. If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know’.

  ‘As it happens,’ said Eddie. ‘There is’.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A Man With A Plan

  The offices of Sinmorales Aseguró Partners, Marbella.

  Carola Rosario-Herrera worked for Sinmorales Aseguró Partners in Marbella. Her official job title was Paralegal, but in reality, she was a glorified dogsbody. It fell on her to open the office up first thing in the morning and to have everything ready for when the partners, solicitors and other staff arrived for their day’s work.

  Some of the other, actual, paralegals treated her with disdain.

  ‘How on earth did she get that job?’ she had overheard one of her female colleagues exclaiming just the previous week. Carola did not care what the others thought of her. She knew things they did not; stuff you pick up when you happen to be sleeping with one o
f the senior partners.

  Carola had only just unlocked the front door and disabled the alarm before the telephone rang. She looked at the gold Cartier watch on her wrist - it was one of many gifts she had received from her benefactor, Señor Belmonte. It was not yet eight o’clock.

  ‘Who on earth calls at this time?’ she thought. ‘Don’t they know the office hours are nine to four-thirty?’ She placed her prized Gucci handbag down on her desk - leaned over her desk and reached across to lift the receiver.

  ‘Sinmorales Aseguró Partners, how may I help you?’ she said in Spanish in a disgruntled tone.

  ‘Take a message,’ the male caller said in English.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Carola, somewhat taken aback.

  ‘I said, take a message’. The voice was commanding, so she did as she was told. ‘Tell me when you are ready’.

  Carola reached for a legal pad and pen. ‘Go ahead,’ she said and started scribbling as the caller spoke. ‘Okay, yes I got it,’ she said.

  ‘Read it back to me,’ the man said. ‘I need to know you got everything’.

  Carola picked up the paper pad. ‘It is a message for Seńor Belmonte. You say you have information relating to three of our clients - Seńor Daniel Ortega, Doña Sophia Valáquez and Señor Juan Fernandez. This information was previously in the possession of a British citizen, Mr Charles Lawson, now deceased. You will make this information available for sale to the highest bidder. Our firm is to expect another call from you at eleven-thirty, at which point you will provide us with the location at which an auction shall take place here, in Marbella, at midday. Prospective buyers should bring with them significant funds in cash which must be in US dollars or British pounds, but not Spanish pesetas’. Carola took a breath. ‘Was that everything?’ she asked.