Ryan Kaine

by Kerry J Donovan

  He entered the Constantine’s address and the map of London opened up.

  “Speaking of Rollo,” Kaine said. “Did he kick up a fuss?”

  “You’re kidding,” she said, shoulders relaxed, voice softer. “He was delighted to have an excuse to leave. He’ll be here within the next two hours.”

  “Really? Last time we spoke he reckoned he’d found a permanent billet with Marie-Odile. A hotel and bar on the coast with a voluptuous French widow? He was loving it. What’s wrong? No trouble in paradise, I hope?”

  Lara laughed. “I’ll let him tell you himself when he arrives.”

  She’d finally forgiven him. Maybe.

  “Sounds ominous. Let’s get to work.”

  “I already am, Ryan.”

  He fell silent. It felt good to let her have the last word.

  Rollo arrived a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule. He blew into the drive in his understated, spotlight festooned, midnight blue Mitsubishi Shogun and parked in the triple garage. He burst through the interior door—almost unrecognisable without his bushy salt and pepper beard—carrying a well-stuffed Bergen and a huge rectangular case with metal corner protectors.

  From the way the case clunked on the living room tiles when he lowered it from his shoulder, the big former SBS sergeant had arrived packing some serious hardware. Kaine had no idea how Rollo sourced his matériel, but the former quartermaster had retained most of his military contacts. Even if someone tried removing his fingernails with rusty pliers, he’d forever keep his sources secret.

  It wasn’t as though the villa lacked for weaponry. The hidden armoury behind the sofa-bed in the office contained enough equipment to start and win a military coup in a small African country. On the other hand, Rollo’s lifelong motto, “You can never carry too much equipment,” wasn’t up for debate.

  Lara rushed to him and planted a kiss on the older man’s smooth cheek.

  “Hi, Rollo,” she said. “Thanks for coming at short notice. I wouldn’t have asked, but His Nibs over there”—she scowled light-heartedly at Kaine—“insisted I needed a ‘babysitter’.”

  Rollo beamed at her welcome. “No problem at all, Doc. And he’s right. We need to keep you safe until we’re certain no one’s looking for you. Sorry, but you’ll have to put up with my ugly mug until the captain’s done his thing.”

  “If I can take his sourpuss over my croissants every morning,” Lara said, flashing another gentle glance at Kaine, “I can certainly cope with yours. What happened to the beard?”

  Rollo rubbed his chin with the back of a hand. “Marie-Odile said fuzz made me look like an old man.” He shrugged. “I feel naked without it. It was a dear old friend. Had the thing for the best part of thirty-five years, but … you know. Have to keep my better half sweet.”

  “She’s right. I love the new look. Takes years off you.”

  Kaine relaxed. With Rollo’s arrival, Lara was in more than capable hands.

  “Evening, Sergeant,” he said, grabbing Rollo’s Bergen and leading him to the guest bedroom. “Trouble in paradise, I hear?”

  “Excuse me, Captain?” Rollo said, grunting under the weight of the weapons case.

  “Lara said you were pleased to escape Bordeaux. How are things with you and the delightful Marie-Odile?”

  “Bloody marvellous, Captain,” Rollo said, his voice tinged with irony. “There’s talk of wedding bells.”

  Kaine stopped and spun to face him. “You? Getting married?” He made ready to clap a congratulatory hand on his friend’s shoulder but stopped when he caught the sergeant’s wry expression.

  “No, I meant Marie-Odile was making noises about it. I always considered myself a confirmed bachelor.”

  Rollo lowered his head, his naked face showing embarrassment.

  “How long have you known her now?” Kaine asked, resuming the walk to the spare room.

  “Five years, but this is the first time we’ve spent more than a few weeks together at any one time.”

  “Been getting along all right?”

  “Well enough. Living above a bar with a restaurant is an old seafarer’s dream”—Rollo patted his washboard stomach—“but, her mother’s on an extended visit and ... let’s just say I needed a break from all the talk of family, churches, and preachers. So, on the subject of cohabitation, what about you and the Doc? Anything I need to know?”

  Kaine sidestepped the question. “Just keep her safe, okay?”

  Rollo showed a toothy, boyish smile. “Will do, Captain. You can rely on me.”

  “I know, Sergeant. I know.” Kaine set Rollo’s Bergen on a chair in the corner of the bedroom and Rollo heaved the metal case onto the bed. The mattress sagged under the weight. “You can store that in the armoury later. Lara knows the combination.”

  Rollo arched an eyebrow. “She does?”

  “And she knows her way around a handgun, too. Both revolver and semiautomatic. Won’t be long before she’ll be outshooting you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You never were much of a shot.” A sense of pride flooded through Kaine as he spoke of her imp[roving skills. “I’ve been taking her through some basic fitness and fieldcraft drills, but she’s a long way off the finished article.

  “While I’m away, you might put your mind to developing a basic training programme. Lara needs a better understanding of fieldcraft and defence optimisation. I’ve made a start on her physical conditioning … wipe that smirk from your face, Sergeant. I mean she’s a better swimmer now and can handle a ten kilometre yomp over dunes wearing a fifty kilo backpack.”

  “You’re kidding. That little slip of a girl?” Rollo said, clearly impressed.

  “Anyone working with sick horses has already developed core strength. Now all she needs is specialised training from an expert drill sergeant. Trouble is, I don’t have access to one of those, so I’ll have to rely on you.”

  “Highly amusing, sir. Nice one.”

  “Thought you’d appreciate that.”

  “All joking aside, it’s a good idea, sir. I’ll pull something together. The doc’s a sharp cookie. Won’t take her long to pick up the basics.”

  “Very good, Sergeant. Be gentle though. Treat her as a raw recruit, not someone drafted in from the Marines.”

  “You know me and training, sir. After all, didn’t they used to call me Uncle Cuddles during the Beasting?”

  “No, Rollo. They didn’t.”

  “Must have called me something else then. Don’t worry. I’ll look after her, sir. She’s a special lass.”

  “Excellent. You might want to join her in the training. It looks as though you could use a little exercise. I’ve never seen you looking so—how can I put this kindly—so well-padded.” Kaine arched an eyebrow. “Are you fit for active duty after swanning around in a hotel bar for six weeks?”

  Rollo’s baleful glare ended the discussion before it started.

  “Right,” Kaine said, clearing his throat, “let’s see what the good doctor’s discovered.”

  Lara leaned back from the keyboard.

  “Sabrina is absolutely brilliant. The files are incredibly comprehensive. Take a look at this.” She nodded to the big monitor. “Bistro Mykonos has an online point of sale system and Sabrina tapped directly into it. Doesn’t make good reading though. The till receipts have plummeted since the start of the last year, and their bills for consumables have fallen by two thirds,” she said, reading from her screen. “They’ve been receiving calls from the bank and their suppliers. Don’t know what was said, but I can’t imagine the bank was calling to wish them a good morning.”

  Sitting on the sofa-bed to give Kaine and Lara plenty of elbow room, a mystified Rollo sighed. “Such easy access to all that information. Makes me glad I’m pretty much a fossil and keep off the net.”

  Lara grinned and hovered a hand over her mouse. “You’d be surprised what she found on you. Want to see?”

  Rollo shuddered. “Absolutely not. I’m happy in my i
gnorance.”

  “So,” Kaine said, “to summarise for the sergeant’s benefit and for mine, the Constantines run a small family restaurant whose fortunes have been in freefall since long before Flight BE1555 crashed.”

  Rollo nodded. “That seems clear enough.”

  Lara asked, “What does that tell us?”

  Kaine took a moment to think before answering. “It tells me their problems, whatever they are, have nothing to do with the death of Onassis Constantine. And that, in turn, suggests our anonymous texter might be genuine. He—assuming it is a he—hasn’t caused the Constantines’ problems to draw me into the open.”

  Rollo spoke. “I don’t follow your logic, sir.”

  “If this was an elaborate plan to drag me out of hiding, the Constantines’ problems would be more recent. And, it seems to me, our mystery man, Mr Texter, would have set up something more spectacular. Maybe a kidnapping, or a physical attack on a member of the family.”

  “Or maybe you’re overthinking this and Texter is using an existing business situation to set the trap,” Lara, the realist, suggested.

  “Either way, I’m going.”

  She crossed her arms and compressed her lips.

  “So, you’re planning to walk up to the restaurant, knock on the door, and offer to help with a situation no one is supposed to know about, I suppose?” Lara asked, not hiding her growing exasperation with his attitude.

  “Not at all,” Kaine answered. He worked the mouse and scrolled the cursor over the street view on his laptop screen. “How can I put this up on the big screen?”

  “Hold down the control key and hit F6.”

  Kaine followed her instructions and a corresponding image appeared on the largest wall monitor.

  “I plan to set up an observation post in one of those boarding houses across the street and monitor the Bistro for a day or so.” Kaine used his cursor to indicate the area on the screen. “I might even take a meal or two in the place. Haven’t tasted Greek food for a while. It’ll make a nice change from French cuisine and barbecues, even if the view and the company is inferior.”

  Lara didn’t acknowledge his olive branch and all but scowled at him.

  Kaine paused for a beat and carried on, but softened his tone. “Charging in without gathering intel first does not form part of my standard operating protocol.”

  He wasn’t used to having his decisions questioned. With Lara around, gone were the days when he could simply issue an order and be confident it would be carried out. Sometimes, the good old days were exactly that—good.

  Kaine manipulated his mouse and the street view pulled back into a wide angle shot.

  Bowling Street ran in front of Hardwicke Row and appeared to have good foot traffic, leading as it did from the local underground station towards the City Centre.

  “See all the pedestrians walking by? And look at the businesses on either side of the Bistro.” They included a pub, a toy shop, a betting shop, a sandwich bar, a bijou jeweller and watchmaker, and a house and office letting agency. On the corner with Old Road, a butcher and greengrocer completed the run. “Don’t know about you, but they look to be thriving to me. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Lara and Rollo said together.

  “So, why would the Bistro suddenly be rushing headlong towards bankruptcy?”

  Rollo spoke. “I don’t know that area of London too well, sir. Can you do a three-sixty?”

  Kaine tweaked the mouse and slowly rotated the image through a complete circle.

  “Looks like a mixed business and residential area,” Rollo said after the picture centred on the Bistro once more. “Close to the city. Plenty of tower blocks, and the parked cars are all high value. No graffiti. Small businesses in that area should be raking it in.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now look at the date on the image capture. January of last year. I’d like to know what’s changed for Bistro Mykonos in the last twenty months.”

  “Can’t you just call the Constantines and ask them what’s wrong?” Lara asked, but her expression said she already knew it wasn’t a good question.

  “Oh yes, I can see that conversation right now,” Kaine said, putting a thumb to his ear and sticking out his little finger. “Hello, Mr Constantine? May I call you Orestes? I understand your business has been going down the toilet this past year. I’ve just sent you some money, is it enough? No, no. I can assure you, this is not a joke. … Me? Oh, my name’s Ryan Kaine, and … Hello? Hello? Mr Constantine, are you there?”

  “Ryan!” Lara snapped, flicking a hand at him. “There’s no need to be so sarcastic. I’m only trying to look at things from all sides.”

  Waves of regret showered over him. He’d upset her again. She didn’t deserve it, but he needed to play the tough guy, for her sake.

  “I’m sorry, Lara, but I have to go and see for myself. Their situation might just be a question of financial mismanagement or illness. In which case, extra money will help. I’ll just go and take a look. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful, promise.”

  “What do you think, Rollo?” Lara asked, her tone pleading.

  Rollo held up his hands. “The captain knows what he’s doing.”

  Kaine didn’t like the idea of Rollo acting as mediator between them, but he hoped the big sergeant was right.

  The journey, although extremely short notice, passed without incident or delay. After a power nap and a pre-dawn breakfast of coffee and croissants on the deck, Rollo, with Lara in the back, drove him from Mimizan to Bordeaux International Airport. Rollo stayed in the car and a teary Lara waved him on his way.

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said and hurried off before her tears did any more damage.

  Thanks to the one hour time difference, the ninety-five minute flight landed at 10:35 UK time. The flight was too short to provide a cooked meal and he wouldn’t have offered the prepacked, curled-at-the-edges ham and cheese sandwich triangles to a prisoner on Death Row. He’d made do with a lukewarm coffee and a packet of dry roasted peanuts—taking care not to crunch too hard and risk damaging his new tooth. A young lad in the seat beside him slept through the flight, clutching a threadbare Teddy. His mother read a fashion magazine. Oh, to have a normal life.

  In a damp and dreary England, he took the shuttle from Gatwick Station into London Bridge Underground Station, and continued to his safe house to pick up his nondescript, age-old Vauxhall Astra. He also collected some provisions that wouldn’t have been allowed on any passenger plane anywhere on the planet, at least not since 9-11. It took a further two hours to find a room with a good enough view and see the changes to Hardwicke Row that appeared to go some way to confirming Texter’s bona fides.

  After a two-hour, dry-eyed vigil, his stomach started grumbling.

  Chapter 8

  Friday 23rd October—Mid-afternoon

  Bowling Road, London

  Kaine lowered the binoculars and rolled his eyes behind closed lids. Staring at the same spot for hours on end could play hell with the vision, especially if he kept forgetting to blink.

  Basic rules of covert observation—dry eyes equals tired eyes equals compromised vision. The coloured contact lenses he wore to match his fake identity only aggravated the situation, and eye drops wouldn’t help.

  He yawned. Obbos didn’t used to be so tiring, but at least he had plenty of activity to study from his third floor window. It wasn’t the same as the long-range desert patrols where he’d be staring at nothing but windblown dust clouds day after day.

  The tip of his tongue found the still unfamiliar implant in his upper jaw. The dentist had made a good job of it and the ceramic implant fitted well and looked good, but it still felt unnatural and would do for a while yet.

  He grabbed the Costa mug from the windowsill and took a swig. Yuck. Cold and bitter. Was there a drink in the world nastier than cold coffee?

  Stupid question.

  Cold tea, not one shadow of a doubt.

  Without losing sight of his target,
Kaine stood and stepped away from the window. He backed into the centre of the room and performed twenty-five squats followed by heel lifts, breathing in on the descent and out on the ascent. Next, he took up an orthodox boxing stance, bobbed and weaved, stepped forward and danced back, and threw rapid five-punch combinations: left double-jab, right uppercut, left cross, right cross—coughing and turning the wrist at each imagined impact point.

  He repeated the routine until he’d loosened out all the kinks from his journey, driven up his heart rate, and blown away some of the mental fug. Solo stakeouts weren’t exactly optimal, but Daniel Pinkerton—‘Danny’ to his friends, ‘hard-nosed bastard’ to anyone who tried calling him ‘Pinkie’—wouldn’t arrive for hours. Kaine needed to stay awake at least until the foot and road traffic died down for the night.

  He’d slept a little on the plane and would be good until Danny arrived to pick up his share of the load.

  Breathing hard, but recovering quickly, Kaine dropped into the hard-backed dining chair and worked through a well-practised seated stretching routine. He worked from the top down: neck, shoulders, arms, abs, waist, and finished with knee and ankle flexes. He’d designed the stretches specifically to maintain his swimmer’s flexibility, but they worked well enough for all aspects of his working life.

  Outside, the dank grey afternoon stretched into a greyer early evening as the clouds grew heavy and dropped their load in a steady drizzle that did nothing to wash away London’s grime. After spending more than a month on France’s isolated and pristine Aquitaine coast, the shock of returning to his adopted home city both surprised and depressed Kaine more than he expected. The company he’d been keeping during his enforced holiday had everything to do with it.

  Hardwicke Row, a complete city block situated on the eastern side of Bowling Street’s wide thoroughfare was bordered by Old Road to the south and Grafton Lane to the north.

  The Row had been given a new set of clothes since Google Earth had taken its pictures. Builders had framed the four-storey block with scaffolding and covered the three storeys above street level with debris netting in an eye-watering shade of dayglow orange. A waste chute snaked down the Old Road side of the building. It ran from the top floor and spat its load into a skip so large it blocked the whole of the pavement and one of the lanes.