by Terry Morgan
But there was someone missing.
And Jim was out of breath and his chest hurt him. He leaned heavily on the parapet of the stony bridge looking down. Then he looked at the bike. "Oh dear. Now what? How the hell are you going to get back?"
He stayed, leaning on the bridge wondering what to do. Here he was in a place he had always wanted to see again, a place he would sometimes dream about with such clarity. He took a deep breath, but his lungs and chest hurt and he felt dizzy. He leaned more heavily, his arms propping him up to make breathing easier and exhaled noisily through his mouth feeling hot and sticky. There was no doubt about it. Jim Smith was in a bit of a predicament again and there was no Tom around and only the sound of a tractor to suggest another human being close by.
"And you made another mistake over the month," he mumbled to himself. "Your plan was to come here in May not October. If you remember, you wanted to hear a cuckoo and perhaps tell Margaret a story."
Jim listened, but only heard the tractor and sheep.
"It was about a Tibetan cuckoo, Margaret—not an English one—but the story is the important part. I know I test your patience, but bear with me. That cuckoo could never settle down until all his jobs were done, you see. He was a perfectionist cuckoo and had been a very successful cuckoo in his odd, strange way. All the other cuckoos said so. He did not care much about himself, he was untidy and his feathers were a bit shabby. But, once he'd started a job, this cuckoo never stopped until it was finished. One day he decided to make a perfect nest for his wife and himself to sleep in. So he left his wife to sit and wait and then spent hours and hours seeking the softest mosses and finest grasses. When he had finished the job to his own exacting standards, he looked around for his wife to show her what he had just built. But she had already flown away."
His breathing seemed easier now and as he looked at the steep hill that he had just, so easily, freewheeled down, he heard a tractor coming from the direction of Ilam. He pushed the bike up and over the cattle grid and sat down on the grass verge amongst the droppings of sheep and rabbits and waited. The tractor was towing a wooden trailer holding some old sacks and a black and white sheep dog. It came on slowly, passed the farm entrance towards the bridge. It was going up the hill. Jim waved and the driver slowed.
"Aye up," the driver said.
"Good afternoon," Jim panted. "I'm so sorry to trouble you but I wonder if you would give me a lift to the top. I've rather run out of steam."
"Aye, put bike on back and 'op oop."
"Thank you so much." Jim hauled himself and the bike up and sat there beside the dog, which wagged its tail and came to stand by him, its mouth open and a pink tongue hanging between white teeth. The dog, Jim was pleased to note, was also panting.
"Nice day," the driver called back above the engine noise.
"Splendid," said Jim, breathing deeply.
"Aye, but autumn's on its way."
"Where are you going?" Jim inquired.
"Callow Hall."
"Could you take me there? I would be extremely grateful."
Chapter Sixty-Seven
"JIM, I FOLLOWED Guido to Antwerp. How I managed to stay close I don't know. I could get a new job, Jim—police interceptors. I'm now in an underground car park right in the city. I think it has a hotel up above. But—what does Dirk Eischmann look like?"
Jim, now with a throbbing headache and worn out from his cycling, had fallen asleep at a small bed and breakfast establishment in the nearby market town of Ashbourne. He sat up, half got out of bed, put his bare feet on the cold floor. "Why?"
"Someone was there to meet him. As soon as Guido stopped, another car on the other side flashed its headlights and a man got out and went over. They are sitting in Guido's car right now, as I speak."
Jim described Eischmann as best he could, but there was nothing noteworthy about Dirk Eischmann, He was average everything. Pass him in the street and he could have been on an errand to the shops for his wife.
"Jesus, Jim. That the best you can do?"
"What car did he get out of?"
"A black BMW, Belgian plate I think, though I'm not close enough."
"That fits. And Guido's Mercedes. Anything about it?"
"Big, black, Italian plate I think but I can't read it."
"What time is it?" Jim ruffled his own hair and scratched his chin beneath the beard.
"Here, it's nearly midnight. Hey, hang on Jim. Movement. Eischmann, if it's him, is getting out—shutting the door, walking over to his car. Guido's getting out as well. Jesus, he's a funny-looking guy. He walks like he's got something stuck up his arse, Jim."
"Please, Tom, not now. It's late and I might start dreaming again."
"Eischmann's heading off. Guido's going to a lift. Yes, it's definitely a hotel above my head. It says 'Lobby.’ You reckon he's staying the night?"
"Tom, I'm in England, was asleep five minutes ago. Your opinion counts, OK?"
"Yeh, I reckon he's checking in. He's lugging a bag half his size and the laptop's under his arm. He's in the lift. The BMW is moving off."
"What are you going to do?"
"Leave it a minute and see if I can get a room, but it looks pricey, Jim. Christ, I've just seen another sign—it's the bloody Hilton. I hope they don't put me in a room next to that fucking midget. I'll call you later."
Jim lay back and closed his eyes, but his mobile rang yet again. This time it was Jonathan.
"I thought you'd like to know, I've just had Scott Evora on. Seems like they've overheard Silvester Mendes talking to Guido and it seems Guido wants Mendes to join him in the fraud and corruption business. But from what Scott just said, he's not exactly going about it in the right way. Meanwhile, Scott's trying to pick my brains about Guido. Should I say anything, Jim?"
"Not yet, Jon. Let me think. Anyway, Tom might be sharing a room with him tonight. We might get some pillow talk."
Chapter Sixty-Eight
DRIVER MITCHELL HAD been knocking on the metal door of Rocki General Supplies warehouse for so long that his knuckles hurt.
"Shit, shit," he muttered, increasingly worried he'd have to return having failed to accomplish his mission. In his pocket was the little black box with a wire hanging from it and he knew exactly where he was going to stick it if he got inside. Then he shouted, "Mr. Moses!" through the gap by the hinges.
"You looking for big boss Moses, my man?"
The voice came from behind—from a tall, thin man in jeans and tee shirt, a ring hanging from his left ear, a colorful, close fitting, hand-knitted hat and a burning cigarette fixed between his thumb and first finger. The dense blue smoke was blowing in Mitchell's direction. The man, it seemed, had just arrived in a rusting old Peugeot car, its passenger door hanging open, loud music blaring from inside. Another man was in the driver's seat, tapping his fingers and shaking his head in time with the heavy beat.
"Ah, yes," said Mitchell. "I have an urgent delivery."
"Moses, he's gone away, man."
"When is he coming back?"
The man shrugged and looked at Mitchell through the smoke but said nothing. Mitchell scratched his head and muttered half to himself. "I cannot leave these boxes outside. Come back later? Tomorrow?"
"You wanna open the door, my man? Go inside?"
Mitchell looked at the man who was now smiling broadly. He was also dangling a big bunch of keys. They rang like church bells in front of his beaming face and white teeth.
"You work here?" Mitchell enquired.
"That's so, my man. Today anyway. You wanna go in or you wanna stand outside all day? What the fuck's your business?"
"A delivery of water purifiers," said Mitchell.
"Them paid for already?"
Mitchell nodded.
"That's OK then. Let's do the business man." He jangled the keys once more, pulled a shiny one out, showed it to Mitchell. "That your truck?"
"Sure, mon," said Mitchell, thinking he recognized a Nigerian and deciding to try speaking like o
ne. "You like Fela Kuti, my mon?" Mitchell added and he nodded towards the blaring noise coming from the dilapidated car.
"Wotsa Leoni doing liking Fela?" The thin man laughed and puffed on his cigarette. "Unload your boxes my friend while I open this fucking old tin shop."
As the man in the hat disappeared inside the warehouse in a cloud of smoke, Mitchell went to his truck, piled up four boxes, carried them in, put them down and went back for the rest. Then he recovered the paperwork from where he'd stuffed it behind the steering wheel. "I need a signature," he shouted into the dusty darkness of the warehouse.
"I'ze in the office, driver."
The Nigerian was sitting in Mr. Moses' chair, surrounded by the usual piles of files, paperwork and boxes and rifling through the contents of a drawer. The air conditioning was on full. "So what's to sign, my man? Give." He beckoned with his hand.
Mitchell handed over the paperwork. "Sign there please," he said and, as he did so, he felt in his back pocket for the little black box. Standing, looking around as if admiring the luxury, Mitchell stuck the device exactly where he'd intended if Mr. Moses had been sitting there. Slid in the crack between the two halves of the desk and covered in files, it was already invisible.
The Nigerian didn't look up from whatever it was he was pulling from the drawer, but he scribbled something and handed it back to Mitchell.
"Is Mr. Moses on holiday?" Mitchell asked as he stuffed the useless paper in his pocket.
"Yeh, long one."
"Coming back soon?"
"Nope."
"Aww. So you the new boss?"
"Nope." He now looked straight at Mitchell with red, watery eyes but still puffed out more clouds of pungent smoke. "Moses is gone, my man. We took over his business."
"Gone? Gone where?"
"To visit the fucking angels."
"Waaah! Was he so sick?"
"No, someone shot him."
"Waaaah jeez," said Mitchell again, holding his hand to his mouth. "So sad. I liked Mr. Moses. Would you like to negotiate a contract with Mambolo Transport Enterprises?"
"What's your terms, my man?"
"Anything, anywhere, anyhow," said Mitchell rubbing his eyes because of the smoke.
"Come back tomorrow. I gotta go—my driver's outside."
"So is it still called Rocki General Supplies?" asked Mitchell.
"No, no. It's now Freeways Investments."
"So, you the big boss of Freeways Investments?" laughed Mitchell, edging towards the door.
"No, man, they are in Switzerland. Big shots, big power, no nonsense. One big, white Dutchman arrive—make commands like big soldier—point finger here, point finger there—they took over everything—all the business and all the boats by the river—one same day. Same day someone shot Moses. Coincidence huh? I work for Freeways in Nigeria. Freeways don't stand no messin' about, man. Know what I mean?"
Chapter Sixty-Nine
KATRINE WAS PRESENTING the third bid of the afternoon to the EAWA steering group. Dirk Eischmann was on her right, Jan across the table.
"We now come to the resubmission of the Sierra Leone Tourism bid which you will recall was returned for further information," she said. "As you will see from sheet one, the changes and further information we requested have been received."
She paused during some paper shuffling and caught the eye of Jan. Eischmann was apparently engrossed in reading the changes.
"First," Katrine said, "Sulima Construction yesterday advised us of a change of consultant. The new company is Freeway Consultants in Zurich. We are all very familiar with Freeways. They have been consultants for several economic development projects over the last few years, but their details are attached if we need to refer to them."
Oh yes, Jan remembered Freeways. The name cropped up regularly—Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Somalia. But no one had ever questioned them, least of all Eischmann. It was just paperwork. If the paperwork looked OK, then Freeways must be OK. Even Katrine appeared confident with them. Freeways were Swiss, so that made them automatically legitimate, viable, heavily resourced, experienced and with an enviable track record of delivery. But had anyone ever visited them, checked them out, delved into their resources and capability? Probably not. Everyone assumed someone else had.
And even if anyone had gone to Zurich to check, then they could probably expect a warm welcome at Zurich Airport by someone in a suit before being whisked off to a plush office rented for a few days with a few Freeways logos and pictures stuck around. With their resources, anything could be made ready and waiting in the event of excuses being needed. Jan could imagine the dialogue now. "This is just the economic development consultancy office—our other offices are in Luxemburg, London, Frankfurt and Madrid.” There would be a lot of bullshit, a long lunch with wine and a small or large gift would be offered if the visitors were suitable candidates. No wonder there were so many members in Guido's club. And if Guido was behind Freeways then so was Eischmann.
Jan watched Eischmann. There was not a flicker.
"We also asked for more information about Cherry Pick Investments," Katrine went on. "Fresh information from Freeway Consultants confirms that Cherry Pick Investments are in the process of being bought out by an unnamed company…"
It was then that Eischmann jumped in. "That is exactly why I suspected something was wrong here. Go on, Katrine."
"So," Katrine continued, "Freeways’ advice is that the bid be put on hold until the takeover is complete and the situation clarified. This should not take long and then they will resubmit the bid."
That was it—stamped on, permanently, or at least until Guido and Eischmann had decided on a solution that suited them.
The meeting ended, Jan went outside into the street and phoned Jonathan with the news.
"No need for us to engineer something to prove our suspicions, then," Jonathan said. "I'm just wondering how to break the news to Jacob Johnson."
"I'll leave that decision with you, Jon. But I've had another idea. Listen."
Chapter Seventy
"AH, JACOB, I'M glad you've called," Jonathan was in his office.
"Big problem, Jon. You know already?"
"Yes, I heard last night, but I thought you were in Nigeria."
"Yeh, I'm in Lagos. What the fuck's going on, Jon? Any idea? My Lebanese associates phoned me last night. Cherry Pick and Cherry Trading have been attacked."
"What do you mean attacked?"
"Attacked by someone. They even shot our Sierra Leone man."
"Shot him?"
"Yes, we think they persuaded him to sign his business over to them and then they shot him."
"Slow down, Jacob, I'm losing it. Who is your Sierra Leone man?"
"Messiah Moses. His business was Rocki General Supplies in Freetown, but he also ran Sulima Construction, Cherry Trading and Cherry Pick."
"Rocki General Supplies? Who are they? And I thought Cherry Picking was Lebanese. I am very confused, Jacob. It sounds complicated."
"Me too, Jonathan. But since Farid and Hamid decided not to work with that Italian fella things have been complicated."
"Farid and Hamid are your Lebanese partners, right?" queried Jonathan.
"Yes, yes. They had the bad experience in Milan. Since then…now I can't fucking think straight."
"I know the feeling, Jacob. And what is this about the man called Messiah being shot?"
"Messiah Moses, Jon. Moses was Cherry Pick's key man. He signed his business over to a company called Freeways Investments and an hour later he was shot—found floating in the river down near Sulima."
"Freeways Investments, Jacob?" Jonathan was double-checking.
"Yes, you know them? They're consultants like you. Far away in Zurich, I heard. You're not linked to them are you, Jon? If so I warn you…"
"Calm it, Jacob. I only heard about them yesterday, believe me. But I suspect a link with that Italian guy you keep telling me about. What's his name?"
"Guido."
; "That's it. He hates to be seen as a loser, Jacob. He lost the Cherry Picking business and he's as mad as hell. He's just trying to pick up pieces. This can be a dirty business sometimes."
"Thanks, Jonathan. I'll do some more investigation and let you know."
"And where is this Guido guy based?"
"Italy."
"Big place, Jacob. Any idea where?"
"I'll find out. I'll ask Farid and Hamid. They met him."
Jacob Johnson rang off. Jonathan phoned Cole Harding in Brighton. Cole Harding rang Suleiman in Freetown. Suleiman was in the middle of talking to Mitchell.
"So he's dead, Mr. Suleiman. Moses has gone to visit the fucking angels."
"Do not speak of the dead like that, Mitchell. You must not listen to Nigerians. They are not all good Christians. Language like that is unhealthy. But there is something sinister going on. Did I not tell you?"
Suleiman's phone rang.
"Ah, Cole. I was just thinking of calling you…You know already?…What is going on here?…Yes, Mitchell planted the special device but it is not that bastad Moses we will be listening to but a fucking Nigerian wearing a hat and smoking weeds."
Mitchell shook his head at the bad language.
"Is there anything more we can do, Cole?…OK, Mitchell will still listen to the voices. Meanwhile, you are taking the matter further with others…Good."
"So, Mitchell, you must sit outside Mr. Moses' door and listen to the voices."
"For how long must I sit, Mr. Suleiman."
Suleiman paused, thinking. "Between deliveries," he said.
Chapter Seventy-One
JAN WAS HEADING home, walking as usual. It was six thirty and dark. As he arrived at the entrance to the apartment block his mobile rang. It was Katrine. Twenty minutes later they were in the corner of the tapas bar.