The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5)

by Sewell, Ron

  “Cash, one hundred. Cheque, one-twenty-five as it has to go through the system.”

  From his back pocket, Petros removed his wallet and handed over five twenty pound notes. “Thank you for being so prompt.”

  “Bear told me it was urgent. Any problems give me a bell.”

  Charlie stirred as Todd made to leave. He barked, settled into his basket and closed his eyes.

  “Great dog,” said Todd.

  “Only if he likes you.”

  ***

  After dropping Alysa at her nursery Maria drove a few miles to JG’s Karate school and parked her silver Audi saloon. Dressed in a dark blue tracksuit she entered the white painted building and charged up the stairs to the large practice room.

  A soft voice with a Glasgow accent said for the rest of the class to hear, “You’re late and therefore first on the mat.”

  JG, as everyone knew him, stood with his arms folded in the centre of the room, around him, a circle of women aged between twenty to fifty.

  In his white outfit with a black belt tying the jacket together and ready for anything, JG addressed the group. “Ladies, most men believe women are easy targets. You are here to prove them wrong. As you know from the sign at the entrance I teach martial arts and my students are well trained but that can take years of practice. In the next few weeks if you’re attacked and I hope it never happens, I intend to teach you how to defend yourself. Sales pitch over.” He pointed to Maria. “In the centre and bring one of my handbags with you.”

  Some of the women laughed.

  “The thug will grab your bag and do a runner. The last thing he wants is a fight. Show me your hands.”

  Maria held out her hands.

  “Perfect, lovely long fingernails to scratch, claw and poke in his eyes. Use what you have. In most cases, the bastard will run but unfortunately, with great looking women like you, some may have rape on their minds. A kick in the balls usually ends that thought and gives you enough time to scream and run. Now, kick me in the balls.”

  Maria hesitated but lashed out with her right leg, which JG deflected.

  He grabbed her and pulled her close. “Come on darling, be nice to me. Give us a kiss.”

  She twisted and turned but he held her.

  “What did I just tell you to do? You’re up close and he’s getting personal. This position is perfect for you to knee him in the crutch. Go for it.”

  Embarrassed at her own helplessness, she lifted her knee with all the strength she could muster.

  He grinned and let her go. “Don’t worry, I’m wearing protection. Ladies, what is her problem? I’ll tell you, she’s frightened and these bastards love the fear they create. It’s a game you can’t afford to lose. Think positive, after all, he’s only a man who can’t get it up. Use that fear to hurt him.”

  One by one, he practiced the move on each woman. “Time for coffee. Then we start all over again until it becomes instinctive.”

  At the end of the session, JG gathered them together. “Next week we’ll learn more dirty tricks. Take care and drive carefully.”

  Together the class descended the stairs. Some went to a nearby coffee shop while others jumped in their cars and drove away.

  Maria returned to the nursery and waited for Alysa to finish her finger painting.

  ***

  James Eden listened patiently as Paul Edward gave him the details of a wreck south of the Scottish Isle of Mull on which he wished to dive and salvage. “Mull, you say. I’ll check my wreck library.” His fingers flitted across the keyboard.

  He looked up. “They’re three wrecks listed. Two you cannot touch as they belong to the Royal Navy and therefore the government, and the third has a salvage claim by the owner. Touch them and you break the law.”

  Paul ran his fingers through his hair before he gazed at his wristwatch. “You live and learn. Shipwrecks are what they are and it was my understanding they were fair game.”

  James swivelled in his chair. “Now you know. Sorry, can’t help.”

  Paul stood and prepared to leave. “One more question, what does Finders Keepers mean in regard to salvage?”

  James shook his head. “Why do you ask? I’ve told you the wreck you’re interested in is a no-dive location.”

  “I read an article where a ship full of silver was recovered and the salvage team made a fortune.”

  “It’s straight forward. Under international maritime law if you can prove the owner of the vessel has lost all claim to the cargo you can file a salvage claim. The opposite would be the wreck of HMS Edinburgh. Designated a war grave it carried a consignment of gold bullion intended as payment for supplies to Russia.

  “The government offered the salvage rights to a British company but returned fifty-five percent of the recovered bullion to Russia. The divers were rather upset when the government at the time charged them VAT. So you see even if you find a vessel you can salvage, be careful it doesn’t cost you more than you can make.”

  “Interesting. Must dash, have a client in half an hour.”

  James managed a top-quality smile. “Sorry I couldn’t help. You know the way out.” He did not stand or offer his hand. At speed he inserted Paul Edward’s name into the Google search engine and read all he needed to know.

  James pulled a file from a drawer and placed it on his desk. “Two Finder Keepers in one week. Not a chance in hell and Edward was fishing.”

  Carole, dressed in a long woollen pullover, distressed light blue jeans, knee length black boots, ruffled her cropped-blonde hair as she knocked and opened the office door. “Petros Kyriades and a William Morris are waiting.”

  He opened his desk drawer and from the petty cash box took a twenty-pound note. “Ask my friends what type of coffee they prefer, I’ll have my usual and whatever you want. Keep the change.”

  She smiled at him and gave a shrug. “When did you last buy coffee?”

  “Why?”

  “Thirty will get you large coffees. Twenty, small.”

  “He fumbled in the cash box and gave her another ten pound note.”

  “You can go in when you tell me what’s your coffee preference,” said Carole.

  “Hot, black and sweet,” said Bear.

  “Hot and black for me,” said Petros.

  Petros, strolled smiling into James’ office followed by Bear.

  “Some secretary,” said Bear.

  James chuckled. “She’s actually brilliant and we work well together. You should see her when she has a mood change and wears her Japanese gothic Lolita look. She appears stunning but innocent, butter wouldn’t melt and all that. Anyway, enough about my secretary.

  “Petros, Tuna Turner, your search vessel, is tied up, ready and waiting in Palermo Harbour. When you first see her you’ll think it’s a stern trawler. She once was but her conversion to search and salvage is first class. I’ve briefed the captain on your requirements. Any problems tell me sooner rather than later.”

  “I’m flying by easy Jet tomorrow morning,” said Petros. “I also have two colleagues joining me.”

  The office door opened and Carole returned with three polystyrene containers filled with coffee and placed them on the desk. “I bought a slice of carrot cake with the change.”

  “Thank you,” said James.

  She did a curtsy, turned and skipped out the door, closing it behind her.

  “She has a first class honours in law.”

  “And a nice arse,” said Bear.

  “Agreed,” said James. “I gather Mr Morris will be the coordinator. If extras are required he can approve the additional expenditure.”

  “If we find the wreck we’ll both need him, “ said Petros. “Out of interest, has anyone been asking questions?”

  “Strange you should ask. Before you arrived a lawyer who often assists the criminal fraternity in their defence, sat right there asking questions on the Finders Keepers salvage regulations.”

  Petros raised his eyebrows. “What did you tell him?”
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  “I spouted the standard spiel. Client confidentiality rates high on my agenda. Without it, I’m out of business. What made you ask?”

  “Two clowns attempted to bug my telephone lines.”

  “From your tone, I gather they failed.”

  “No they fixed their device and I had someone add a little extra.”

  James scribbled a mobile phone number onto a card. “This is a pay-as-you-go and your direct line to me. Anything which concerns you and it doesn’t matter how large or small, contact me. I earn my money. I expect no problems with Alfredo Abruzzi. You can speak to him but be careful who might be listening. Sicily is the home of the Cosa Nostra or as they like to be known, Men of Honour.”

  “They have a reputation to be feared. I’ll stay out of their way.”

  James stood and held out his hand. “Have a good trip and I hope you find what you’re searching for.”

  Petros shook his hand. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “So will I,” said Bear. “Let me know the next time Carole turns Japanese.”

  “Your brains are in your trousers,” said Petros as he grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the office.

  Carole smiled and gave a cute wave.

  “Even you must admit it’s tempting,” said Bear.

  “I enjoy living,” said Petros.

  Bear chuckled. “What a way to go.”

  ***

  Petros paused as he ambled from his garage to the main door. A full moon lit the sky and for once in a long while, he saw the milky-way. The thought of finding the gold stimulated his mind. As he entered the kitchen, he kissed Maria.

  Charlie and Alysa greeted him. “I teach Yarlie game.”

  “What sort of game?”

  “I show you. Bang.”

  The full-grown Alsatian rolled on his side.

  “Yarlie dead.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She smiled at her father. “Pretend dead. Biscuit, Yarlie.”

  The animal leapt and caught it.

  Alysa rummaged in a cupboard and tossed Charlie more biscuits into the air. “Yarlie catch.”

  “How was the self-defence class?” asked Petros.

  “I enjoyed it. When I’ve finished this course I’d like to try a martial art, maybe Judo.”

  “Why not? What did you learn today?”

  She giggled. “Where to hurt a man.”

  Petros gave a fatigued smile. “What you mean is how to bring tears to his eyes.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Petros gripped the armrests and closed his eyes as the Airbus climbed rapidly.

  The whine of the engine settled as he peeked out of the window at a layer of unbroken dark cloud in every direction. The sense of being sealed in a metal container unable to control his life gripped him. He closed the blind, nestled into his seat and dozed until the attractive brown-haired cabin attendant shook his arm and reminded him to fasten his seat belt.

  The aircraft landed with a thump on the runway at Palermo. Petros glanced at his watch; they were on time. Followed by a line of holidaymakers he strolled, holding his cabin bag and his blazer draped over his shoulder, towards the airport buildings. Once through customs and immigration he wandered to the main entrance. A young man dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt held a card with his name.

  He stopped. “I’m Petros Kyriades.”

  He smiled. “Tommaso Giovanni, your driver. My uncle is Alfredo Abruzzi and I’m a deckhand on his boat.”

  “Jack of all trades,” said Petros.

  Five minutes later they travelled along a busy road towards Palermo harbour. Petros pressed a memory button on his mobile.

  “Good morning, PK.”

  “Amadou, where are you?”

  “I’m eating my breakfast in Panini’s, opposite a large car-park close to a sandy beach. Lots of yachts and ships in the harbour.”

  “Tommaso, my two friends are at Panini’s.”

  “I will stop and they can travel with us, unless you want to eat. Panini’s excellent.”

  “We’ll see if they’ve finished before making a decision.”

  Tommaso drove into the car park opposite the cafe and stopped.

  A warm, gentle breeze blew from the sea as waves lapped the sloping beach. The area buzzed; three cruise liners berthed in the harbour acted like mother hens, their chicks, passengers arriving and departing. The beachfront sported a continuous line of cafes, bars, souvenir shops and restaurants.

  Fishing boats having returned from a night at sea unloaded their catch, winches clanked, men shouted and lorries trundled across the jetty. The old and new mixed in a haphazard fashion adding to its appeal. Petros’ eyes scanned the area before he found Panini’s, and Amadou with ZZ under a large white sunshade.

  He waved and strolled with Tommaso to the cafe. “You both look well,” said Petros as he hugged the two men. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, we are ready,” said ZZ. He drew Petros to one side. “But without my knives I am naked, unarmed.”

  Petros turned to Tommaso and in a quiet voice asked, “Is there a shop which specialises in knives?”

  He nodded. “I’ll take you but we walk.”

  The three men followed Tommaso along narrow lanes into the heart of old Palermo. They stopped outside a closed general hardware shop.

  “Wait,” said Tommaso as he pressed the doorbell.

  The little window located in the centre of the heavy wooden door opened. “Uncle, I have a customer.”

  They listened as bolts rattled back and the door opened. Tommaso entered and in minutes returned. “Come. Meet my uncle Enrico. He produces the best blades in Sicily.”

  Enrico was small and rotund, dressed in a dark suit with a white open-necked shirt. His eyes were bright and his manner alert. He beckoned and they followed into a spacious courtyard and stopped at a lean-to shed, its rear fastened against a natural stonewall. From his jacket pocket he removed a key and unlocked the heavy steel padlock from the door. Inside shelves loaded with tins of emulsion paint went from floor to roof. With his foot, he kicked the tattered rug on the floor to reveal a small hatch. This he opened, pulled a metal lever and a door in the rear wall containing the tins of paint opened.

  “Everything the Cosa Nostra requires is here.”

  “You sell guns to them?” asked Amadou.

  “No, this is their armoury. For this, I have free protection. This is Sicily. Everyone understands that if you wish to stay in business you pay protection. Nothing has changed since the old days.”

  From a cupboard at the far end, he removed three thin leather pouches and placed them on a wooden bench in front of ZZ. “Excellent blades.”

  ZZ let his gaze travel over the three sets of double-edged knives. He turned to Enrico. “May I?”

  He nodded.

  ZZ removed one from each pouch, weighed it in his hand, and threw it at a roof support.

  He removed, cleaned, and replaced each blade into its pouch. Lifted one and asked, “How much?”

  “One-hundred euro the set, cash.”

  Petros removed two fifty euro notes from his wallet and handed them to Enrico.

  “Is that everything?” asked Tommaso.

  “For the moment,” Petros said. “Right, back to the car and then the ship.”

  Tommaso led them back through the courtyard and along the labyrinth of narrow streets to the where he parked the car.

  Fifteen minutes later they alighted. A black and white trawler nestled against the concrete quay, its name Tuna Turner in polished brass.

  Petros’ eyes commenced a bow to stern circuit of the ship. He turned to Amadou. “It was once a fishing boat until converted. Those hydraulic davits on the stern look as if they could lift a ton or two.”

  “So long as it has a good bed and doesn’t bounce too much I’m happy.”

  Alfredo, a small, lean, muscular man with a shaven head waved at his nephew. His angular face creased from years of salt spray and sun. “Any problems
?”

  “No, uncle.”

  Petros boarded first. “Petros Kyriades and these are my friends, Amadou and ZZ.”

  “Welcome. Tommaso will show you to your cabins. There is a single and a double, and both have en-suite facilities. When you have unpacked, we need to talk.”

  “Of course.” Petros turned to Amadou. “The single is mine.”

  Amadou shrugged. “A bed is a bed and ZZ lives in my house when he’s not with a girl.”

  ZZ grinned. “Is it my fault I’m so handsome?”

  “Please,” said Tommaso, “follow me.”

  Five minutes later Petros found his way to the bridge where Alfredo was sorting through his charts.

  “Where is this wreck of yours?”

  Petros removed his wallet and handed over a sheet of paper. “As plotted by the Royal Navy at the time she sank.”

  Alfredo read and found the appropriate chart and marked the location. “The sea is one hell of a large place. Do you know how difficult it is to find a wreck? You can miss it by metres and never know. We must pray it’s in the shallower water.”

  “Apart from the depth, any other reason?”

  “The cost of hiring deep sea equipment rises with the depth.”

  Petros studied the chart. “We have to find it first.”

  “With side scan sonar, if it’s there we will find it.”

  “I’m familiar with the basics of sonar but side scan I’ve never worked with.”

  “It’s the best equipment the scientists have produced for underwater exploration. We can search large areas fast and produce detailed pictures when we want them. Best of all, it gives a GPS position so we can find the same location every time. With the equipment I have we cover the larger area first. When we locate the possible target, we increase the search frequency and produce high res images for analysis. Think of it as an underwater television camera.”

  Petros nodded. “I love technology when it works. How long until we’re over the wreck?”

  Alfredo removed a pair of compasses from a draw, set them to a distance equating to twelve knots, and marked fine pencil lines on the chart. “Three-hundred and fifty miles at twelve knots.” He lifted his head and faced Petros. “Give or take thirty hours we will be on site. We can leave when you wish.”