Virginity Despoiled

by Charles Brett

  Contents

  Virginity Despoiled

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Also by Charles Brett

  About the Author

  Virginity Despoiled

  (The third Davide Shape/Inma Ávila novel)

  Charles Brett

  ISBN-13: 978-1534796287

  ISBN-10: 1534796282

  © 2016 Charles C C Brett

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed within are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2016

  By

  C3B Consulting Ltd

  registered at:

  School House, St Philip's Court, Church Hill,

  Coleshill, Birmingham, B46 3AD, UK.

  All rights reserved © 2016 Charles C C Brett

  The right of Charles Brett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  www.charlesbrett.net

  To Lourdes

  Who has helped with, and supported the writing of, all my novels, tolerated my eccentricities and learnt to appreciate the very best quality olive oil, albeit after initial doubts about my sanity.

  My thanks for help with this novel go to Eric Olverson, Salvador Ortega, Carolyn Baurle, Graham Hutton, Ian Murphy and Rob Harris for being willing to read early versions and offer valuable feedback.

  In addition, I thank Graham and Amanda Hutton for inviting me to discover the joys of olive picking in the wonderful La Tocella, as well as Eugenio and Louise Grippo for showing me how to turn those olives into olive oil on their Umbria hill top estate and, in so doing, producing a wonderful oil, alas long since consumed. Both were experiences not to be missed.

  Rob Harris, with his deep knowledge, corrected my mistakes and clarified about the best olive oils and their production.

  Nevertheless, all flaws, oddities and errors are of my own making.

  Charles Brett

  Madrid and Nicosia, 2016

  Prologue

  Spring

  Andalucía, Southern Spain

  By midday the Andaluz spring sun warms both air and soil. With the temperature rising, buds emerge on olive trees as they reawaken from their long winter lethargy. Within days those buds develop. Some will provide the shoots that grow into branches to provide the base for future buds. Others will become blossom before developing the first signs of the fruit that, months later, will yield olives to eat, oil for cooking, oil to enhance the taste of food as well as to provide light, soap to clean, perfume to smell, even leaves to steep as tea. This is the marvel of the olive tree's natural cycle.

  Nature collaborated this year, cooperating to pull plant progress forward. A whole week of rain drenched trees and soaked the earth, augmenting each tree's normally-scarce water reserves. Subsequent weeks brought occasional rain showers, delighting each tree's owner. Compared to two years earlier, when acute drought meant tiny olives producing tiny quantities of oil, this year those who cultivated olives salivated at the promise of a rich crop.

  With each passing day the prospect of a good, then abundant, then excellent, then extravagant harvest grew. Such profusion cheered all who worked in the olive groves. They smiled to each other as they laboured.

  They laughed in the bars after work. Exuberance was in the air, if always accompanied by that mournful streak of anxiety common to those who work the land – the fear that Mother Nature will devastate without notice. Whether an unexpected chill, a cascade of hailstones, gale driven winds or prolonged aridity, each can wreak huge damage to delicate fruit in hours.

  These were good weeks. Harvest preparation was undertaken with enthusiasm. The grinding heat of two years earlier was moderated by those irregular showers and their clouds. The powers-that-be, from Comarca to Provincia to Ministerio to Brussels itself, pontificated by using ever more effervescent statistics to forecast record-beating production levels, albeit always accompanied by the caveat 'if the weather cooperates'.

  Meanwhile, in olives from the previous year, an ever-feared menace lurked. Inside these forsaken fruit all was not peaceful. The late spring warmth inspired last year's olive fruit fly eggs to hatch. These became larvae. The larvae fed on their host, unseen. Successful larvae pupated in hollow areas beneath each infected olive's outer skin. Pupae became adults before, as adult flies, they broke out from the confines of their personal olive nurseries.

  The flies buzzed. They flew. Males sought females and, as the sun set, they mated. With consummation this year's first generation of female flies sought out the fresh, new olives now developing in profusion on the trees. Perhaps ten times a day, over several days, each female deposited eggs, one egg in one olive at a time.

  This is how natural olive fruit fly infestations commence. At first all goes unnoticed, lost in the sheer profusion of trees and olives. With so much fruit available this year's Bactrocera oleae, the olive fruit fly, was in its equivalent of pest heaven.

  A month later, the second generation matured and bred. A month after that came the third generation. The multiplication factor was massive.

  At last the olive tree owners of Jaén in Andalucía took notice. Within days their earlier good cheer, previously stoked by the benign weather and a total absence of Mother Nature's other threats, had disappeared. Disaster beckoned.

  Chapter One

  Three years earlier

  Friday: Tallinn (Estonia)

  Oleg ambled through the Old Town Square in Tallinn. He gathered his thoughts about what to say at dinner. As he threaded through the city's inevitable late season tourists his ruminations were all too often disrupted by over-zealous celebrants, most notably ridiculous British ones draped in fancy dress and out to enjoy stag or hen nights. Why anyone would want to go to Estonia for the purpose of becoming blind-drunk before getting married was beyond his imagination, even if it did conjure up hints of his Russian ancestry.

  From Harju he made his way into Rüütli and onto the Georgia Tavern. He hesitated before entering. Why had Andrei chosen a Georgian restaurant? While Oleg liked Georgian food, he disliked Georgians, and Armenians for that matter. Only Chechens and Azerbaijani were worse because neither were Christian. Most Georgians and Armenians were Orthodox, rather than being dirty Muslims. He wished that most famous of all Georgians, Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, Stalin, was still around. He knew how to crush pests.

  On the way up the Tavern's steep steps he recalled Ivan's reasoning for preferring this to the Tchaikovsky, the excellent Russian restaurant in
the old Post and Telegraaf building, which was now an expensive hotel. Part of the Georgia Tavern's seating lay on a raised platform set above the main dining floor. The three or four tables were invisible to those downstairs.

  This was pertinent. The conversation tonight would be one where he did not want to be associated with Andrei. Too many questions might arise.

  Oleg gave Andrei's name. The Maître D', a grandiose title for someone who introduced himself as an Armenian, showed him to the stairs and explained the one remaining table there was reserved for Mr Andrei and his three guests. Oleg started. Had Andrei invited others? He hoped not. What he wanted to discuss was for no one's ears other than Andrei's.

  He examined those at the tables nearby. One possessed a party of eight loud-dressed and even louder-voiced American ladies, judging by their accents. They were not in the first flush of youth, or sobriety. Excellent: they'd take no notice of anyone and the noise they made would hide almost everything. At the other table sat a couple of earnest Scandinavian businessmen. At odd moments he overheard what sounded like Finnish. They too shouldn't be a problem.

  Andrei was, as so often, late. As Oleg waited he retraced his and Andrei's first encounters. They had both attended the training academy for what was to have been the KGB (had Gorbachev not given the USSR away) and what became the FSB under Putin. At the academy Andrei and he detested each other. Few were surprised when, just before graduating, Andrei had disappeared, ejected. To their class Andrei had been a loud-mouthed bore possessing the sensitivity of an elephant crushing an ant. Ironically, his name, with its Prince Andrei associations from Anna Karenina, was too delicate for a man mountain resembling an imperfect combination of a barrel and a tank with no obvious neck. Andrei had been born in the wrong era. He would have made an ideal enforcer under Stalin, exuding the aura of mindless brutality that intimidated on sight.

  For more than twenty years Oleg and Andrei hadn't met. Out of the blue Oleg saw Andrei in Narva, the Russian-dominated town lying just inside Estonia's eastern border. Both had been climbing onto the slow train from Narva to Tallinn. When Oleg recognised him he had hoped Andrei hadn't seen him or, if so, he did not remember.

  On purpose Oleg chose a different carriage. For Oleg the next three hours on the slow train, more like a 1950s' bus on rails, were interminable.

  Not before time the train slid into Tallinn's main station. Oleg held back to afford Andrei every opportunity to make his exit. Oleg remembered how he'd helped a pensioner with her luggage. By being courteous, chatting and escorting her to a taxi, he bought himself additional time.

  After her taxi had departed he waved down another. It moved forward. When it stopped he climbed in, finding it already occupied – by Andrei. Unless he opened the door and dived out escape was impossible.

  By the time he'd worked this out this option was too dangerous to attempt with the Estonian driver speeding across town to the Palace Hotel located opposite the obscenely-named Freedom Square. As always, Oleg questioned why Yeltsin, in January 1991, had recognised Estonia's independence at the moment when Soviet tanks were trundling into Latvia and Lithuania. Those tanks could have been in Tallinn. For Oleg, Gorbachev and Yeltsin spelt the USSR's death knell. They were its poisoners making him, like so many others, a loser.

  Andrei paid the taxi driver. Rather than enter the Hotel, without uttering a word, he beckoned to Oleg. In silence they walked along Pärnu Maantee before Andrei dived into some form of disco bar. Inside the staff greeted him with enthusiasm. With a wave of the hand Andrei introduced 'my friend Oleg' in bad Estonian before taking over the only empty table.

  Oleg's apprehension had become fascination. That evening proved to be a life changer. Tonight he hoped he might recreate an equivalent or superior opportunity to benefit them both. Oleg frowned. Would Andrei appreciate the elegance of all he was about to propose?

  Friday: Tallinn

  Andrei disembarked from the black Land Cruiser, his preferred transport. Although unrefined, it was tough and capable of driving on Russian or Estonian country roads or tracks, and large enough to accommodate his bulk. This wasn't true of the fancier BMWs or Mercedes he would have preferred.

  With casual abandon he parked the Land Cruiser where it was forbidden, confident the worst he could receive was a parking ticket, which he would ignore. One advantage of big, automatic four-wheel drive SUVs like the Land Cruiser is they are as mobile as a lump of mechanical concrete when you don't have the key. Most traffic police were aware of this and gave up before summoning a tow-truck.

  Andrei paused before the steep steps up to the Georgia Tavern, like Oleg had earlier. In truth he remained surprised by Oleg's phone call. Although they'd worked together on a few occasions, to mutual if illegal profit, they'd only become friends of a sort. Oleg was not one who often took the initiative.

  Oleg's caution surprised Andrei. Oleg was clever. He had been born with the sort of devious mind able to plan ahead and envisage multiple, parallel scenarios – along with all their possible outcomes. If his ideas lacked raw immediacy they were ingenious, though sometimes over-elaborate. In contrast Andrei acted more on instinct. They'd never found anything major to do in combination thus far. This was a pity. Combining their strengths promised to release an as yet unrealised potential.

  One small aspect, however, bothered Andrei. Oleg had been a star at the academy. He'd worked for the KGB until its more able people transitioned into the FSB. But something had happened, curtailing Oleg's career. Oleg wouldn't discuss this. Whatever it was Oleg had been suspended before being cast out. No amount of discreet questioning by Andrei had ever furnished an explanation. The cause remained a mystery, which left Andrei uncomfortable. He needed to understand the weaknesses of those he worked with. This gave him his edge.

  Irrespective, he enjoyed Oleg's company. He possessed originality, a freshness of imagination, which Andrei knew he himself lacked. He didn't resent this. Rather he wanted to harness it to their advantage.

  Inside the restaurant he strode straight to the stairs, nodding at the Maître D' in passing. At the top he observed a restless Oleg. Andrei's mouth curved. Oleg hated lateness, in himself as much as others. On this topic Oleg never contained his criticism. Andrei expected to be reproached, even lambasted, at some point during dinner. The question was when, not if.

  Andrei made himself comfortable opposite Oleg. He waved airily.

  "Don't worry about the other two places. I booked for four so we'd have space around us as well as privacy. We'll just tell them our other guests couldn't make it."

  He smirked at Oleg's mix of relief and annoyance for not anticipating Andrei's tactic. They inspected each other. Oleg saw the usual Andrei, shaven head sitting above a black turtleneck sweater and black trousers, smart if cask-shaped. Somehow Andrei always looked good in his unicolour outfits. To Andrei, Oleg was the opposite – a badly-dressed beanpole. The suit was expensive, the matching tie more so. Nevertheless, the impression was nondescript. Oleg was one of those people who bought good clothes and rendered them formless. The irony was, as Andrei knew, Oleg obsessed about his fitness. Oleg ran marathons for light entertainment, even competing in the occasional 100K race. This accounted for his stringy physique even if it didn't explain how he deformed his well-cut wardrobe.

  Andrei had already decided he would not beat about the bush. It wasn't his style.

  "So why did you want to meet? And why Tallinn rather than Narva or St Petersburg?"

  Within Andrei delighted as Oleg winced. Andrei had grasped long before now that Oleg hated Leningrad's original name. He remained stuck in a Soviet-shaped past and had yet to catch up with the real world.

  Friday: Tallinn

  Just as Andrei assessed him, so Oleg did the same. It was habit to check for signs of nervousness or something unexplained. Oleg concluded Andrei appeared normal – for Andrei.

  "What do you know about liquid gold?"

  "Liquid gold? Is it a new drink? Have you given up being teetotal?"

>   Before Oleg could reply their waiter arrived with menus. Andrei batted them away.

  "Bring one each of all your starters, with your Georgian bread, a bottle of your best Saperavi and a litre of fizzy water."

  The waiter attempted to suggest alternatives. The order seemed so improbable. Andrei growled at him. It wasn't reassuring.

  "No. Please listen. I meant what I said. I repeat: one each of all the starters."

  Andrei swivelled, away from the waiter and back to Oleg.

  "I hope you don't mind. The starters are excellent, often much better than the main courses, though these can be good. I suggest we experiment, ignoring those we don't like."

  He shooed the waiter away.

  "So what is this liquid gold you refer to?"

  "Think of something practical, manufactured in many ways for many purposes over many centuries and naturally occurring. Something for which some people will pay up to 300 dollars a litre and attracts financial subsidies."

  "The only two possibilities I can think of are oil and gold itself. I've heard of oil being called liquid gold. But that doesn't make much sense unless you've inherited an oil field, which seems improbable given that our past colleague Mr Putin, or the Arabs or the lunatic Chavez, have gathered most of these to themselves or their friends. Also, oil attracts taxes, not subsidies. As for literal liquid gold? That makes even less sense. Why would anyone want molten gold?"

  Andrei paused. Oleg's face creased in amusement, revealing a predatory aspect.

  Interesting, observed Andrei to himself. Oleg must have a very particular idea clamped between his teeth.