People like Lukas Müller made it possible. If Sam hadn’t despised him for jerking off over images of small boys, she would have hated him for being instrumental in making rich people richer.
For today, though, she’d try very hard to be all smiles.
Müller entered the pavilion. He looked in Sam’s direction. She raised a hand. He did the same. He limped over to Sam’s table. Before he sat he asked her, his German accent strong, ‘What would you like to drink?’
Sam gave him a half-smile.
‘Decaf please. Black, no sugar.’
He turned to the barman.
‘Jason. Two black French presses; one decaf. And some cashews.’
He knows the barman. Well done him.
Müller sat opposite Sam. He didn’t say anything for a while, he just looked out of the window, across the ocean to the horizon.
‘This is the very best view in The Bahamas. No?’
Sam had been studying his face. He lacked a tan, but he had four or five sizeable and pronounced moles. And an alcoholic’s nose - overlarge and blue-veiny.
‘I’ll take your word for it. This is only my second day on the island. I spent most of yesterday being chased by a man in a car. He met me at the airport. It wasn’t a very encouraging welcome.’
He was still staring at the view.
‘That’s a shame. I didn’t know.’
He turned to her.
‘What do you people want from me?’
Sam spoke softly.
‘As my friend has told you Herr Müller, I work for the British government. We are close to dismantling The Church of the White Cross. We need a list of names - a hierarchy if you like.’
Müller snorted and shook his head. Smiling he returned to staring out of the window. He didn’t say anything for about half a minute. Sam played with a very weighty silver spoon.
Still staring at the view his eventual reply was quiet, but firm.
‘So, that’s what this is about. What if I said that I have no idea what you’re talking about?’
Sam and Wolfgang had war-gamed that question. Wolfgang was confident that Walter Ingris was The Church of the White Cross’s main offshore financial hub. Müller was the bank’s second-in-command. And he had a very unattractive police record. Chances were he was The Church’s man in Nassau. They’d agreed on that.
‘Then I’d call you a liar.’
Müller snorted again, but he didn’t take his eyes off the view.
‘You don’t know what you are doing. You have no idea who you are dealing with.’
Sam thought he was remarkably calm. It was though The Church was so powerful that nothing he could tell her would make a blind bit of difference. Or there was something else that was flattening his emotions.
Jason came back with the coffee - two posh cafetières and china cups - and a silver tray brimming with cashews. As he left, Müller slipped him a $50 note. She hated him even more now.
‘I think, Herr Müller, you underestimate the security services - yours, as well as mine.’ Sam said.
Müller scoffed, his hand now raised to his chin.
His eyes turned to face Sam, his face following momentarily afterwards. His stare was distant. Weak.
‘You know, these marks on my face?’ He pointed at a mole. ‘They’re melanomas. And they are killing me, Miss Green …’
Sam was taken aback that he knew her name. Wolfgang had only told Müller that he was meeting a female colleague of his.
‘... yes, they know who you are.’ He dismissed the comment with a brush of a hand on the tablecloth, removing an imaginary speck of dust. ‘I am dying; maybe a year? Not much more. Who knows? But once they find out I’ve met with you, I am as good as dead - now.’ He paused. ‘And so are you.’
There was dampness in his eyes. Sam tried to find some sympathy, but couldn’t.
‘Why meet with me then?’
He didn’t answer the question directly. ‘I am not a good man. I have done many bad things - and many things that I regret. You know of some of them, I’m sure. If I could have my time again ...’
Get to the point, Herr Müller.
He stopped and took a long swig of coffee.
‘... I might do things differently.’
Then he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a small silver box, about the size of a matchbox. He put it on the table, opened it, and took out a yellow capsule. It reminded Sam of the disgusting cod liver oil tablets her mother used to feed her.
Müller looked at the tablet. He turned it between finger and thumb. His face was sad, his bottom lip protruding a touch.
Sam watched in slow motion as Müller put the capsule into his mouth and bit it. He smiled, a tight-lipped smile. Then, he took a swig of coffee and turned to look out of the window again.
‘The best view in The Bahamas.’
And?
His eyes flickered. His mouth opened slightly; he coughed. The gap between his lips let out a dribble and his tongue made an appearance.
And then he was gone.
Fuck - why me?!
Sam caught his head before it hit the table. She looked around. Jason was busy with a customer on the other side of the bar.
The red mist was down. It had descended as quickly as if someone had punched her. She was livid. Furious at the coward of a man. Her life was complicated enough without the added diversion of having a corpse at her coffee table - his head suspended inches from a bowl of roasted cashews. And with her having nothing to show from it.
You yellow-livered bastard!
Think … girl, think.
It took her a couple of attempts to get Müller’s head balanced on a straight forearm. She then stood - her instincts were to flee. Her training, however, told her to watch the man for a few seconds - to check that his head didn’t topple.
She glanced to the bar. Jason looked over. Sam smiled and waved. He returned the compliment. She didn’t have long. If Jason didn’t spot the lack of movement from Herr Müller soon enough, he’d pick up a whiff of the urine. The banker had wet himself.
As gently as she could she checked his pockets. She found a wallet, a mobile and a set of keys - the fob declared the associated car a Lexus. Of course.
And then she was off. Müller’s wallet held over $500 dollars in various bills. She thrust another $50 bill in Jason’s hand - he was having a helluva day. Without waiting for a response she walked quickly back across the lawn, through the lounge and past the doormen.
The car park was a two minute jog away on the other side of a hedge; the running helped eased her tension. It was full of classy cars. She walked the length of the first row.
Jag.
Honda.
Honda.
Lexus.
She tried the key fob. Nothing.
Cadillac.
Volvo.
Lexus - beep, beep!
A black metallic Lexus NX 450 hybrid, SUV.
Perfect. For now.
Sam opened the driver’s door, the fob’s proximity key bringing the inside of the vehicle to life. Her left hand found the red ‘Start’ button whilst her right played with the electric seats - she was struggling to reach the pedals.
The Lexus’s engine burst into life and, having started to overheat on her trot from the Club, she was greeted almost immediately by a wash of cold, air conditioned air.
Where now?
Off Paradise Island - for sure. She’d plan her options beyond that as she drove.
ONE
Futility
Chapter 9
Paradise Island, The Bahamas
The Lexus was an effortless drive; tiptronic and breathlessly smooth through its automatic gearbox. Sam was at the entrance to the ‘off’ crossing in no time at all. The bridges were beautiful concrete affairs, rising in a huge, thin arch, before descending to the opposite bank. The sight of them for the second time today dropped her blood pressure by a couple of notches ...
… only for it to spike again w
hen she spotted a dude in the front seat of a white Nissan Navara twin cab. It was parked on the pavement just short of the entrance to the ‘off’ bridge. Sam was doing 30 miles-an-hour at that point, so he went past in a whizz, but he was definitely holding a camera - and her Lexus was in his viewfinder.
Bugger.
She didn’t get much of the man - which further annoyed her. He was white, late middle-aged, sunglasses and a turquoise Miami Dolphins’ baseball cap. Nothing else. She slowed down to 15 miles-an-hour and checked her rear-view mirror. She couldn’t be certain through her rear and his front windscreen, but she thought she saw the lens of a camera tracking her. More photos.
It was a crude snatch - but effective. There was only one way off the island. She had to cross the bridge at some point. Tick. She was tagged.
What now?
On her mind map of Nassau, Sam had logged a shopping mall in the centre of town. Lots of cars - lots of people. She’d make her way there.
The Lexus slid through the traffic. Sam steadied the pace and kept an eye out for more interference. By the time she got to the mall, she was pretty sure she wasn’t being followed. She parked up, tail in, with a quick escape back onto to the main road. She left the engine running. Still uneasy, she got out and walked round the Lexus. The mall was unremarkable. Pink, one storey and much smaller than you’d get in the UK. A car park for about a hundred cars. It was good enough camouflage.
She jumped back in the Lexus, took out Müller’s wallet and studied the dual-tone leather outer. Smooth and expensive.
She reflected on the meeting - and on Müller’s suicide. After the initial bristle of anger she was surprised how dispassionate she felt.
Why do people think it’s acceptable to top themselves in my presence?
It was the second time it had happened. Last time, in Moscow, it had been an almighty shock - she’d thrown up in her kitchen sink. Müller’s, whilst frustrating, hadn’t fazed her, but it was pretty unfathomable. Why then? Why her? They’d spent less than ten minutes in each other’s company. Early on Sam knew something wasn’t right. It was as if their liaison was veering off - heading down a dark passage from which there was no return. In the end maybe it was a fitting finale to a deplorable man’s life? He’d sort of said ‘sorry’. Wasn’t that what he’d done? Attempted to apologise to her for his failures?
And then killed himself.
Wasn’t that what had just happened?
Whatever. That was half an hour ago. This was now - and all she had from a key meeting was his phone and a wallet.
Wallet first.
There was the expected array of credit cards and a driver’s licence. There was the cash, which was $50 lighter than before she’d stolen it. There was an elaborate ID card titled ‘Walter Ingris Bank’. It had an inlaid microchip which probably opened numerous doors at the bank. That could be useful. And a final, less sophisticated card. It was dark blue with a single, pale yellow title along its middle: Miami Vice. The embossed name across the bottom of the card read: R Wilder.
R Wilder? An alias? For the exclusive and probably very seedy Miami Vice club.
There was nothing else. It was remarkably uninteresting.
Next the mobile. It was an expensive Samsung - the one with the screen that wrapped around the edge of the phone (why?). Front, top right was a green flashing light. She touched the screen. It lit up. There were two alerts. One was a missed call from a 'Freddie’, with an associated overseas number that she didn't recognise.
And there was an unread SMS:
Where are you now?
And the sender was ‘RB’. There was no number.
It took a second for a penny to drop.
Fuck … no!
RB.
Ralph Bell.
Could it be?
She felt sick. No!
She retched, but somehow held the mess below her oesophagus.
Ralph Bell.
The ex-CIA hood and Church member. He’d been central to a failed biological-agent terror attack on the London underground five years ago. They’d come across each other in Liberia and then Sierra Leone. Somehow she’d survived the experience.
He’d also had his filthy hands all over the deaths of three British Special Reconnaissance Regiment soldiers in the Yemen a couple of years ago. His, also ex-CIA, colleague Kurt Manning had been killed by German police after the warehouse incident in Berlin. Unfortunately, Bell hadn’t been there at the time, so he hadn’t taken a bullet in the head.
Which was a shame.
Sam held the phone directly in front of her - she stared at it like a hypnotist’s watch. Her hand was shaking.
Ralph Bell. Always in my dreams.
It probably wasn’t him. But it could be.
She closed her eyes and dropped the phone on the passenger seat.
And waited. She breathed deeply.
Calm.
No - she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t get a grip. Müller and now Bell. The anger - and the fear. A heady mixture. She was sweating even though the inside of the Lexus was registering 18 degrees. She was losing it.
‘Fuck!’
Still with her eyes shut, she smacked both hands on the rim of the steering wheel.
It wasn’t enough.
She wanted to hurt herself. To take back some control. To feel pain - administered by her. Not by someone else. She’d been hurt too many times by foreign hands. The loss of her first love, Chris, in the mortar attack in Afghanistan. Her Mum and Dad both young to their graves. Uncle Pete, murdered by The Church in a plane crash in the Alps. The burning hell that was the hostel in Kenema. Seeing Wolfgang’s mother cold-bloodedly killed in the Berlin warehouse. Sokolov - the despicable oligarch of oligarchs. His brother a deranged serial abuser - she’d seen him raping an innocent girl; and then he was on top of her. Sweat. Blood. And more blood. Vlad, oh, Vlad. Her Russian aid and friend - chasing across his huge country, tracking down the radioactive bomb. Shot, then left to die in a burning shack.
‘Fuck!’ Louder this time.
She smacked her hands on the rim again.
Shit that hurt.
Her eyes opened. They darted about. She was looking for something sharp. Something that could do some damage. The keys? Shit. There weren’t any. That’s the problem with a modern Lexus.
Breathe.
Her pulse was racing.
Come on.
Phone Wolfgang.
She breathed. Ralph Bell. She could be wrong. But the likelihood was …
Ralph Bell had phoned Müller. Hadn’t he? Was he on the island? He could have phoned from anywhere. Phone contacts’ list just showed a name? It didn’t mean he was on The Bahamas?
Breathe.
Was he?
Sam snorted. This time, instead of hitting the rim, she gripped it as tightly as she could. She twisted her hands, the leather cover gave, just a touch. She scrunched up her face. And twisted some more.
Breathe.
Come on.
Sam let out a lungful of air through closed lips. It was a feminine, elongated raspberry.
Phone. Wolfgang. An order. To herself.
She took her own phone from her pocket and turned it on.
Breathe.
She dialled Wolfgang.
It rang twice. He picked it up. She started.
‘It’s me.’
‘I know.’
Breathe.
‘I’ve just left our man.’
‘Did you get anything?’
That’s better. Calm. Do this.
‘No.’
Come on.
‘That’s a shame.’
‘He …’, she was struggling to think of the appropriate words, ‘... he’s no longer with us. He did it himself; in front of me. At the club.’
Silence.
‘How?’
‘A pill. I think he was trying to say sorry. And, I guess, he needed someone to say sorry to. That lucky person was me.’
More silence.
&n
bsp; ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t you start. It’s not been the best hour of my life. Anyway I have his wallet and mobile.’
Good. Control. Focus.
Sam rattled off the account numbers and other details on Müller’s bank cards - she just remembered them; there had been no need to write them down. She put the phone on ‘speaker’, opened the wallet and took a photo of the Walter Ingris Bank ID card, and then SMS’d it to Wolfgang’s number. With the phone on her lap she then described the Miami Vice card.
‘You should visit that place. When you get there.’
‘Lucky me.’ Sam swallowed.
‘Anything else?’
'He had a missed call on his phone. From a “Freddie”.’ Sam rattled off the long number.
'Good. And anything else?’
Sam paused, struggling to start her next sentence.
‘And … there was a text.’ She stalled.
‘Who from?
Sam was just about to say RB when a blue car (she wasn’t paying anywhere near enough attention to see what it was) pulled up sharply across the front of the Lexus. That got her attention. She was all eyes and ears now. The frustration and pity were gone. Now she had complete clarity.
She did a sharp 360 visual: car parked to my immediate left (blue, Mazda 6); none to my immediate right, but there is a black Cube one bay down; one car directly behind (silver Nissan Micra).
The passenger door of the blue car opened (she’d got it now - a Chevrolet Impala). The vehicle was so close the tall man in the front struggled to get out. He was white, 40-ish, shades, short brown hair and dressed in black - slacks and shirt.
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