At last, when he was firmly erect, he strode forward and thrust himself violently into her and began rutting like a crazed animal. There was no chit-chat, no tenderness and absolutely no concern for the girl, it was all about him and she was less than nothing. The girl screamed and groaned but they were not cries of pleasure.
Two hours later, Arthur was dining alone at Claridges in Mayfair. Roasted duck foie gras accompanied by their finest bottle of champagne. Perfect.
He was now dressed in a tailored navy blue three piece suit with a crisp white shirt and a canary yellow silk tie, looking very much the wealthy businessman, a role he was very keen to assume in the future. By looking at him, no one could have guessed the things he had done in the past or the things he was still very capable of. He exuded an air of sophistication and of breeding, which had been supplied to him by his parents, but for too long those things had taken a back seat to roughness, violence and brutality - three things in which he and his brother truly excelled. But tonight his new life began, a life of fine dining and extravagant luxury.
He dabbed his mouth with the corner of his clean white napkin as he chewed on the excellent foie gras, relishing the taste. This was definitely how life should be.
Tomorrow night, after viewing the merchandise, he would dine with Peter and Charles and share the celebration but tonight he wanted to just savour the moment alone. Just him and the knowledge that he was now set for life. No more soldiering, no more battles. No more relinquishing the spoils of somebody else’s war. From now on he was going to benefit too - more than he could have ever thought possible.
At eight thirty Arthur gave Charles a call but could not get through to him and a niggle of irritation growled. Nevertheless, he ordered a dessert of rich chocolate gâteaux and sunk another two glasses of champagne. This was a celebration after all.
At nine he called Charles again but there was still no response and the niggle of irritation grew into a roaring indigestion. Where the hell was Charles?
He tried again every quarter of an hour thereafter but each time there was no answer. By ten he was becoming quite concerned. Surely it was due to the weather, it was coming down hard now in London too. It was almost March and yet the country was experiencing the worst snow storms in years. Arthur did not mind, it could have been raining locusts for all he cared. All he wanted was those diamonds and to see his brother arriving with them.
Briefly it entered his head that Charles might have taken them for himself but he dismissed it almost immediately. Firstly, he trusted his brother more than anyone else alive, except maybe Peter. Secondly, both Charles and he needed Peter’s contacts to sell the merchandise, his carefully cultivated connections that would ensure safe exchange of the stones and limit the risk of any unwanted attention from the police. It was Peter who had financed the whole operation, his brain that had conceived it and he who had most invested in it.
Arthur knew that he should really be phoning Peter to put him in the picture, knowing that his friend would be displeased if he failed to keep him in the loop. But Arthur was sure that Charles would phone at any moment so put off making the call until he had some good news to impart.
Eleven o’clock came and went and Arthur was now back at home in Chelsea trying to keep calm. But he was failing miserably. The meal he had just had sat heavily in his stomach and severe heartburn was adding to his growing concerns.
From the shoulder holster beneath his tailored suit jacket, Arthur took out his gun, the exact same model as his brother’s, and began polishing it. Usually this simple ritual helped him relax but not tonight. Tonight he could think of nothing other than Charles and a case full of priceless diamonds.
At fifteen minutes after midnight Arthur finally picked up the phone and called Peter, his celebratory mood well and truly over.
Chapter 5
Jake slumped to the ground in disbelief, his back against the upturned Range Rover, just staring at the pile of gems in his frozen hands. On the ground surrounding him, around the whole vehicle, there were many more, shining, twinkling, dazzling. Inside the car and in the black leather bound case too, particularly in there, there were still more.
For a moment Jake thought he must be dreaming. Then he began to shiver and realised he was awake, fully conscious and this was really happening. In a stunned daze, he then leant into the car and pulled out the briefcase. It was compartmentalised, each compartment holding several velvet bags. Each bag containing a small amount of stones. Some of the bags and compartments had not been disturbed whereas others had, hence the amount of spillage.
Working on a kind of autopilot Jake quickly began gathering all the diamonds he could see and shoved them haphazardly back into the bags and, in turn, back into the compartments. He was putting them back in any order, his hands shaking, but guessed each bag had originally contained a similar weight or size of stone. He scrambled about in the snow around the car, his knees wet and icy, anxiously trying to find every single gem, which suddenly became a matter of utmost importance. Some had fallen several feet away, thrown out of the car as it span, no doubt. But, after several minutes and his hands now frozen with cold, Jake was sure he had got them all. Eventually he closed the briefcase, but then stood there, uncertain of what to do next, not even sure of why he had gathered up all the stones. Although sub-consciously he already knew.
Jake was in an extremely fragile state of mind, suffering from severe stress and deep depression, completely suicidal. Just minutes ago he was going to throw himself off a bridge to end his miserable stinking existence, but now he was standing there with a case full of incredibly valuable diamonds. The man who had them, clearly someone of questionable morality, was dead and Jake was alone, with no one else around. Just him and the case.
Then the fantasy started playing in his mind. He could take the stones, sell them, pay off his creditors, get himself out of debt, start a new life free of bank loans and mortgages and credit cards and bills. He could start anew. Angie, the kids, everything could be made right again - everything could be saved.
He would have to go abroad first, to sell the stones, it was too risky to try it in England, too much of a gamble particularly if the diamonds were stolen, which he suspected they were.
It was then that it hit him. That this was fate - the whole wretched day had been fated, right from the off, right from when his car refused to start. He had needed his passport at the hire company and he still had it with him - surely that was more than just good fortune. It meant he could leave tonight, right now, there was no need for him to go home. Nothing there for him except a stack of unpaid bills and once he sold the diamonds those would soon be settled in full.
He would drive to Dover, get on a ferry, head to France. He spoke French, or enough to get by at least. From there he was sure he could find a buyer for the stones. He was a designer, an ideas man, people paid him to be creative and he was sure he could make this plan work.
Then it dawned on Jake that he would need cash, at least until he had managed to sell a diamond or two, and he didn’t have any.
He thought for a long moment, knowing what he had to do and seeing no other option, he bent down, crawled back inside the Range Rover and rifled through the dead man’s pockets. He found the wallet in an inside jacket pocket, thick with notes and he took them all. He then returned the wallet to the pocket.
He should have felt ashamed for what he had just done. It was unforgivable. Despicable. But Jake was desperate and not himself. Now he had the fantasy in his head he had to make it real, whatever it took.
The actual reality was that Jake was not thinking at all. He had given no thought to the consequences of what he was about to do, no thought as to who might own the diamonds or what manner of person they might be. He was functioning out of pure despair, temporarily insane and completely caught up in the moment having been given a glimmer of hope at last. A final chance.
In the
real world, Jake was an honest man and never would have considered for an instant stealing money from a dead man let alone absconding with a case full of diamonds. But after all that he had been through, all that he had lost, his judgement was seriously impaired. He was on the edge, out of control and ready to do anything that would make his life better.
It had stopped snowing but there was still a thick blanket on the ground and Jake carefully made his way back to the BMW, his hands numb with cold his legs wet and freezing from crawling around in all the snow. But he made it safely back to the car and stowed the briefcase securely behind the drivers seat.
The road was eerily quiet, completely deserted except for the crashed Range Rover and the rented BMW. Jake started the engine and turned up the heater feeling immediate warmth from the still warm engine. He pushed the gear stick into four-wheel drive mode and pulled away from the icy verge, the tyres crunching on the snow beneath the wheels.
Jake intended to take it slowly. He had a long, treacherous drive ahead of him and if he was to make it to that early morning ferry in Dover he did not want to risk an accident.
Chapter 6
The London offices of Wallace Bearing occupied the top six floors of a large hexagonal tower on the North bank of the Thames, within spitting distance of St. Paul’s, The Old Bailey and The Bank of England. The top floor apartment offered incredible views of the world below from each tall window, especially at night when that world was covered in snow and dotted with lights. It looked magical and Christmassy, even though it was nearly March.
Peter Bearing, grandson of property baron, Randolph Bearing and golden-boy son of retail and shipping magnate Edward ‘Teddy’ Bearing, was oblivious of the view as he sat in his plush leather recliner in the majestic opulence that was the beating heart of his business empire. It was more than just a spectacularly appointed apartment, it was also his main office which was totally state-of-the-art. It had a conference room complete with a panel of satellite communication screens which allowed him to speak face to face with multiple heads of department in any of his numerous offices around the world. It had two luxurious bedrooms, each with its own bathroom and giant wall mounted plasma TV, and a spacious, ultra-modern, private living room in which to entertain guests or just relax in peace. One flight below was a fabulous swimming pool which had the initials P.B. emblazoned across the bottom in tiny mosaic tiles. In addition to that there was a sauna and a superbly equipped gym and up on the roof of the building was a landing pad for his personal helicopter.
He had equally sumptuous offices in New York, Madrid, Paris, Rome, Sydney and Johannesburg with equally astounding views but London was his preferred capital and where he chose to be based. It was also where two of his ex-wives lived and three of his seven children.
In the space of just six years Peter had married and divorced twice. His second and third wives had both spawned him two offspring but he did not see, nor wish to see, any of them regularly. His first wife and his three children by her were living with him once more in Mayfair where they were attempting a life together again but it was not going well. Peter was already sick of the children’s constant whining and the sex with his ex-model, ex-wife was much less thrilling than he remembered. Thankfully a string of mistresses prevented him from getting too bored but Peter realised years ago that it wasn’t women or a happy family life that excited him but money, business and power.
Spread across Peter’s giant glass desk, held down at one end by a crystal tumbler full of ten-year-old malt, were the second draft of architects drawings for an enormous construction project close to the site of the proposed Olympic village. ‘The Bearing Building’ would be a futuristically conceived glass tower offering both high-end office space and luxury living accommodation. Underneath would be a huge shopping mall and multi-level underground parking facilities. It was an ambitious project but nothing Peter couldn’t handle and only one of many such ventures he was overseeing around the globe.
He had been poring over the plans for most of the afternoon, making notes and adding suggestions in red ink, drawing arrows to the areas he thought needed improving or highlighting in some way, scrawling directions to the architect in his messy, difficult to decipher handwriting. But now the red pen had been laid to rest and Peter’s wire framed spectacles sat on the plans as he rubbed his temples gently with his fingers.
The Bearing Building was the last thing on his mind now as he spoke to Arthur Khan on speaker-phone. The only thing of importance to Peter at the moment was the telephone conversation and the time on his solid silver Breitling.
His voice was quiet, well-educated. Devoid of emotion as he spoke to the man on the other end of the phone. “It’s after midnight, Arthur, and you say there’s been no word from Charles. Yet, rather than call me the moment you suspect something’s wrong, you choose to call me now, some three hours after the arranged meet. Your delay has served no other purpose than to anger me, Arthur. Nothing more.”
“Listen, Peter,” said Khan, “I’m sure everything’s fine. It’s snowing like hell up North, so I suspect it’s just something to do with the weather - maybe he can’t get a signal, who knows, but I’m sure everything’s gone without a hitch. There’s nothing to worry about —”
“Firstly, Arthur,” Bearing broke in, “There is much to worry about. I have significantly more invested in this than you and I’ll thank you not to forget it. Secondly, you may well be correct in your assumption that it is the weather that has caused the lack of information from Charles but I expect to be kept up to date immediately the moment something deviates from what has been previously arranged, not hours afterwards. Am I clear?”
“Quite clear, Peter, yes.” Replied the other man, “And of course I understand your agitation, but these things happen —”
“Not to me, Arthur. Not to me. Now the moment you hear something from Charles, call me. I’m staying at the office tonight so you know where I am and my telephone most definitely does work. Understand?”
“Yes, Peter.”
“Good. Goodnight then, Arthur.” Bearing punched the button on the speaker to end the call then picked up his glasses and slid them gently back on. He was greying at the temples but otherwise looked younger than his forty years. He was fit, tanned and as usual, dressed immaculately. Even though it was after midnight, his Windsor knot was still pushed all the way up to the buttoned neck of his Saville Row shirt.
In the enormous bedroom, which led off from the office, an ex-Miss Bulgaria lay naked in his silk sheets patiently awaiting his attentions. But Peter was in no hurry. He picked up the crystal tumbler and swilled the ice in the ten year old malt. He took a sip and savoured the burn as the fine whiskey warmed his throat and belly.
He enjoyed the trappings of wealth. He liked the best of everything, liked to be the best at everything and he had worked damned hard to reach the position he now held as the head of Wallace Bearing. During his meteoric rise to power his methods had been far from moral and he had resorted to many ruthless and unscrupulous tactics in his quest for dominance of The Company. But viewing those methods from where he was today, it had all been worth while. Peter was a winner, to him there was no such thing as second place, no such words as ‘nearly’ or ‘almost’. He was out to win, no matter what the cost, no matter what he had to do. Defeat was not an option.
He now controlled a vast empire and had designs on expanding it beyond the bounds of conventional business. But in order to do that, he needed a little more on the bargaining table than just money.
Using the diamonds as currency, he could buy himself a great deal of influence around the globe amongst the less scrupulous regimes, bringing about changes in world power to suit his own ends. He already spent much of his wealth funding private wars and financing various military actions which resulted in shipping, trade, import and export all being directly influenced by his guiding hands. However, in order to further this, the diamonds coul
d make a real difference. They were the ultimate negotiating tool amongst the tin-pot dictators, military junta and jumped-up generals of the world whose countries natural resources held the key to untold wealth and power.
So it was imperative that Charles Khan made contact and brought the diamonds safely back to him.
However, far from appearing irate or anxious, he exuded calm. A cool head was his trademark, he was known for it, respected for it. But inside he was angry.
Peter swilled the whiskey in the glass again, contemplating these possibilities.
“Are you coming to bed now, baby?” Miss Bulgaria shouted in tired, heavily accented English from the bedroom but Peter ignored her as he took a sip from the glass.
“Baby? Are you coming?” The girl called again.
“Soon, Anya,” Peter replied, mildly irritated at being hindered in his thoughts. Arthur had angered him but that was not why he was troubled. Both the Khan brothers were normally highly reliable and if Peter was being honest with himself, then they were his only true friends, they were certainly the men he had known longest and liked the best. But this was business and Charles was missing, as were the diamonds. So where were they?
As Peter considered this, Miss Bulgaria appeared in front of him. She had been drinking and was slightly tipsy and clearly bored of waiting for Bearing to go to her. She was used to being wanted and to men giving her the attention she desired. She was only twenty-three but her preference was for rich, older men. The richer and more powerful the better, they were the ones who could keep her in the style to which she had become extremely well accustomed. Bearing, at just forty, was a catch. Mega-rich, mega-powerful and still young enough to keep her amused in bed. If she played her cards right, kept him happy and satisfied sexually, she could easily become wife number four and whether the marriage was successful or not, she would be set for life.
Finders Keepers Page 6