by Nick Elliott
‘I told you before. The Malatans know everyone’s business in these parts.’
‘My guess is they were talking with Kershope,’ I said. ‘They may have known he was meeting me in that bar in Davao and watched us from that point on. But I don’t believe they did away with him. That was someone else’s work.’
The old plane was lumbering towards us. I had to shout now above the noise of its engines.
‘Listen, Carlos. I’ll be in touch and you know you can call me anytime. But I think it might be best if you went underground for a bit. Tell your family you need to go to Singapore for a week or two, then find yourself somewhere to hole up; or better still, take them with you.’
‘I’ll see. I don’t like being intimidated by these people.’
‘I know, but they’re ruthless bastards as you’ve been reminding me. Watch your back, that’s all. I’ll be in touch.’
And with that I left him and made my way over to the plane.
CHAPTER 34
Phil Meads got the old plane back in the air and we headed east before banking then swinging round in a gentle one-eighty degree turn. I gazed out at the farmlands and forested hillsides beneath us. Then suddenly, there was the livid yellow scar running down the side of the mountain. I was looking at the mudslide on Buwan Bundok. I thought of the gold panners, those who’d made it and those who’d ended up in the morgue, and those who were still buried under the mud. But in particular I thought of those who had come to our rescue, and the old couple who had taken me in.
As we headed westwards out over the Sulu Sea, Meads came back and sat beside me in the passenger cabin, leaving his co-pilot at the controls. He had a couple of beers with him.
‘Here,’ he said, handing me an ice-cold can.
‘Not too many potholes for you back there?’
‘Not for this old girl,’ he said, turning to look at me. He had a strong New Zealand accent. His appearance was dishevelled, like his plane. His stubble looked more like it was there by carelessness than design. But his eyes were clear and his hands reasonably steady, I told myself. You pay attention to such detail when flying over pirate-infested waters with a pilot who sits drinking beer with his passengers.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been up to back there but everything I’ve heard recently about that little corner of the world sounds pretty bloody dangerous.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really. None of my business, right?’ he said sensing my tone.
‘So what’s so dangerous?’
‘Well, you’d know more than me maybe. But since you’re mates with old Starky, and for what it’s worth, I’ll tell you what’s going round.’ He took a long swig of his beer and belched.
‘I was in Sandakan a couple of weeks back. Not much there except a bit of eco-tourism. Anyway, I heard that a bunch of guys had arrived there recently. Brits and a South African. They’re saying they’re botanists or biologists or some damn thing, only apparently these fellas don’t quite seem to fit the type. They’ve moved into a villa in the hills outside of town. Keeping themselves to themselves.’
‘And the word on the street?’
‘The word on the street is that they’re mercenaries here to assist your mates the Malatans bite a chunk out of the Philippines’ sovereign territory.’
‘An armed coup you mean?’
‘That’s what I hear, yeah. Sarangani Province is their fiefdom, right? And that’s what they’re after.’
‘Any idea of the timeline?’ I wasn’t altogether surprised but hadn’t expected the Malatans to be so well advanced with their plans.
Meads drained his beer. ‘Well now, my source isn’t too sure about that. These fellas aren’t exactly broadcasting their intentions but it seems like it might be fairly imminent. They’re here to recce the situation on the ground before the big push. They’re what you might call an advance party.’
‘Are we talking airborne troops for this “big push”?’
‘I don’t think so. I’d know about it if they were going in by air. Us fly boys are worse than a bunch of fish wives when it comes to gossip and rumour. No, I reckon by sea. Actually, thinking about it, it might be more discreet by sea.’
I wondered if Kershope had been amongst the group, whether his killer was with them too, and whether they’d hopped over from Sandakan to Mindanao to meet the Malatans. I should have asked Junior.
But what Meads was saying made sense. Once Kershope had been usurped, he would have brought his plans forward, assembled this advance party and established them as a bridgehead in Sandakan, a place that would serve well as a staging post for both the reconnaissance and the actual invasion. It also explained why Malatan was so keen to get his hands on his share of the Svaneti gold. An armed invasion by mercenaries wouldn’t come cheap, on top of which he’d need to pay off countless politicians, local officials, tribal chiefs and Lord knows who else if he was going to make his insurrection stick. Kershope would have told him he’d have to get his hands on the Svaneti gold if he wanted his plan to succeed. All the more reason why he would need my help when the gold arrived in Greece, I thought; especially since Kershope was out of the frame now.
Malatan had been following my movements, otherwise he wouldn’t have known about the flight from the Maguling airfield. That meant he would know of Kershope’s murder. With Kershope dead, Malatan would either need to gain control of the mercenary assault himself, or abandon his plans for a coup.
Meads returned to his cockpit leaving me with my thoughts. Kershope might have done me the favour of convincing Malatan he must seize the gold, but what of Boris Kaliyagin? I had persuaded him not to trust Kershope or anyone else in the Revival. Kershope’s death would surely serve to convince Boris to fall in with my plan, just as it would Malatan.
But the stark truth was that with Kershope gone I had no idea who I was chasing. Whoever had ousted and then executed him had covered their traces well.
I stared out of the window, my mind spinning, until the plane began to lose height on our approach into Kota Kinabalu.
CHAPTER 35
‘Yes, we know how and why, but who? Who was behind her sinking, Mr McKinnon?’
I was sitting in the Kyriakou boardroom in Vouliagmeni. The old man was at the head of the table in his wheelchair, Michael and his sister Electra either side of him. It was weeks since I’d sat down with them. This time there was no sign of the nurse or any of his company executives. This was strictly family.
They wanted to know who was behind the murder of eighteen of their fleet personnel and the destruction of their thirty million dollar ship. I’d given Michael a brief update, sticking to the unambiguous facts before I’d headed off to the wreck site. Since then I’d kept him updated with a series of brief email reports, as and when I could. They were impatient for a full account of who I thought was behind the casualty but the case had become so complicated that I hardly knew where to start. Neither did I have a conclusive answer to their question.
I asked Michael what he’d heard back from the Trinity House group but he knew no more than me, which was the contents of a series of detailed technical reports into the where and the what and the how, with nothing at all on the who of it.
‘Here’s what I know and what I think,’ I began, switching on the boardroom projector which I’d hooked up to my laptop.
‘As I have told Michael, a man called Timson went on board the ship in Durban to monitor the loading of the mining equipment. He was not there in any official capacity. I obtained photos which he took of the operation.’ I started the slideshow and the first photo jumped up onto the screen at the far end of the room. I began running through them, explaining how and where the explosives had been planted.
‘I am waiting to learn who stood behind this man Timson, Mr McKinnon,’ the old man interrupted impatiently. ‘Who and why?’
‘Bear with me. I’m coming to it,’ I replied and continued running through the photos. He would have to s
tick with me if he were to understand the intricacies of the case.
When I’d finished going through Timson’s photos, Michael took over summarising the Trinity House group’s findings, bringing us up to date on what the technical teams out on the Geo Venturer had found and the jurisdictional ponderings of the flag state’s legal team. I could have predicted Andreas Kyriakou’s reaction. Halfway through he burst out: ‘Panagia mou, Michaelis! Both of you! Tell me who is behind this will you?’
Electra reached over and touched her father’s arm to calm him down.
‘Okay,’ I said. He was determined to jump ahead and I wasn’t going to get pedantic about it. I could fill in the back story later. ‘Timson was blackmailed or bribed by a group known as the Revival. They lured him into arranging the explosives that blew up the ship, then killed him to ensure his silence.’
Kyriakou was leaning forward in his wheelchair watching me intently.
‘The Revival is a criminal group who have been perpetrating frauds across our industry for years, always careful to cover their traces. Recently they have become more ambitious. Their aim nowadays is, or was until very recently, to use any and all means to gain control of mineral resources in those parts of the world where central government is either weak or non-existent. Ungoverned spaces, failed states, territories where feudal warlords enforce their rule through the strength of their private armies and, in the case of Mindanao, seek independence from the sovereign nation of the Philippines.
‘The Revival was supporting a coup in the Mindanao province of Sarangani mounted by a powerful local clan – the Malatans. They were doing so to share in the huge gold reserves the Malatans claim are theirs.
‘Your charterers, Coreminex, hold a legitimate exploration permit and have signed a Mineral Production Sharing Agreement with the Philippine government to exploit gold and copper in that same mountainous area of Sarangani. It’s known as Buwan Bundok. In so doing they came up against the Malatans.
‘The Revival wasn’t going to let Coreminex derail their own plans of collaborating with Malatan to exploit those resources – particularly the gold. So they decided to remove Coreminex from the scene, and that meant the Astro Maria too. Your ship and her crew became unwitting victims in a conflict in which you played no direct role. You were just collateral damage.’
They were all still and silent, absorbed in what I was telling them.
‘Ironically, there has been a coup within the Revival itself. It now seems, for the time being anyway, they are no longer interested in Sarangani but instead simply want to seize a consignment of gold originating in the Georgian province of Svaneti and controlled by another warlord, an oligarch named Boris Kaliyagin. Allowing for gold price fluctuations, the consignment could be worth anywhere between seven and eight hundred million dollars.
‘The Revival think they have duped Kaliyagin into placing this gold in their hands for two reasons. One, because he is unable to exchange the gold into hard currency himself. And two, he needs the hard currency to pay for arms and mercenaries with which to mount his own bid for the independence of his beloved homeland, the gold-rich mountains of Svaneti. The Revival promised to fulfil both these wishes, including the logistical and strategic planning needed for his coup to succeed. Just as they promised Malatan in Sarangani. I stress though that their own plans have changed since the overthrow of their chief.’
I paused as old Andreas swivelled his wheelchair round to face the window and stare out to sea. Finally he spoke. ‘So, Mr McKinnon. I have many more questions but tell me this. How shall we deal with these people?’
I made to reply but he held up his hand. ‘I do not mean through the law. We don’t have time. I don’t have time. I will not go to my grave waiting for due process. If what you say is true, these men have already committed murder on a grand scale. They show no respect for human life. I will not stand by and wait for enquiries and adjournments; more reports and procrastination. Tell me, what do you propose? And what do you need?’
I told him what I proposed and what I needed. He listened. Occasionally he interrupted. The old boy was well into his eighties, his voice was slurred from the stroke he’d suffered, but his mind was as sharp as a tack, as was his resolve.
By the time I left their office night had fallen. I walked out to the car and paused, looking out across the Saronic Gulf. A full moon shone across the water and despite the time of year, a soft wind was blowing in from the south. I’d gone into the meeting wondering how I was going to convince the family to collaborate with my outlandish plan. I needn’t have worried.
CHAPTER 36
The plan might have been coming together but nothing else was. I’d got back from the Philippines exhausted. My shoulder wasn’t healing well and I had a fever. I sought hospital treatment at a private clinic in a northern suburb of Athens. They cleaned the wound and gave me antibiotics. The doctor told me to stay at home and rest.
Zoe came to see me. Roy Lawson had been called back to Leith without much explanation. He’d only been in Piraeus for a couple of weeks and had paid just three visits to my office. He’d told Zoe only that he was required back in Syndicate Two. Zoe was confused and anxious. ‘Tell me what’s going on, Angus. I have a right to know. Should I be looking for another job?’
‘No. You’re doing fine, Zoe. Just be patient and things will get back to normal,’ I promised her. We went through the active cases and discussed what action was needed. The CMM had not sent through any new files since Grant had ‘adjusted’ my terms but there was plenty of work to keep us busy within the current caseload.
‘It’s not good, Angus. It’s your business that’s at risk and you’re going off around the world doing I don’t know what.’
‘It’s a case, Zoe. I can’t say more than that just now.’
And I had Eleni to contend with too. ‘You don’t call. You don’t text. You don’t email. You don’t think of me for one second. Do you?’
I tried to explain but it didn’t do much good. I showed her my shoulder. ‘That was your own stupid fault. Do you think you can go rushing around the world fighting with anyone you disagree with? You’re like a child, Angus. And you need a haircut too.’
‘I knew there was something I forgot when I was over there,’ I said but the sarcasm was lost on her. How different she was from Claire. I loved her so much – her passionate outbursts made me laugh which exasperated her even more, but that only strengthened my feelings. And I loved her warm domesticity and her caring concern, even if it was expressed with such force. I owed her my loyalty, and felt guilty that I had betrayed her. But I loved Claire too. How was it possible to love two such different women at once, I asked myself yet again. When I thought of Claire it was with a sense of urgency. When I was with her there was an intensity. I knew this was partly due to the extraordinary circumstances we had found ourselves in. But she fired me up. And her intellect, her cool eloquence, the respect in which others held her, affected me too.
But now my mind came back to more immediate matters. The British press were making a meal out of Kershope’s death with lurid headlines portraying him as a sleazy Scottish laird who’d met his end in a squalid girlie bar on the other side of the world. Normally I would have despised the media for its blinkered parochialism, its eagerness to sensationalise everything without looking beyond their noses for the facts. But in this case I was glad. They were putting the killing down to an argument with some local pimp.
Claire was on leave. She had emailed saying she’d arranged a family holiday in the Turks & Caicos Islands. Meanwhile, I had to wrap up this case. So far I had followed where events and my instincts had led me. Now I had to make my plan work. And that meant sitting down with Alastair Marshall.
***
It was February. Much as I loved the place, it was the worst possible time to be visiting Alastair on his remote island up in the north of the Aegean. I left the car at the nearest mainland port and caught a Flying Cat ferry. It had reverted to winter with snow f
lurries carried on a wind blowing straight down from the Steppes. At first, within the shelter of the gulf, our passage was smooth but when we emerged into open waters the vessel began to pitch and roll uncomfortably and the skipper slowed her speed. The few passengers who were travelling to the islands in such weather were islanders used to rough crossings but still some were throwing up into the bags provided for the purpose. We put in at two other islands before reaching Alastair’s outpost four hours later, the Flying Cat coming alongside heavily in the swell that had invaded the harbour.
‘Good journey?’ he asked breezily, grabbing my bag and striding over to where he’d left his decrepit old Land Rover.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t you get fed up with the winters here, Alastair?’
‘Not at all, dear boy. I find this weather bracing. And I enjoy the peace and quiet. Too many visitors in the summer.’ Alastair Marshall did not fit the bearded nautical stereotype you’d expect of a retired admiral. He was bald, bespectacled, clean-shaven and neatly dressed in a country squire kind of way. He was elderly, his manner of speech was often long-winded and rambling, but that didn’t fool anyone. He was incisive and sharp-witted behind the façade.
The little port was almost deserted. Waves slapped over the quayside. The caiques bobbed up and down on their moorings and snow lay on the roofs of the tavernas and bars that lined the front, most of them shuttered up for the winter. The ferry passengers had quickly dispersed but I noticed a few old-timers huddled in the fug of the kafenion across from the harbour. We rattled up the hill past shops all closed now for the afternoon break. Those that weren’t closed for the winter would open in the evening to serve the needs of the year-round locals.
The road wound up out of the port and onto the spine of the island. We were heading north-east, exposed now to the wild winds that seemed to blow from all directions at once. Much of the island was clad in pine trees but elsewhere neatly terraced olive groves supplemented the islanders’ livelihoods. Further north towards the end of the island the trees gave way to maquis shrubland but we turned off before that, heading down a steeply winding road back towards the coast.