The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4)

by Sewell, Ron

  “Glad to hear it. Business or pleasure?”

  “Akeem Babin, is he still alive?”

  Charles stood and walked to the window overlooking the river. He removed his mobile from his trouser pocket and pressed a few buttons before he handed it to Bear.

  “Akeem, its Bear Morris.”

  “Ah, the fucking black sergeant wants something.”

  “Your balls on a plate, par-boiled in a mushroom cream sauce.”

  “Hey, Night-Fighter, is that you? I heard an Afghan rag-head shot your arse off.”

  “He missed and I need your assistance.”

  “One thousand a day plus expenses.”

  Charles held up four fingers.

  “Four hundred, you Frenchman’s bastard, plus expenses.”

  “You insult me but I remember you saved my life, so my life is yours. Five hundred.”

  “Four hundred or I end this call.”

  “How many days?”

  “Four, but might lead to seven.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “When we have had our arses filled with shots and have visas.”

  “Tell me where we are going?”

  “Chad.”

  “It’s a God-forsaken country. North or south?”

  “North.

  “There’s fuck all there.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, my friend. In or out?”

  “I must consult my schedule for the next few weeks.”

  “In or out, Akeem, or I hang up.”

  “In.”

  “I’ll meet you in London, St Pancras Station, in three days. I’ll have tickets for Paris, Charles De Gaul and onward to N’Djamena. Bring the appropriate clothes and don’t be late.”

  “Late, effendi, I am but your humble servant.”

  Bear shut Akeem off.

  “Chad,” said Charles as he stifled a yawn. “Not a place I’m familiar with and you have chosen my best man. I am told he can cut a man’s throat before the victim realises he’s dead.”

  “He speaks Arabic and French fluently, skilful with a variety of weapons, but prefers the knife and can pass for an Arab. He can find his way in and out of the most dangerous places in Africa. For me a better friend than an enemy and I trust him.”

  Charles stubbed out his cigar. “One more thing, bring Akeem back, he’s my trusted lieutenant.”

  “He works for you?”

  Charles grinned. “Long time now but he needs a change of scenery.”

  “The joke is,” said Bear, “he’ll have to work for his money.”

  “He’ll enjoy being up against it. This sedentary lifestyle was never for him but it keeps him close to my side. You know we are lovers?”

  “Yes, but who cares. Can’t say it does anything for me.”

  Charles smirked. “I’m certain you’ve never tried.”

  “Each to their own. You need him. I prefer a good woman. Any idea where blonde Bob is these days? I need a chopper pilot who asks no questions but can fly like a bird.”

  “Aberdeen,” said Charles after a moment’s deliberation. “Transferring personnel and equipment to the rigs.” He removed a leather bound folder from the top of his desk. “As a pilot none are better. Give me your mobile number and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, I owe you.”

  Charles scratched his chin. “One day, maybe, perhaps I’ll collect.” He opened the door and closed it as Bear left. Chad, he thought, been a few years since they had an uprising.

  ***

  Seated at a table with the main entrance visible, Petros sipped his glass of white wine and waited. He checked the time when Eva entered, five to twelve. She wore a red body-hugging dress that left little to the imagination. He lifted his right arm and waved the white envelope.

  For a moment she hesitated and scanned the rest of the bar. She smiled and strutted towards his table. “Petros Kyriades?”

  He stood. “Correct, and you’re on time. At five past the hour I may have left. Glass of wine, red, or white?”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’ll have a dry white.”

  He stopped a passing waitress and gave her the order.

  “You’re a friend of Mr Morris so I must trust you but you mentioned you identified me by sight, how?”

  “We are here to discuss a collection from Libya. You need to be aware that the price has gone up.”

  Her eyes flared with anger. “Mr Morris and I agreed a price. I’ll not pay anymore.”

  “Enjoy your wine. This conversation is ended.” From his pocket, he removed a battered leather bound book. “Yours.”

  She grabbed it. “Did you read it?”

  “Every word and the location of the diamonds died with your grandfather. But I’m certain whoever you employ will have great fun searching the Sahara.”

  The waitress placed a glass of wine on the table. Eva’s manner was tense as she drank a mouthful. “Mr Kyriades, you are a rude man.”

  Petros sipped at his wine. “No, not at all.” He smiled. “This is a business relationship, no more, no less. We are not friends planning a holiday. You want those diamonds and my team of operatives might be able to recover them. I can’t guarantee they are still where your grandfather left them. I’ve researched this collection and have an adaptable plan, which allows for varying situations.”

  “Ach, how much will this cost me?”

  “At this moment Mr Morris is researching an alternate route into Libya. He’ll be back in a week. If this collection is possible you can double the original fee.”

  “Nein, I mean no, it’s impossible.”

  “Then our business is finished and I’ve wasted a few thousand pounds which I’ll charge to experience.” He finished his wine, pushed his chair back and stood. “Good bye and good luck because you’ll need it.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Wait.” She stared at him. “I need to talk to my associates. I’ll contact Mr Morris within the week.”

  He lowered his head. “You have one week.”

  “All right.” Her annoyance intensified.

  Not a nice woman, he though. He paid the bill and headed out the entrance. The midday sun tried to warm the air but the cold wind cut through his jacket.

  “Keep walking, Mr Kyriades,” said John Soames. “Any further progress on finding the diamonds?”

  “How come you knew I was here?”

  It’s my business. You’re a bonus. Just so you are aware, we have the telephone in her flat bugged. Be careful what you say. By the way, she hasn’t made one call to Germany yet. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “No progress. She can’t afford my team. I’ve given her a week to come up with the money but I don’t care. I abhor the Nazi ideology, the mix of discrimination for the betterment of one race, which she believes. It may be small and insignificant but so was the Nazi party. Those people have no sense of right or wrong.” He turned his head, Soames had gone.

  ***

  When Bear contacted Petros it was past six in the evening. “How did the meeting go with Evil Eva?”

  “She thinks I’m rude. I don’t think she likes me.”

  “What did she say when you doubled the price?”

  “Wasn’t a happy bunny but I told her she has one week or we walk. How did you get on?”

  “Remember Charles Haskell?”

  “How could I forget that bastard? He set up that Zaire job that turned into a massacre and we ended up walking four-hundred miles.”

  “Yeah, but we found Lucy and saved her life.”

  “Okay, every cloud and all that. What about him?”

  “I met him in his office. He’s agreed to let me use Akeem Babin as the eyes in my back. Good man in a tight spot and speaks French and Arabic. Might have a chopper pilot.”

  “Akeem.” He nodded. “But at what price?”

  “We did a deal when I reminded him I saved his life.”

  “Akeem’s a good man providing you’re on the same side. When are you leaving?”
>
  “In two days. Be back in five. By the way, add a couple of expensive cameras to the price. I’m visiting Chad as an extreme location photographer.”

  “Just be careful or Jocelyn will have my guts.”

  “See you when I get back.”

  Chapter Eight

  Bear met Akeem by the taxi rank at St Pancras Station. Together they boarded the Eurostar to Paris where they journeyed on to Charles De Gaul Airport.

  Checked in and with a two-hour wait, they made their way to the bar. “Still on orange juice?” said Bear.

  “Alcohol confuses the mind,” said Akeem, “and my faith forbids it.”

  “Well I’m having a pint of God’s own nectar, Guinness.”

  They found a table, sat and made themselves comfortable and chatted.

  “What’s with Chad?” asked Akeem.

  He tapped the side of his nose. “Need to know, and for the moment you don’t. This is a recon. If I need you for the main op, I’ll tell you. Anyway, time to go, our flight’s being called.”

  ***

  Bear slept for six of the seven-hour flight to N’Djamena International Airport. He and Akeem strolled out of the airport into a humid thirty-five degrees.

  They jumped into a dust covered taxi. “Novotel,” said Akeem.

  The driver welcomed them with a toothless grin and said something neither man understood.

  Akeem shouted at him in French as the driver manoeuvred the taxi past armed guards and out of the airport. They alighted at the entrance of the hotel. Akeem handed the driver four American dollars.

  “Welcome to the best hotel in Chad,” said the bubbly receptionist in French. “We have rooms available. All are air-conditioned as is our dining room. Passports, please.”

  She turned and photocopied both. “Number of nights?”

  Akeem turned to Bear. “How long?”

  He held up three fingers.

  The young woman grinned and said in English, “two rooms, three nights, cash or card?”

  “American Express,” said Bear. “Both rooms on my card. I need to get to Zouar in the Tibesti region. Where can I hire a light aircraft?”

  “Tibesti hot, dry and dangerous. Terrorists cause much trouble. Why you go there?”

  “Extreme location photographer.”

  “Every day plane flies to Zouar in morning and return in afternoon. You have special permit from minister to go?”

  “Do we need one?” asked Bear.

  “No permit, you cannot leave N’djamena.” She checked the time. “Ministry still open. I phone. My uncle works in government office.”

  “This will cost you an arm and a leg,” said Akeem.

  “Such is life. We need to recon Zouar and beyond.”

  “My uncle says he will process your documents but a small gift may smooth the paperwork.”

  “Could you suggest the size of this gift?” said Bear.

  “Four hundred thousand francs will hurry the paperwork. I take from your card?”

  “No way,” said Bear. “Two in cash.”

  “A taxi will take you to the ministry in five minutes.”

  “Can the driver stop at a bank on the way?” asked Bear. “I prefer to make these transactions in cash.”

  The taxi arrived and they drove fast through the streets. The driver sounding his horn made a sharp left and stopped outside a bank.

  “You stay here, Akeem.”

  In ten minutes he returned to the taxi and they drove on, stopping in the grounds of an aged French colonial building.

  “Tell him to wait,” said Bear.

  Akeem shouted at the driver in Arabic. The man shrugged, turned the engine off, but left the meter running.

  A grey-haired, tall, middle-aged black man dressed in a well-worn suit strolled towards them. My niece told me you wish to travel to Zouar. You have a gift for me?”

  Bear removed an envelope from his jacket pocket. “I think you’ll find this acceptable.”

  He checked the contents and shoved it in his trouser pocket. “You have registered at immigration?”

  “I thought we had two days to register,” said Bear.

  “I need your registration documents to process the special authorization.”

  Bear’s frustration erupted. “This is ridiculous. You take my money and then tell me I need to register. I’ll have my gift back. We’re out of here.”

  The man smirked. “You gave me a gift which I have accepted. It’s not my problem you did not register. When you have, come back. I may be able to help you.”

  Akeem grabbed Bear’s arm. “Walk away or you’ll never get a permit. Old man, where do we register?”

  “The airport has an office but now closed. It will open tomorrow.”

  “What time?” asked Akeem.

  “Tomorrow. Tell my niece when you have your documents.”

  Bear said nothing for several moments before he clambered back in the taxi. “Akeem, time to leave.”

  Akeem gesticulated and spoke in Arabic to the grey man before he walked away.

  “What did you say,” asked Bear.

  “I told him he was the camel dung on my shoe. Our paperwork will be ready for collection tomorrow when I will praise him for being so industrious.”

  “A rather crude insult.”

  “Bear you value life far too much. In the Muslim world the sole of the shoe is a great insult. I made sure grey man understood I’m not a nice man.”

  “You’re not but I’m glad you’re on my side.”

  With a cruel smile on his lips, Akeem said, “He who pays the piper calls the tune.” He yelled at the driver. “Novotel.”

  At reception, they picked up their keys. Bear and Akeem followed the signs to their rooms.

  ***

  Much to their surprise the grey man stood in the centre of the lobby when Bear and Akeem made their way to breakfast.

  He bowed his head to Akeem and handed him a large envelope. “Your documentation is for a three month period. I hope that is acceptable.”

  There was movement at the entrance. Akeem’s eyes were drawn to it as grey man’s niece entered. In Arabic he said, “Is she not beautiful, old man? May she give her husband many children and you live a long life to enjoy them.”

  The two men hugged and Akeem whispered, “If the paperwork is wrong in any way I’ll stick a thousand dicks up your arse.”

  The grey man backed away. “Perfect, effendi. There will be no problems.”

  Akeem waved him away as a master to a servant. “Bear, shall we book our flight and then have breakfast. You can have whatever you want except bacon.”

  “Great day,” said Bear to the receptionist. “The flight to Zouar, where can I book two seats?”

  “I book for you. You travel tomorrow or today?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Bear.

  She lifted the telephone handset and entered a number. She chatted in Arabic and after a few minutes replaced the handset. “Tomorrow at seven. Take passports, visa, document and cash. I charge. You pay hotel in Zouar if you miss plane.”

  “That was easy,” said Bear.

  “She takes her commission,” said Akeem.

  Akeem waited until they started to eat. “That woman doesn’t realise I speak Arabic and we should use it to our advantage. To be fair she booked us on that flight. The other thing is we need local clothes. You and I stand out like priests holding communion in a brothel. Here is not so bad but in Zouar we need to blend in.”

  “Akeem, you’re right but never discuss business when I’m eating. It plays havoc with my digestion and I’m not nice when that happens.”

  ***

  Their taxi dropped them at the local market. Hordes shuffled in, out and along narrow passages. Bear and Akeem dressed as Europeans sensed hostility as they strolled along. It entered Bear’s mind that Europeans did not frequent these markets. For a moment that bothered him.

  Akeem stopped at a clothes stall and for twenty minutes rummaged and shouted. One by one, he
tossed various garments at the trader. “Headscarf, tuareg, tagelmust,” he shouted. The stall holder disappeared and returned with the indigo dyed cotton garment. Akeem studied them and smiled. “How much?” he said in French and Arabic.

  The trader held up five fingers.

  “Three and the tagelmust a gift,” said Akeem.

  “I have a wife and ten children to feed, effendi. I must have four.”

  “You get two or no sale.”

  Akeem bargained for a further ten minutes before he paid two hundred and fifty Francs.

  “A lot of noise for second hand clothes,” said Bear.

  “I paid too much but I tired of the game. These are good and smell awful.”

  “Blend in, the locals won’t come near us.”

  “Perfect,” said Akeem. “Now we buy a couple of knives, just in case of trouble.”

  Another stall in the market contained replicas of Arab swords and knives. After a short conversation Akeem purchased at a ridiculous price, two double edged hunting knives.

  “We are ready. Now we can relax. Tomorrow we will need our wits about us.”

  “Fancy a snack?” said Bear. “There’s a cafe of sorts at the far end of the market.”

  ***

  The next morning their taxi dropped Bear and Akeem at the airport departure point. With the mundane formalities complete, they sat and waited.

  “I hope that heap of shit is not our plane,” said Bear.

  “Looks like a Douglas DC series but I can’t decide which one,” commented Akeem.

  Bear attempted to sound positive. “I’m sure the pilot wouldn’t risk his life flying that heap of crap.”

  “No chance,” said a lanky man dressed in black trousers and a white shirt with three gold rings on the epaulettes.

  “First impressions don’t do it any favours,” said Akeem in Arabic.

  He laughed. “If you were sand-blasted at ten thousand feet a dozen times a year, how would you look? I always complete my pre-flight checks to the letter. A crash on our flight path is a guaranteed death sentence even if you survive the impact. Mountains and sand in every direction. Follow me, two seats are in place. The rest of the hold is full of cargo. I apologise for the goats but they pass wind when frightened.”