“Wrap your arm,” she ordered. “And tell me who my new pool ornament floating out there is, and then who you are.”
“I’m the guy that saved your life,” he said.
“And vice versa,” she countered. “As far as I can tell, we are now even.”
“Well then, I guess I’ll be going.”
She laughed. It was as nice a laugh as a woman pointing a gun can have, Scarne thought.
“Maybe. Start talking.”
There didn’t seem to be any reason to lie, so Scarne didn’t. When he finished, she said, “Poor Gaetan. He did his best. And I have to compliment you on putting it all together. I think I remember seeing you at the Killerfest. Did you follow me out to the cab stand?”
She didn’t miss much, Scarne realized.
“Yes. Did Quimper slip you his room key at the bar?”
“Of course.”
“I am an idiot.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. He was a dead man just as soon as I got the assignment. But that’s old news, Jake. May I call you Jake? Good. Now we have another problem. This lunatic Khan must be punished. The question is, what am I to do with you? I really don’t want to kill you.”
“That makes two of us.”
She smiled.
“Other than the fact that disposing of two bodies is a lot more trouble than one, I like you. And you did save my life. Although you probably now want to kill me. Could you? I mean kill a woman?”
“I once shot a woman I loved,” Scarne said. “I don’t think I would have a problem with you. But I have a plan that might leave both of us alive. You might have to hold off on going after Khan for a little while, though. Want to hear it?”
***
They pulled Gulle from the water. The spear had entered his neck just below his skull.
“That was an incredible shot, Vendela.”
“I cannot tell a lie. I was aiming for the middle of his back. I’m just learning how to use the damn thing. The water distorts the vision and, of course, affects direction. Now, kindly pull the shaft all the way through his mouth so we can lay him on his back for the photos. Careful, don’t cut your hand on the tip. It is barbed and very sharp. Use that towel.”
Because the spear had apparently passed through Gulle’s thick neck muscles and his spine, Scarne had difficulty pulling the spear out. Some gruesome sounds emanated from the dead man’s throat before he succeeded. Vendela Noss looked on impassively, which didn’t surprise Scarne, remembering her tableau in Quimper’s hotel suite. He had gone back to his car for Mendelsohn’s computer and his iPhone, with which he now took perhaps a dozen shots of Gulle, lying wide-eyed with blood seeping from his mouth. Vendela was scrolling through the computer, which was balanced on her lap.
“Gourmet Club,” she said. “That’s priceless. Gaetan loved to eat, everyone knew that. No one would suspect anything.”
Scarne was curious.
“Do you know the other, er, cooks?”
“There is the man, Armand, the one from France. We were lovers and I gave him a reference to Gaetan. He was bisexual, so they really hit it off. We still exchange Christmas cards. The others I don’t think I know.” She closed the laptop. “I will keep this computer. Our little arrangement covers everything in it, no?”
“Of course.”
“You found me,” she mused. “I don’t suppose it would be that hard for me to track down my fellow club members.”
“To what purpose?”
“With Gaetan gone, they might be at loose ends. Perhaps it is time for me to move into management.” She reached to the table next to her and hefted Scarne’s gun. “Do you mind if I also keep this? Another pistol without serial numbers may prove useful to me. You might have trouble leaving Europe with it anyway.”
“Sure. What will you do with Gulle’s body, and the car?”
“They will present no problem. I have friends in the local Mafia.”
“Of course you do.”
She laughed.
“And in the police.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“There will be no inquiries,” she said. “Are you sufficiently recovered to help me put him in the trunk of the car? Then you will probably want to clean and dress that cut and wash up. I have some fresh clothes that you can change into. While you are doing that, I’ll make you something to eat. And you are welcome to stay the night. Our friend will keep until the morning.”
She saw his expression and laughed.
“Don’t worry, I won’t have sex with you. Not that I don’t find you very attractive. I do. But I don’t sleep with men I’ve just met, unless I am on a job and plan to kill them. Besides, I think you need your rest.”
***
Scarne left the next morning, after hammering out the details of their plan over breakfast. As she had proved the night before with dinner, Vendela Noss was a wonderful cook. She made him poached eggs sauteed in olive oil with prosciutto and parmesan cheese.
“How long do you think it will take,” she asked as she poured him more coffee.
“No more than a month, would be my guess.”
CHAPTER 30 - BOOK DEAL
At almost 60 square miles, Mahé is the largest of the 115 islands that make up the archipelago nation called the Seychelles just over 900 miles east of Africa. The capital city of Victoria is on Mahé, and its 80,000 residents represented the bulk of the tiny nation’s population.
Chandra Khan had not quite recovered emotionally from the forced sale of his publishing properties to Randolph Shields. Mahé’s world-class resorts offered the lifestyle, services and tranquility that he needed to plot his return to prominence while he licked his wounds after the Quimper catastrophe. The merger of Bengal Publishing, Albatross and Schuster House was one of the largest business stories of the past decade. He thought he would throw up when he saw Lisa Lovepuddle on the arm of “Randy” Shields on the Internet. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the old dog was banging her brains out.
Still, he knew he had little choice in the matter after Nigel Blue and that son-of-a-bitch Scarne had walked into his office. At first he denied everything, calling them both lunatics. Then Scarne threw the picture of the dead Gulle on his desk, saying that Boga never looked better. There were more photos, he added, of the men Gulle murdered in Brussels. Khan, of course, immediately disowned Gulle, claiming that his trusted bodyguard and aide had obviously gone rogue or insane, perhaps both. They couldn’t tie his death, or the others, to him. They had no proof. It was outrageous.
Blue told Khan to shut up. They didn’t need proof. Shields owned newspapers and cable stations. They would crucify him with innuendo. Even if the charges didn’t stick, no one would do business with him.
In the end, Khan took 30 cents on the dollar for all his businesses, a financial hit that was mitigated by the inflated Manhattan prices his corporate offices and his townhouse brought. And he left New York, still a wealthy man. He would bide his time and then make his comeback. He would find another Boga Gulle and make them all wish they were never born. And the first payback would be Jake Scarne.
Just thinking it made Khan’s heart race. Calm down, he said to himself. Things could be worse. You are living in the famous Ian Fleming Suite, a villa elevated on stilts over the crystal clear Indian Ocean at the Hilton Seychelles Northolme Resort & Spa. The adults-only resort, on Beau Vallon Bay facing Silhouette Island, surrounded by verdant hillsides replete with coconut palms and cannonball trees, was one of the most luxurious playgrounds on the planet.
“Would you like another drink, sir?”
Khan looked at the waiter and nodded. It would be his third bottle of SeyBrew, the local beer. He much preferred it to the touristy rum concoctions that were the specialties of the house. He longed for some Old Monk. Still, SeyBrew went better with the Creole-inspired cuisine, which featured variants of curry even more spicy than he was used to. In addition to the cold beer, many of the dishes needed side orders of coconut cream. But the f
ood was delicious and Khan had added an inch to his waist in less than a month.
He pinched the flab around his midsection. That wouldn’t do.
His beer came. Tomorrow, he decided, starts the physical regimen that will be part of my comeback. The woman he’d had dinner with the night before had asked him to go snorkeling. He’d met her earlier on the beach, where she was sunning topless, rubbing tanning cream over her wonderful breasts. The snorkeling promised a good workout, in more ways than one. He knew the signs. She’d be in his bed before the week was out.
***
Khan got to the dock at 9 A.M. The weather was perfect, as usual, and the water calm and clear. She was already stowing gear in a locker on the small cabin cruiser.
“I thought there would be a guide,” he said.
“Don’t need one,” she said. “I’ve rented this for my entire stay. I know these waters and have just the spot on the other side of Silhouette Island.” She was wearing a black string bikini, which accented her fair skin and hair. “You won’t believe the variety of fish and coral. I have everything we need. Masks, snorkels and the like. Can you untie that line?”
A half hour later she pulled into a secluded cove just off an unoccupied Silhouette Island beach and idled the boat’s engine.
“Drop the anchor, will you, Chandra?”
He watched the anchor slide all the way to the bottom in the pristine water, where it created a small plume of sand.
“This is a beautiful spot,” he said, looking shoreward. “That beach looks very inviting.”
“I brought a blanket,” she said. “I thought we might bask in the sun au naturel later, if you are up for it.”
“Wonderful idea,” Khan gushed, thinking that just looking at her splendidly taut body was getting him up for it right then and there.
She went into the cabin and came out with their equipment. They put on their gear.
“I didn’t know you liked to fish,” Khan said, pointing at the spear gun in her hand as he lowered himself off the side into the warm, azure water.
“There a lot of things you don’t know about me,” she said, looking down at him.
True enough, Khan thought. Who needed Lisa Lovepuddle? Eleanora Fini was turning out to be a surprising women.
***
Scarne and Evelyn Warr were working on expense reports when Noah Sealth walked into Scarne’s office.
“Did you see this,” he said, handing Scarne The New York Times. “Bottom right.”
One of the many things Scarne liked about Noah was the fact that he still read newspapers in print.
Publishing Executive
Missing in the Seychelles
By Robert Emmet Huber
Authorities in the Republic of the Seychelles are looking into the mysterious disappearance of Chandra Khan, the former chairman of Bengal Publishing Ltd.
Mr. Khan, a charismatic figure considered somewhat of a maverick in the publishing industry during his time in New York, was staying at the Hilton Northolme Seychelles Resort & Spa on the island of Mahé, where Victoria, the capital city of the 115-island archipelago nation is located.
According to Philippe Rankalavan, a spokesman for the Seychelles Ministry of Home Affairs, Mr. Khan’s disappearance was not noticed by the resort staff for almost two days. The accommodations at the Hilton property consist of secluded villas, Mr. Rankalavan said, and it is not unusual for guests to stay in their villas. It was known that Mr. Khan was planning a diving trip, he said. A source in the Seychelles Police Force, who asked not to be identified, said that there was some concern that Mr. Khan, who was not known to be an experienced diver, may have drowned. Reports that Mr. Khan was seen on a boat leaving the dock in the company of a woman on the morning that he presumably disappeared could not be confirmed.
The luxurious Northolme resort is a favorite among jetsetters and has been home to Mr. Khan ever since his sudden decision to sell all his publishing holdings to Shields Inc., which then folded them into its newly formed Schuster Albatross House subsidiary.
Authorities launched an island-wide search for Mr. Khan. No one fitting his description flew out of Mahé, Mr. Rankalavan said, adding that Mr. Khan’s passport was found in his room.
Nigel Blue, a spokesman for Randolph Shields, said that the entire Shields organization was devastated by the news of Mr. Khan’s disappearance.
“Naturally, Mr. Shields is hoping for the best,” Mr. Blue said. “He considered Chandra a good friend and a visionary in the literary world. Coming so soon after the loss of Sebastian Quimper, this is a hard blow.”
The rest of the story was devoted to recapping Khan’s meteoric rise and fall in the publishing world.
“What do you think,” Sealth asked after Scarne finished the article and passed the paper to Evelyn.
“He’s sleeping with some very beautiful fishes,” Scarne replied. “She told me she was going to even up the score for Mendelsohn.”
“What about you? I’d hate to be on her list. She cuts heads off.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” Scarne deadpanned. “Besides she said she only did it for effect. Quimper was already dead.”
“You have to admire a woman with standards,” Evelyn said.
“I suppose that’s better than what women usually cut off a man,” Sealth said. He looked at Evelyn. “Present company excepted, of course.”
“I’ll do better than cut off your balls,” Evelyn said mildly, looking up from the newspaper. “I’ll tell Juliette what you just said.”
“Anyway,” Scarne continued, “we have a deal. She’ll keep it. Sometimes I think the only people I can trust are stone killers, Noah. Your pal, Boyko, in Seattle. Roddenberry. And now her.”
“Who the hell is Roddenberry?”
“Another European hitter,” Scarne said. “Not his real name, of course.”
He told Sealth about his last case.
“Jesus, Jake. But for the record, Boyko ain’t my pal. Although compared to the Noss woman and Roddenberry character, he’s a choir boy. I don’t suppose Roddenberry was one of Mendelsohn’s crew.”
“No. I checked. Probably has a different agent. I got the impression that he wasn’t the type to be geographically constrained.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, according to your main squeeze, the authorities probably know who Mendelsohn’s clients are. Vendela confirmed that there is some sort of gentleman’s agreement to let them alone as long as they ply their trade outside the European Union.”
“So, it’s Vendela now,” Evelyn murmured, still reading.
“You know,” Sealth said, shaking his head, “if Quimper wrote that in one of his books, the critics would say it was too far-fetched. Just what are you going to do with the information you found on Mendelsohn’s computer? I know you copied it.”
“Keep it for future reference, I suppose. There is nothing incriminating. They could really be just a bunch of friends in an international gourmet club.”
“You could always give them all a call,” Evelyn said after finishing the article. “See if they want to be unionized. Just don’t offer them medical. Cost would probably be too prohibitive.”
The two men looked at her.
“Just a thought,” she said.
“So,” Sealth finally said, “as far as the world knows, Quimper was killed by a woman working for terrorists. Shields is happy with that?”
“It’s a book marketer’s dream,” Scarne said. “From Here to Tehranity now tops all the bestseller lists. And Nigel Blue told me Steven Spielberg and Katherine Bigelow are in a bidding war over the movie rights.”
THE END
(But Keep Reading)
If you enjoyed this Jake Scarne thriller, you might want to try the first two novels in the series:
SOUND OF BLOOD
MADMAN’S THIRST
Other novels by Lawrence De Maria include the Alton Rhode mysteries:
CAPRIATI’S BLOOD
LAURA LEE
&n
bsp; SIREN’S TEARS
And the Cole Sudden thriller:
HURRICANE FATS
All are available through St. Austin’s Press on Amazon.com. The author can be contacted at [email protected] or through his website: www.lawrencedemaria.com.
(There’s More! Just a little)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lawrence De Maria began his career as a general interest reporter (winning an Associated Press award for his crime reporting) and eventually became a Pulitzer-nominated senior editor and financial writer The New York Times, where he wrote hundreds of stories and features, often on Page 1. After he left the Times, De Maria became an Executive Director at Forbes.
Following a stint in corporate America – during which he helped uncover the $7 billion Allen Stanford Ponzi scheme and was widely quoted in the national media – he returned to journalism as Managing Editor of the Naples Sun Times, a Florida weekly, until its sale to the Scripps chain in 2007. Since then, he has been a full-time fiction writer. Killerfest is his seventh novel.
De Maria is on the board of directors of the Washington Independent Review of Books, and is a frequent contributor of book reviews in many genres.
Thank You for Reading This Book!
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Killerfest Page 17