Authors: Graham Lancaster
But
first she had to face him. Tell him their marriage was over. Non-confrontational by nature, she felt sick at the thought of what she was about to do. It was not something she could have sprung on him while Lydia was still missing. She had seen how distressed he had been, and despite everything, she could not have added to his worries then. With Lydia now safe, however, there were no more excuses for delaying what she had flown so far to do. Before he was distracted next by the arrival of his precious guests, she had to use this tiny window of opportunity.
It
was almost seven, and she had changed into a dark brown linen suit for dinner—not too dressy, but still serious for the showdown. Checking herself nervously yet again in the mirror, she left her room for his suite.
Pumped
up now, she cursorily knocked once and sashayed right in. ‘James,’ she called brightly.
The
sitting room was empty but stank of a cigar, half finished in the ashtray.
‘
In here!’ His booming, arrogant voice punctured her fragile confidence, and she ran yet again over the words she had so carefully been rehearsing.
Fighting
her rising panic, desperately wanting to keep control of her voice, she strode into the bedroom.
The
sight that greeted her changed everything. He was sitting on the edge of the bed in his dressing gown, a young Creole in an untied robe standing over him, towelling his hair. Maddie recognised her immediately as the prettiest of the maids. The girl’s own dripping hair, and the damp circles in the silk over her curves, removed any question of ambiguity. Their shower may have been before or after their love-making. It really did not matter. They might as well have been in bed.
He
looked up, his dishevelled hair robbing him of any remaining dignity. The maid also half turned, covering herself, before running shamefaced back into the bathroom, her bare feet slapping on the marble floor. Making no attempt to flatten his hair, not even caring that much, James simply stared back at Maddie, a look of mild amusement on his face. ‘Don’t pretend you’re surprised,’ he said.
She
somehow found the strength to keep her voice steady. ‘Thanks,’ she replied. ‘Thanks for making this easy.’
With
that, she walked over to him, placed the letter from her solicitor on his bed, and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Lydia looked at Banto sadly, guiltily, and wondered what was to become of him. They had put him in a windowless room at the back of the ranch-house where they kept household stores, a hefty-looking bolt newly fitted on the door. She demanded that her father let her see him that morning, and—hugely preoccupied with the arrangements for the Alliance meeting later that day—he had agreed, although much against his instincts, and only on condition there was a guard present.
True
to their word, they had not harmed Banto, and he seemed to be well enough. Whether he was glad to see her again she really could not tell. He did not move and barely looked at her when they came in.
‘
Hi! How are you today?’ she asked cheerfully.
He
made some grudging noise in response, still avoiding her eyes, still uncomfortable with the directness of the outsiders.
‘
We have to decide what we arrange for you. This is important, Banto. Look at me! I’m trying to help. I may be your only friend.’ It was true. The Stockholm Syndrome is well known to police psychologists the world over, describing how captives can bond with their kidnappers. ‘What do
you
want?’
‘
No more take?’ he asked, eyes wide.
‘
No more. I promise.’
‘
Payback. Then I go home. To tell the
kepala
about the outside. To help us fight.’
‘
No Payback, Banto. Forget that. It’s hopeless. It’s just not going to happen. No Payback. You understand me?’
‘
No Payback,’ he repeated, mechanically. The killing of Bolitho was a token Payback. But he still wanted more. He wanted Barton.
Their
big
kepala
.
Satisfied,
she pressed on. ‘I can
try
and get you out of the country, and back to PNG. I’ve no idea how right now. But I could try.’ She knew she would have to make it happen quickly though, before the truth of his forest killings became known. ‘Or you could stay in the new world, Banto. You learn really quickly, and your English would soon improve. Do you want to think about that?’
Lydia
had. A lot, overnight. She had toyed with the idea of taking him back to England and semi-adopting him, acting as his teacher and guardian. Between this and puzzling over what to do about Tom, she had got virtually no sleep. On both counts, she was terribly undecided, her confidence at a low ebb and her normally assertive self in rapid retreat. As for Banto, she needed to conclude what was best for him and had just discussed her vaguely formed idea to take him home over breakfast with Neil Penny. He in turn had thought for a while before recounting the story of an American anthropologist. After spending twelve years in the deep Amazonian rain forest, the man had married a Stone-Age tribeswoman before, in 1987, taking her home to New Jersey. The girl, just some four feet tall, took English lessons, removed the white sticks which pierced her nose and cheeks, changed her loincloth for regular clothes, had a fashionable hairstyle, allowed her feet to grow soft in modern shoes and worked hard to come to terms with the trappings of the West. There were three children from the marriage. But in 1993 she chose to return to her jungle alone, back to her tribe. The last Penny had read, the loving husband and a son were still hoping to find her.
This
moving story was very much in her mind now as she looked protectively at Banto. But he had started rocking himself, chanting the two-note mantra that she had heard so often when, she suspected, he too was unsure and afraid of things. She nodded to the guard that she wanted to leave, and followed him out.
Nothing
had been resolved there. Next stop Tom.
*
‘Dino! Great to see you. Good flight, I hope.’ Barton smiled broadly, his own confidence not affected one bit by Maddie’s news the evening before. He made no attempt to introduce Tom, who was hovering self-consciously by his side.
‘
Hey! Sir Barton! How’s the Queen? She doing good?’ The short man, energy bursting out from him, was as usual dressed all in white. Right down to his shiny, big-heeled boots. He giggled his irritating laugh.
‘
Her Majesty’s very well. She especially asked to be remembered to you.’ There was, he knew, every chance that the mad Mexican would think he was serious. The rest are all here. My people will show your men to their quarters, while you come and join the rest of the Alliance.’
Dino
stopped him, looking directly into his eyes. ‘You got good security here? I mean real good?’
‘
The best money can buy. Top mercenaries on top pay. The place is tight as a drum. Don’t worry. Please.’
‘
Mercenaries suck,’ Dino spat, deadly serious now. ‘Pay them a dime more each and they’ll shoot you in the back. You need men from families you grew up with. Chihuahuan brothers, whose mommas cry with your momma when someone gets hit. This money
can’t
buy. The one thing. That’s why I brought some of my own people. No offence. But that’s the way it is.’
‘
I know this. No problem, Dino. The more the better. I just want you and the rest to feel safe here and at home.’
‘
Who else brought their own people?’
‘
Just the Lallandar boys. And our Warlord. He seems somehow to have shipped enough hardware all the way from Burma to start a small war.’
‘
Figures. Those Golden Triangle guys are crazy.’
Crazy
as Dino also was, he knew what the man meant. The Warlords were in a medieval time-warp, reminding him of the terrifying Mongol leaders like Genghis Khan. The Western mobsters, ruthless and coldly efficient murderers as they were, at least worked to some agenda he could understand. The Asians—like the Burmese and the Triads—came from another world entirely. ‘The Alliance is a broad church,’ Barton replied.
The
mad laugh rang out again. ‘Yeah, church! Yeah! I like that.’
Barton
then sent Tom to check for some urgent encrypted e-mail message he was expecting from the States, before taking Dino straight over to the ranch. The rest of the Alliance members were grazing from a vast buffet. ‘Dino’s arrived, everyone!’ he called, clapping his hands. ‘We’re all here now, gentlemen. So, relax, enjoy your meal. But not too much! I’ve got a very special dinner and show for you tonight. The best fireworks you’ve ever seen, to welcome you all in true Aruba Mutual Alliance style. After lunch, we’ll begin the first part of our meeting, concluding tomorrow. I’ve got some exciting things to tell you. Not least about a communication the President of the United States will be reading’—he looked at his watch for dramatic effect—‘around about—now! A communication that should help guarantee all of you long and happy retirements in which to enjoy your money and your grandchildren. This I have done for you. I’ll tell you all about it this afternoon. Have a nice meal.’
Tom
’s relationship had changed from that of Barton’s senior strategic counsellor and fellow director to what now felt like the family poodle. And he did not like it much. On the other hand, there really was no one else the man could trust or get support from. No one else who had the big picture of what he was trying to do. And it was exactly the role Mitchell would have wanted him to play. On the inside. Indispensable.
The
main agenda for the Alliance top men was undemanding, but belied the amount of work that had been put in. And now, having been exposed to the sheer scale of money Barton stood to make from his adventure, Tom could at least understand, if not condone what he was attempting to pull off. Quite simply, he had brilliantly identified a new market sector for consulting and treasury management services. That huge, and growing, high-margin global business: the illicit drugs industry. One run by streetwise, but financially inexperienced people whose main preoccupations were local turf wars, and fighting off whichever politicians and security forces they could not buy off. It was a new market sector closed to the great strat and financial houses of the world, but with earnings potential each would die for. Better still, by the skilful manipulation of his biotech company—another get-rich-quick sector he had shrewdly spotted very early—Barton had been able to put some serious capital of his own on the table to leverage the astronomic returns he now expected from the Alliance for holding the Americans in check.
Patching
through the nearby special forces signals man, Tom had kept Mitchell briefed on what was happening, using the radio they had given him. He also kept the SAS team—the ‘firework crew’—updated on numbers, and who was where. Unfortunately Barton had refused to share with him the nature of his ‘détente’ threat if the US President did not now stymie the work of his drugs taskforce. That was something he was due to hear later that afternoon, at the same time as the Alliance members. Tom may, in Barton’s books, now be almost family, but even that did not count for much with his billions of dollars at risk.
Taking
the second shower of the day in his cabana, skipping lunch with the boring Alliance members, Tom was drying himself when she let herself in. Lydia was wearing a white cotton suit with a simple black T-shirt. Her hair was scraped back and up, giving her a brusque, businesslike air. His own nakedness made Tom feel vulnerable. ‘Are we still talking?’ he asked defensively.
Sitting
down primly on the edge of the bed, she looked up at him, her face softening. ‘I must still be pretty stressed out,’ she said, ‘to react like I did. I just didn’t like the feeling of being bartered somehow. But I can see you didn’t have any way out.’
‘
I was wrong-footed,’ Tom admitted. ‘And all this spying business is stressing me out too. I’m kind of making it up as I go.’
‘
And what you said to me last night about wanting to ask me about our future...were you making that up?’
Tom
felt immense relief, took her in his arms and kissed her hard. They hugged, holding on tightly for several minutes, not speaking. Each needed the other. In their different ways they had been through gutting emotional turmoil. During her kidnap, each had feared they would never see the other again. ‘Now
this
is the kind of making up I do like,’ he smiled.
Lydia
smiled back, but the strain was still obvious on her drawn face. ‘I can’t take much more of all this,’ she said. ‘If Dad thinks we’re engaged, let’s leave it like that.’
‘
And does it feel good—being engaged to me?’
‘
Compared with what?’ she teased, not ready to be drawn.
Tom
smiled and gave her a peck on the forehead. ‘I have to get ready,’ he said, standing. ‘James needs me to present the latest quarter’s treasury management performance to them. That’s the first thing on the agenda after lunch. How their combined portfolio is performing. And how their own shares stack up.’
She
watched as he dressed. ‘And how is it performing?’
‘
Just as they want. Safe and unspectacular. We’re staying ahead of inflation and outperforming interest rates. Basically tracking blue chip corporate bonds and gilts. They don’t need to speculate. All they want is a safe return—one that’s tax efficient for dividends and laundering.’
‘
So Dad’s doing well for them. CEO of the world drug industry... It’s not really any worse than our ancestors in the Bristol slave trade, I suppose. The Bartons made their fortune that way.’ She looked pensive. ‘And what else has he got planned for them?’
Tom
looked anxiously at his watch. ‘Look. I have to hurry. And there’s something I need to warn you about.’ His face told her their joking and teasing was now over. ‘What I’m telling you must not get back to your father, Penny or any of the rest. You understand what I’m saying?’
She
nodded, shaken. ‘Go on.’
‘
A big budget, state-of-the-art firework display’s planned for tonight. To impress the Alliance members. James will decide the timing, but probably around nine—before the gala dinner. Just before it starts, I have to get James back inside, and keep him there somehow. When I go back out, and show myself—all hell will let loose. And the SAS go in.’
‘
The SAS!’
‘
There’s a special services unit out there right now. They’ve replaced the firework crew, and have more than a few fireworks of their own, I imagine. They plan to arrest your father and the drugs barons, some of them for trial in the States. Your father, for deportation back to Britain—unless the Belizeans demand a show trial here. You’ll have seen the mercenaries James has shipped in as extra security. And the bodyguards some of the Alliance people travel with. The SAS men want to avoid a serious fire-fight. They figure my taking James out of the loop will frustrate any semblance of a chain of command, leaving the various guards confused and ineffective. I’m not an expert in these things, but that’s their theory.
‘
But there are no guarantees. Some of James’s mercenaries get a lot of respect from the British, and it could get very messy. That’s why I need you and Maddie somewhere safe and away from all this. So—as soon as you see me returning, the two of you immediately move back into the ranch. Go to the plant room. It’s below ground and should be the safest place there is. I’ve already checked it out. You can lock the steel fire door from the inside. Do you know where it is? Well—go down and find it. Promise me. Familiarise yourself with it. And
don’t
come up until you’re sure it’s safe. I’ll come and get you. Have you got that?’