The Sister (16 page)

"I handed myself over to blind chance, and miraculously ended up over on her wing. The access points into, and out of the ducts, were around every fifty yards or so and detectable by the short cat-ladders that stuck out beyond the pipelines. I listened for a long time to make sure it was safe to come out. Although the lights were out, after having been in total darkness . . . I could see easily. I was just figuring out how to find her, when she came out half-asleep to visit the toilet. I couldn't believe my luck; I knew then, I had God on my side."

When he'd finished telling his story, the man opposite, who had listened without interruption, finally spoke again.

"You acted with no authority, completely off your own back, putting yourself at considerable risk - on the strength of what you read in the newspapers."

Miller felt the spotlight heat of the man's eyes as they searched him.

"I assume you thought you'd be well rewarded if you had pulled it off?"

He shook his head. "I never gave it a thought."

Kale said nothing, but the expression on his face and the tilt of his head, made it clear he expected an explanation.

"I did it because I wanted to feel worthy again. When Josie disappeared, I knew how that felt. When I saw the papers, I just had to do something . . . You see; I had some bad luck when I was a kid . . ."

"What sort of bad luck?"

Miller told him. He listened intently.

"Listen, boy, call me Donovan, by the way. I'd like to give you a reward. "

"I didn't do it for the money," he said.

"Well at least let me cover your time and expenses. It's the least I can do. How much do you want?"
Too tired to argue, he hesitated and then said, "Two hundred and fifty pounds, that's all, just for fares, and that."
Donovan took out his chequebook. "Who do I make this out to?"

"My bank account is in the name of Bruce Milowski." Seeing the confusion on Kale's face, he added. "It's my real name, but that's another story . . ." he started to explain, and then thought better of it.

The older man smiled for the first time. Something about this kid appealed to him, apart from the fact he'd just rescued his daughter. He scribbled the cheque out and put it in an envelope, sealing it closed. Then handing it over, he said, "If there's anything I can do for you son . . . you know where I am."

They shook hands, and Kale summoned his driver to drop him home.

The following morning, at the bank, he completed the paying-in slip and passed it under the glass screen to the teller. She looked up at him, a mix of joyful confusion on her face. "I think you might have made a mistake," she held the cheque up to the glass for him to see. "Because this slip should have another three zero's on it." Miller was stunned into silence

The cheque was for a quarter of a million pounds, enough to set him up for a long time. He never forgot his good fortune, and afterwards, he divided his time equally between those who could afford to pay and for those that couldn't, he worked without pay. The rich subsidised the poor, a private investigator version of Robin Hood for modern times.

Kale used his wealth to have the cult shut down, by fair means or foul, routing its leaders. They simply disappeared, presumably afraid to face legal proceedings. And he was responsible for repatriating, and reuniting nearly one hundred young people with their families. When his accountants untangled the web of financial dealings, the huge amount of revenue generated by the organisation astounded him, and naturally, he took steps to relieve them of that wealth.

Without money, they would find it difficult to start again.

Chapter 28

June 1980

The mute scrawled a question onto the paper pad and passed it to the man standing opposite him. Without turning away from the window, he took the pad and looked at it.

"What will we do?" The note read.

Carlos raised his amber eyes and gazed across the Istanbul skyline, the sunlight turning them the colour of molten gold.

"We take over what's left and start again." He turned to look at his friend. "Hasan, we will rise from the ashes, bigger than before."

Hasan scribbled quickly and pushed the new note at Carlos.

"What about Kale. Do you want me to kill him?"

Carlos smiled.
Hasan is so loyal.

"No, my friend, he took nothing from us. Instead, he has provided us with an opportunity."

Hasan's broad face looked fierce; lips pressed tight together; an eyebrow rose in unspoken query.

"We will destroy the opposition. There is no better time to do it. The religious world is in disarray." Carlos took a small box from his hip pocket and opened it. "We are about to build a new church, Hasan. I have seen it." He tilted his face upwards and put something into each eye. He faced Hasan with newly dark brown eyes. "I will call our movement, The Church of The Resurrectionists of Monte Cristo. This will be the new church, and nothing will stand in our way. First we will rid the world of the major cults, and then the old church will fall to us."

Hasan nodded appreciatively. There was no doubting the ability of Carlos to do so.

Chapter 29

23rd July 1983

The Hammersmith pubs had steadily filled with people since six o' clock. With Dire Straits playing the Odeon that night, drinkers in this particular watering hole wasted no time loading up on drink. It was a huge pub with a rough reputation; real spit and sawdust, hot and sweaty, a feeling of edginess and danger permeated the air. On concert nights, the extra crowds created a heady atmospheric cocktail of excitement, which attracted all kinds of men and women, from office staff to hippies, hospital workers to labourers. Most of them would go on to the show.

In this pub, lone outsiders could find themselves vulnerable and unwelcome. Those in groups were relatively safe, but it wasn't uncommon for people to have one drink and then leave.

Two Americans were talking loudly at the bar their voices raised above the din of the crowd. "Have you ever felt in real danger?"

"Sure I have, and you know something? I'm not feeling real comfortable right now," he said, anxiously eyeing a mean-looking giant of a man who had appeared at his friend's shoulder, belligerently looking him up and down, measuring him.

The big man poked him in the back.

Carefully putting his beer down, he caught the cautionary expression in his friend's eyes, the unease registering with him, he turned around slowly and then froze. Staggered by the man's size, his knees, perhaps eager to run, bucked involuntarily, and he stumbled, fighting to control limbs that had turned jelly-like.

"Is it because I'm Irish you think you're in danger? You think I'm wit the fuckin' IRA or something, eh - is that it?"

The American garbled his words. "I – I wasn't talking about you . . ."

"So, I fuckin'
imagined
it all, did I?" The Irishman didn't care there were two of them. He was spoiling for a fight.

A moment of dread silence hung between the Americans.

A voice called out, "Jack? Jack Doherty?"

The big man turned round. "Mickey, fuckin', Flynn!" he said and the two of them shook hands vigorously.

"Can't you see I'm busy, Mickey?"

Flynn took the scene in an instant. "Uh-huh . . . leave the poor fellas be. C'mon let's be getting some drinks in!"

Doherty glared at the two men, who abandoning their unfinished drinks, left in a hurry.

Flynn and Doherty drank together for another couple of hours, after that, Flynn made his excuses. "I gotta go, Jack . . . the missus, well you know . . . we only married last month . . ."

Doherty put his thumb onto his friend's forehead and stuck out his tongue. "I thought you was a
real
man, Mickey!"

Flynn walked out backwards, still bantering; he bumped into a stranger at the bar. He apologised instantly. The stranger eyed him coldly.

Doherty watched from further up the bar; he didn't like the way the stranger looked at Flynn. With Mickey gone, he could have a bit of fun. Easing away from the edge of the group of Irish he stood with, he headed in the other man's direction.

He brushed past the stranger making body contact with the whole of his top half, and although the force and friction was enough to make the stranger adjust the plant of his feet; he did not stagger as most men would have, he felt solid, heavier than he looked, but Doherty wasn't worried. At a full head taller, he'd easily knock him out if it came to it, no trouble at all.

"Watch where you're going, all right?" the Irishman warned him,

The man turned to face him. Up close, he had the look of a fighting dog, scarred face and mashed lips. There was no fear in his eyes. They were dark like black stones, empty, but alert. He shrugged nonchalantly. The way he stuck his chin out, an invitation; he wasn't scared. He
wanted
it. Warning bells echoed at the back of Doherty's mind, and he thought better of it. He looked around quickly; no one was watching. "Don't let it happen again," he mumbled, before rejoining the rest of his group at the bar.

"What happened there, Jack? I thought it was going off?" Davey O' Connor said.

Someone
had
seen.

"Just a little skirmish that's all. I gave him a chance to drink up and go."

"What Jack Doherty giving out second chances?" Davey looked at the others, in mock amazement. "I must be fuckin' dreaming - somebody pinch me . . ."

"I'll do more than pinch you, O' Connor - I'll put you in the land of dreams for a week!"

A few minutes later, watching as the man bought another drink, the group of men looked around at each other. A series of nods, winks, and half-shrugs, decided their course of action. They goaded a reaction from Doherty.

"Holy Mother!" Davey rolled his eyes heavenward. "He's only gone and got himself another pint, Jack."

"I see your man is still there . . ." O' Connor's brother said, "I don't think he's going,
big man."

Doherty put his pint down and wiped his lips. Most people wouldn't hang about when they'd had a friendly warning like that from him. The way the stranger stood there looking like he'd not a care in the world, infuriated him. He made a beeline for him, approaching from behind.
I'll fucking teach him . . .

This time as he squeezed past, he cranked his hips and wound the upper left side of his body back as if cocking a spring and then released it with perfect timing, his shoulder slamming into the smaller man, who, about to take a sip, almost knocked his teeth out on the glass.

"Sorry about that!" Doherty said sarcastically, with a wink to his friends, and a grin to a big-breasted girl wearing a nurse's uniform. Her dark eyes flashed back at him, registering interest. Distracted, the big Irishman veered towards her to try his luck.

Her eyes widened as the stranger came into view from behind, with bad intent written all over his face. He never said a word, instead exploding a mighty punch that bounced off the back of Doherty's head; it made a sound like dropping an overripe watermelon onto the floor. Although he'd anticipated some sort of retaliation, he hadn't expected
that
. The power buckled his knees; he stopped himself short of colliding with the nurse, putting his hands on the wall either side of her.

Silence descended over the pub.

Shocked by her unexpected and precarious position, the nurse stood open-mouthed. This close, the Irishman's eyes, so full of life just a few moments ago, were now dull and empty. He didn't look at her; he was in survival mode.

Unable to finish the onslaught without risking injury to the girl, the stranger pulled his opponent round by the shoulder. She edged along the wall to safety.

Those few split seconds allowed Doherty a degree of recovery and the chance to launch a last ditch attack on the stranger. For a man of his stature, he struck with surprising speed. Three powerful, short and choppy head shots, left - right – left, the crowd gasped; the stranger rode the punches, taking the brunt of the power out on his forearms, but the last one hooked around his block, and glanced off, catching him square on the temple. The stranger shook his head to clear it, his eyes briefly out of focus. He sensed victory and moved in for the kill - one more shot would finish him - he lined him up carefully, getting into range, ready to deliver the final blow.

The stranger exploded into action - ducking under, coming forward as the bigger man's punch scythed through empty air, he drove his left elbow into the Irishman's lower ribs, snapping them, stopping him in his tracks. A look of anguished surprise appeared on his face as his faculties struggled to keep pace with his instincts. He folded, leaning in to favour his broken side. In a split second of clarity, he saw his opponent's hips swivel … a desperate message relayed from his brain - too late for his deadened body to react. A solid right smashed the front of Doherty's face in, crushing his nose and mouth. The force of it disconnected him from his senses; his eyes were lifeless. A left hook clubbed in, a meat tenderiser masquerading as a fist. Very few - if any - in the crowd, would have ever witnessed an attack of such murderous savagery, in their lives. There was a stunned silence as the big man toppled like a demolished skyscraper, knees buckling under him. His right eyeball - dislodged from its socket - hung down below his cheekbone as he fell to the ground.