Authors: Max China
The hotel was a former canal house arranged over three storeys. Inside, the décor was a sumptuous blend of modern and traditional furnishings, light streamed in through arch-top windows.
This must be costing a packet.
She'd booked him a room opposite hers. They met in the bar.
"I'm impressed, Carla. You're doing well to afford to stay in a place like this."
Her eyes sparkled in the light. "It's all on expenses, Miller. Remember?"
"Jesus Christ, what on earth makes you think—?"
"Shush, silly," she looked around furtively. "He's staying here. On the top floor."
Speaking in hushed tones, she brought him up to date. "…As far as I can establish his real name is Jubal Khan. His bodyguard Hasan got himself into trouble in
Afghanistan; Khan did a deal with the Taliban. In exchange for killing a high ranking official, they would help get Hasan out."
"Jubal Khan… Sounds familiar to me, now where have I heard that name before?" Two men of Middle Eastern appearance entered the bar. Miller flashed a warning with his eyes.
"Not them," she whispered, grabbing her drink. "Let's carry on this discussion in my room." She slid off her stool, winked and gestured with a tilt of her head. "Come on."
Miller drained the rest of his glass and followed her.
Once in her room, the conversation continued; she seemed to have acquired a thirst for alcohol and raided the mini-bar with a regularity that astonished him.
"As the story goes, he got himself into
Kandahar prison just so that he could get Hasan out. His contacts blew a hole in the outer wall near the guardhouse, stormed in, machine-gunned the few guards that had survived the blast and set half the prisoners free, mainly to hide the fact that they'd orchestrated the whole thing just to get those two out."
"Who told you all this?"
"Now, that would be telling, but it's enough to say one of the other escapee's works in a nearby bar. Apparently, he followed them for quite a while after the escape, before Khan set Hasan onto him. He lived to tell the tale, obviously, but he told me he'd spotted 'The Mute' as he called him coming into this hotel a couple of weeks ago with Khan."
His mind wandered back to the first time he'd seen Carlos with his bodyguard in Piccadilly. Three questions formed.
Could it really be him? Could it be the same minder? Would they recognise him after all these years?
"If what you say is true, I'm beginning to think we might be in over our heads—"
"Think about the money, Miller." Although her eyes gleamed, they'd taken on a glassy appearance.
Miller encircled the thumb of his left hand with his fingertips and contemplated them. "Money isn't everything," he said, thoughtfully. "It alleviates some worries for sure, but the acquisition of wealth . . ."
"So it's selfish to want money for security, if it brings happiness?"
"That's not what I'm saying. I'm talking about the true happiness that comes from contentment. It shouldn't be complicated by selfish needs. I'm talking about people that give without expecting something in return, because if you do that - if you expect nothing, and you get nothing - how can you be disappointed?" The alcohol clouded his thoughts. "We shouldn't be selling ourselves to the highest bidder. If everything is for sale, then where do we stop? If supply and demand is all that matters, then what price do we place on our souls?" Miller's telephone rang. He ignored it.
She swallowed the last of her drink. "I don't care about any of that," she said. "Miller, can I ask you something?"
"Sure, fire away."
"Do you want to fuck me?"
The sound of tinkling cutlery, faint, but unmistakable, reached his ears. Dull pain pushed into his eyeballs from behind; he opened them seeking release and turned his head on the pillow. Carla remained asleep next to him. "Never drinking like that again," he mumbled and sat up.
She stirred, and lazily ran a fingertip down his spine. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going home. Are you coming?"
"Why?"
"I told you last night. It's not worth the money and Stella needs my help."
"What about me?"
"Come home."
She bit her lip and sat forwards, holding the quilt under her chin. "I'm in too deep. I'm sticking with the story. You go on though, run home and wet-nurse your little girl."
"Carla, it's not that at all. It's too dangerous."
"It's okay, I'm a big girl. I know what I'm doing. Leave me."
For most of the journey home, he thought about her, and wondered if he'd done the right thing. To her it was all a game. She might want him, but she didn't need him. Sooner or later hurt would come knocking.
What would be the point in that?
On Friday the 13th July, he returned from the
Netherlands and reported to Donovan Kale.
The billionaire pushed his seat away from the desk, clasping his hands together, and resting them on his crotch. "I thought you told me you wouldn't stop, until you had the job done."
"It's true; I did say that, and I've helped you to shut down almost every major cult operating in Europe. That leaves only one of any size and a rapidly growing pseudo religious organisation. I'm going to have to terminate my involvement."
"Miller, we've known each other a long time so let me ask you … why the change? You like the money don't you?"
"Donovan, this isn't about money. This is about a couple of things that have crept onto the radar, and I can't just walk away without resolving them."
"What are they?"
Miller explained, and when he'd finished, Kale sat forward abruptly.
"This other business, it needs to be out of the way. What was the name of this pseudo religion as you put it?"
"They call themselves the Resurrectionists of Monte Cristo —"
"Leave them - they're crackpots!"
"You wanted to find out more about Carlos?"
"Forget him, he's just a mercenary. Besides, he's too dangerous. I want you focused on bringing this last organisation to heel. I want the leader. If we don't take him out, the whole thing will just start up again. This other business - what is it, and how long do you need?"
Didn't I just quit?
Miller thought, but decided not to press the point for now. "I need to get Kathy out of the hospital and up to Scotland."
"Kathy?
Scotland?"
Miller pressed his lips together. Although Kale was one of the few people he could trust, he decided it best not to mention Carla. "Donovan, it's a long story, so I'll condense it for you…"
A few minutes later, Kale stopped him. "I've heard enough, take the time you need and then get back to me, yes? A few days won't hurt."
With her bag clutched under her arm, Stella swept around the corner, and up the driveway. Suddenly she stopped and turned to look at the gates. A smile crossed her face, and a bounce came into her step as she timed the last three paces to land on the step outside the door. She pressed the buzzer.
"So, how was Amsterdam?" She smiled, and her cheeks dimpled.
Guilt, a feeling he wasn't comfortable with, rose suddenly and flickered in his eyes. "I couldn't wait to get back," he said, "I've got some plans for you."
"Really?" she searched his face to see if it were true.
"You know what I said when we found Kathy?" Miller said.
"Yes…?"
"Well, Stella, I haven't finished yet, but don't get your hopes up."
"Don't!" She leaned forward and pushed him away. "I know what you're trying to do."
"Stella, I think I know someone who can help her."
"What do you mean?"
Miller silently studied her face; one eye beamed brighter than the other.
"What? Oh, come on . . ." She jigged up and down on the spot, and then her eyes lit up. A nervous giggle sounded in her throat. "The deprogrammer you used on the Olga Kale case? We could use him if he hasn't retired?"
"No, I have someone else in mind . . ." He took a deep breath and held it.
"The Sister!" she exclaimed.
"How did you guess? I'm not sure how I can persuade her though."
"It wasn't a guess, I just knew somehow! And you
will
persuade her," she said. "I just know it!"
A bemused smile fixed on Miller's face.
You didn't think this one through, did you? You don't even know where she lives!
Stella was so buoyant that when he confided in her about Amsterdam and the reasons for keeping the trip secret, she was barely listening.
He and Stella collected Kathy on Sunday morning from the hospital to take her out as they had previously, as part of her rehabilitation.
Marshall pulled him to one side. "Listen, Miller, it's been almost three months now, we've been working hard, but progress has been minimal. Her physical condition has improved no end, when she gets on the treadmill there's no stopping her. It must be a reaction to being cooped up all that time." Handing him Kathy's medication, he continued. "I know you're following Victor's advice, and I wish you the best of luck with that. She's still trapped in that sick relationship, pining for him like a lovelorn teenager. We need to work on it. Until we get through that . . . I don't think we'll get any further and don't forget - it's only a weekend pass."
Miller shook the psychiatrist's hand. "Thanks
Marshall, we'll see if Stella can't start working on rebuilding Kathy's memories straight away."
Once on the train, it was inevitable that Miller cast his mind back to how he first met Carla Black. He was on his way to see The Sister then, and he recalled the secrecy with which the former nun surrounded herself. He began to doubt she'd see him, or any of them unannounced, even if they could find her. When they got closer, he might be able to communicate with her. With luck, if she hadn't locked herself down, she would sense he was close by. His developing perception meant she was always guarding against him finding out too much about her. The blanket she'd thrown over his senses didn't cover them completely, occasionally it would shift, and he could peek out from under it.
Kathy was quiet, and spent most of her time staring out through the window. Every so often, when the light was right, her reflection would show in the glass. More than once, when he glanced at her mirrored there, he noticed that she was looking at him.
This is the longest and most boring four hours you've ever spent, surely Miller. After all this, you'd better be sure The Sister will see you.
Stella had tried to engage with Kathy earlier, but without success. Now, only half an hour from Edinburgh she decided to resume her efforts, talking about her early life, her mum and dad, how much they'd missed her and how pleased they would have been to see her back again.
Finally, she spoke, her impediment clearly evident. "Why does everyone keep saying that to me?"
"Because it's true, look - here you are in a photograph just before you were taken."
"I wasn't taken . . ."
"Yes you were." She offered her the photo. "Go on, look at it."
Her eyes narrowed as she examined the picture. She stroked the uniform with the tip of her finger, wistfully. "I always wanted to be a nurse, but that is not
me,
and I don't know who
you
are."
Stella was visibly upset. Miller tried another angle. "You and Martin, how did you meet?"
Her eyes misted at the mention of his name. "We met after a dance. He told me I reminded him of his mother." She stared out at the landscape flashing by the window.
Pointing to his own upper lip, he said sympathetically, "Is that why he did that to you, Kathy, because you reminded him of his mother."
She looked frightened.
"He
wanted
you to speak like that - didn't he? You don't have to do that anymore, you're safe and with us, now," he said softly.
For a full thirty seconds, she didn't utter a sound. Agitated by some inner turmoil, she suddenly looked anxious.
Freed from the encumbrance of habit, her own voice unfamiliar, she spoke, "Why did you say
would
have been pleased to see me back again?"
"Oh, Kathy…" Stella told her the whole story. When she'd finished, she reached for her sister's hand. Then Kathy screamed. Stella immediately embraced her, pulling her head in tight to her breast.
A bull-necked, shaven-headed man, ears adorned by thick gold-hoop earrings approached. Two women appeared, behind him craning their necks around his shoulders to get a better view. A further group of onlookers gathered, pushing forwards.