Luc: A Spy Thriller (27 page)

Thurton was still talking about prices and ‘cracking down on the cost of living,’ and then it started.

We could hear noises, a distant crashing, and then murmurs from the audience, but the camera was focused on the two men on the dais so we couldn’t see anything.

Then there were some louder gasps from the audience, some shouting from somewhere, and then from the bottom of the screen Falcao appeared.

He shook off a studio assistant and strode up to the dais. The picture suddenly cut to a shaky close up of Falcao, as the camera operator struggled to keep him in shot. Falcao’s eyes were hard. He looked determined. He stepped up onto the platform, a big bear of a man in a dark blue shirt.

Lucia’s neck was now twisting as she turned to see what was happening on the TV. The soft lines of her throat were extending. It was a hot evening and I could see the beginnings of perspiration at the base of her throat, the top two buttons of her blouse were undone.

The picture cut back to a wide shot of the three of them. Falcao was holding a dark grey laptop bag. I had seen that bag before only recently. The interviewer had swung round and was looking at Falcao with alarm. ‘Mr Falcao,’ he said. ‘Erm, this is…’

‘What’s he doing?’ Lucia asked.

Thurton’s eyes were wide and he had gone from alarm, to a sort of nervous smile.

‘Falcao’s telling the world what Thurton has done,’ I said. ‘And what he is going to do.’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Gareth,’ Falcao said to the interviewer. ‘And I apologise to all those watching who had looked forward to an hour’s viewing of Mr Thurton exclusively. But this needs to be said. Doesn’t it, Bob?’

Falcao looked at Thurton. Thurton had seen the laptop case now. He wiped his top lip with the back of his hand.

‘Are you okay, Mr Falcao? Would you - can we get a chair for - ?’ the interviewer busily asked. Falcao stopped him with a raised hand. He was still looking at Thurton.

‘It’s over, Bob.’

All eyes turned to Thurton and he wiped his lip again and then gripped the metal armrests. He tried to smile. ‘I don’t know - .’

‘It’s over,’ Falcao said again simply. Wearily. ‘And you know everything. You know about the bomb. About the riots. About the hostages. About the murder of innocent people. And you could’ve stopped any of them at any time.’ Falcao continued to stare into the eyes of Bob Thurton. ‘Except, why would you? Because they
were
the plan all along. Your plan. Yours, Ray Mortlake’s, and Ernesto Giuttieri’s. A trio of filth this country could well do without.’

The interviewer decided to intervene. ‘Now, hang on, Mr Falcao. Before you - .’

Falcao undid the zip on the case and pulled out a laptop computer. It looked exactly the same as Mortlake’s.

Lucia continued to gaze at the TV screen. I guess she was realising she was watching, in Thurton, one of the men ultimately responsible for her granddad’s murder.

‘I have all the evidence here. But Bob knows that already.’ Thurton snapped a smile on and off. ‘Busy itinerary for your first day in office, Bob?’ Falcao flicked open the cover and tapped away at the keys. ‘Now then, Day One.’

He let the words sink in. Thurton gently scratched his forehead with his fingertips.

‘Would you like to give the public a brief preview of your first speech as Prime Minister? Would you like to read it out?’

Falcao looked up from the screen. ‘We’ve got Mortlake, Bob. In case you were wondering. He was brought in an hour ago. And from what I hear, he’s singing like Aretha ruddy Franklin. Excuse my language.’ I imagined Falcao wasn’t telling the whole truth there. Didn’t sound like Mortlake.

The interviewer leaned forward. ‘Mr Thurton, do you know what Mr Falcao is speaking about? Is this something you want to deny - ?’

‘Do you deny, Bob, that your very first act on becoming Prime Minister was to bomb Guatemala?’

Lucia’s hand went up to her mouth. There were some gasps from the studio audience. Slightly disconcertingly, some cheers too.

‘Bob?’

Thurton’s forehead was glistening under the lights. He cleared his throat and brushed his trousers.

‘These are dangerous allegations,’ he said.

‘You’re Ernesto Giuttieri’s puppet man,’ Falcao almost spat back.

‘Ernesto Giuttieri,’ the interviewer chimed in. ‘I’ve heard that name recently.’

Thurton nodded. ‘Yes. Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ernesto Giuttieri is a very successful businessman. The head of a large corporation. I don’t deny that Mr Giuttieri is a supporter of mine. A powerful, successful supporter, yes, but that’s surely not a crime.

‘And the reason you may have heard about him, Gareth,’ Thurton said, turning to the interviewer, ‘is that two hours ago an explosion ripped apart his yacht.’

Immediately a sickening feeling crept into my stomach.

‘The yacht was moored down on Montego Quay. Five people lost their lives in that explosion. One of them was his beautiful wife Salamar.

‘Thankfully,’ Thurton continued, ‘Ernesto Giuttieri was not on board at the time as he was dealing with business matters. But he will never get over the loss of his wife. I spoke to Mr Giuttieri just before I came out for this interview. He was a broken man.’ Thurton looked up at Falcao.

The picture cut to a close-up of Falcao. His eyes were wide. He looked as if he couldn’t quite believe it. Neither could I. But we both knew what had happened. Giuttieri had sacrificed his own wife and yacht for the sake of looking like another victim of some unknown terrorists. But what could Falcao say? I could sense the audience in the studio were turning against Falcao. And no doubt he could too. That would be reflected by the audiences at home.

I hugged Lucia’s waist and pulled her closer. I rested my cheek against the side of her abdomen as she wrapped a warm arm around the back of my neck. We both stared at the screen.

‘I think we need to see this evidence you say you have…’ the interviewer said, indicating the laptop in Falcao’s hands.

Had they retrieved the information?

If they hadn’t…

Falcao gripped the laptop. He was staring at Thurton.

‘I apologise for the intrusion,’ Falcao said. He turned and walked off the platform.

The audience erupted.

Most stood and were shouting at him, pointing at him, cursing him. The camera stayed with Falcao as he strolled out of the studio, scrunched up paper now being hurled at him.

He didn’t once drop his head.

But that was a beaten man we were both looking at.

CHAPTER FIFTY

The perky waitress strolled over with the Gifiti. She poured the rum-based drink from a long bottle that was visibly filled with large chunks of herbs, roots and spices.

‘You like this, no?’ she said smiling.

‘It’s something I’ve heard mentioned. I’ll give it a go,’ I said. ‘I’m hoping it’s cooling.’

She nodded and walked back into the cafe.

I sat back in the chair. A welcome breeze fluttered the newspaper on the table.

I took a drink of the Gifiti.

Holy Moley.

The drink was not exactly cooling. Although it did burn off a few layers of the inside my mouth.

I was sitting under a parasol beneath the heat of the morning sun. Down the street a woman and a couple of children sat under the shade of a balcony. A police car slowly cruised down the sand covered road, and I watched it go. It turned left at the end of the street.

A young couple, a man and a woman, stepped out from the cafe and took a table near the pavement. They had matching red T-shirts and from the way they kept gazing into each other’s eyes, were clearly enamoured.

The waitress brought out two long drinks for the couple and they all shared a joke.

I glanced again at the newspaper. The large headline above the fold said: ‘Falcao Charged with Murder’.

Sitting up, I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead.

I unfolded the newspaper and read again the rest of the story.

The Minister for National Security, Julio Falcao, was yesterday charged with the murder of sixteen-year-old Kellie Agermon. Miss Agermon, who worked as a prostitute in the eastern region of Belmopan, was found dead in the Minister’s apartment on Monday evening. She had been strangled.

Mr Falcao, 49, was charged shortly after a bizarre and embarrassing impromptu appearance on live television. During an ‘Ask the Question’ appearance by Robert Thurton II, the audience at home and in the studio were left shocked as a dishevelled and rambling Falcao burst into the studio and proceeded to hijack the show. After launching a bitter and incoherent attack on his rival, Mr Falcao was forced to make a hurried retreat when it became clear to all that his accusations were groundless.

Mrs Margorie Sorrenta, 36, was in the studio audience. ‘I was amazed,’ she said. ‘This man was supposed to be looking after our national security. And just look how he behaves. It was outrageous.’ She added: ‘Anyone could see he was trying to deflect attention away from his own sordid affairs.’

‘It was sad to see,’ said a magnanimous Thurton. ‘I had great respect for Julio Falcao. It was difficult to believe this was the same man I used to see around the Cabinet table. Most of all, I feel sorry for Miss Agermon’s family. They didn’t deserve this,’ he added.

Mr Falcao, a broken and bitter man, is being held at Belize Central Prison, Hattieville, and will appear before Belmopan magistrates this morning.

I closed the paper.

I decided against finishing off the Gifiti. I stood up, left a couple of notes underneath the saucer and strolled past the loving couple. I crossed the street and headed down a lane towards the sea. At the end of the lane I took a right and then another right. I pulled out my keys and let myself into a yellow painted wooden house.

In the main room I dropped the newspaper onto a low coffee table. I could hear the hum of the shower coming from the bathroom. I switched on the TV and sat down on a wooden chair. I looked at my watch. There was about a ten minute wait for the news to start. At the moment there was a Belizean soap opera on.

The hum of the shower stopped. Shortly after, I heard the sound of the bathroom door opening and then a pair of beautiful, smooth legs padded into the lounge.

With her hair down and soaking wet and with a white towel wrapped round her, Warita Aranda stepped across the carpet.

She sat down on the other wooden chair and with a hand pressing the towel down she crossed one leg over the other.

‘How is it out there?’ she asked.

‘Pretty quiet.’

‘Increase in police activity?’

I shook my head. ‘Saw one car.’

At about the same time as Julio Falcao was being arrested, Warita had received an anonymous phone call at her desk in the Special Branch office. The caller told her she was about to be arrested for conspiracy to murder. She would be implicated in the death of Kellie Agermon. Nonsense, but it showed that Giuttieri’s tentacles spread far and wide.

Warita had stood up and walked out of the building, not looking back.

The first person she’d called was me.

And I’d got her out of the area and drove her down here, to our safe house in Placencia.

She ran a hand through her wet hair and then roughed it up. ‘Thanks for using all the water, by the way,’ she said.

‘I had a three minute shower at most.’

‘That water was luke warm at best.’

I shrugged. ‘Not my fault,’I said. ‘Next time we’ll have to share a shower.’

She looked at me unfazed. ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t.’

Her skin was soft and brown and smooth. Her sleepy eyes were black and, I thought, held a faint air of mystery.

‘Something to look forward to,’ I said. ‘Have you seen the paper?’

Warita leaned forward and picked it up.

‘They’re making him out to be a bitter man,’ I said. ‘Sour grapes on his part.’

Warita scanned the article, shaking her head. ‘It’s madness,’ she said. Droplets of water fell from her tousled black hair and rolled down her arms. The valley between her breasts was just visible at the top of the white fluffy towel and was glistening.

‘I’ve met his wife and children,’ she said. ‘Can you imagine what they’re going through?’

‘He’s strong,’ I said. ‘And I imagine his family have had to be strong themselves over the years.’

‘Maybe. But why should they have to be?’

She threw the paper onto the coffee table, rattling a small ceramic object next to it.

‘We have a day,’ she said.

I nodded.

‘One day to stop three men starting a war. Unless they don’t go through with it now,’ she said looking up at me.

‘How do you mean?’

‘The bombing. Falcao told the world what they would do. Okay, nobody believed it. But if they bomb Cobán now, everyone would know Falcao was right. So why do it?’

I leaned forward, clasping my hands together. ‘Firstly, Warita, I don’t think they care. Giuttieri wants the place destroyed. Vengeance. He’s not holding back from that. The other two, they look like they’re in it for the money. Mortlake had a contract in his desk drawer with a Wall Street broker, setting up accounts for short selling. My guess, they’ll be short selling on Guatemalan and Cobán stocks. Once those missiles hit, those stocks will dive and they will be wealthy men.