Luc: A Spy Thriller (29 page)

Thurton’s head and shoulders suddenly appeared large in the crosshairs, almost surprising me.

‘I’m telling you,’ Warita continued. ‘Every last job he did for him. He’s got MP3 recordings of phone calls. I mean, everything. We got him, Luc.’

‘Terrific work, Warita,’ I said.

I was twisting the lens on the scope to get a better focus. Thurton, half in view, was stretching his back.

‘Thanks. Are you going to hold off Thurton?’

I looked at my watch. Just over two and a half hours until the election result. ‘Just because we’ve got Mortlake, that doesn’t necessarily stop Thurton,’ I said.

‘No…’

‘He will probably leave for the count in the next hour and a half. Maybe sooner. After that, he’s the PM.’

‘I know. Look, if we can get Mortlake to stop him…’

Thurton had disappeared out of my view again. From what I remembered of his office he had probably gone to his filing cabinet.

‘I doubt he will.’

‘
I
doubt he will. But we have to try.’

‘Agreed. What’s your next move?’ I asked.

‘Back to my superior. He’s got to believe me now.’

‘Good luck,’ I said.

I continued to watch Thurton through the sniper scope. Another hour passed. He spent a lot of the time on the phone. The female secretary who’d shown me into his office popped in a couple of times to hand Thurton paperwork.

A short while later Thurton stood up. Nobody else was in the office. He strolled over to the window and gazed out of it. I tensed slightly, wondering if he was looking out for someone like me. But he wasn’t. He was smiling. A glib, treacly smile. From the expression on his face, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was looking out at Belize and thinking:
All mine
.

My phone beeped and Thurton turned away from the window.

‘Luc,’ Warita said. ‘We’re going for Mortlake.’ I could hear the hum of a car in the background.

‘Are you reinstated?’

‘With full apologies.’

‘Are you on a hands-free? Keep it on, I need to hear this.’

‘Will do.’

There was the squealing of tyres and it sounded as if they’d pulled in quickly.

‘The local police have carried out the arrest,’ Warita said. ‘They’re bringing him out now.’ The ambient sounds changed slightly and there was the slamming of car doors and then striding footsteps on pavement.

‘Detective Aranda, Special Branch.’ I imagined she was showing her ID to the local officers. ‘Mr Mortlake.’

‘What is this?’ That was Mortlake’s voice. He didn’t sound thrilled. ‘This is an affront to decency. There is nothing,
nothing
, you have on me which would warrant this. Are you behind this outrage, Miss Aranda? Because if so, I had heard you were currently out of a job and sought for murder. Therefore, this is nothing more than a charade.’

‘Ever heard of a man named Jimmy Dondero?’ Warita asked.

‘Jimmy who? Is that my postman?’

‘Dondero.’ Warita amplified the full sound of each syllable.

‘It’s like Quasimodo in splints. It rings no bells.’

‘Cocky, aren’t you?’ Warita said. ‘Dondero was just the same.’

‘Wouldn’t know.’

‘Well, he seemed to know you.’

‘Perils of being a man in a position of power. Everyone seems to know you.’

Thurton picked up his phone and sat back at his desk. He began speaking to somebody. I looked at my watch. It wouldn’t be long now before he left for the count.

‘Mr Mortlake,’ Warita said, ‘you need to be aware that I’m not unemployed. In fact, I was re-instated by my superior. And the reason he did that was because I showed him incontrovertible proof that Julio Falcao was set up to take the rap for the murder of sixteen-year-old Kellie Agermon. And he was set up by you.’

‘Balls,’ Mortlake said. ‘This is fairy story land.’

‘You told Dondero to delete your texts to him. Which he did. Mostly. What you don’t know is that he made a copy. And recordings. And notes. Of
everything
.’

Mortlake still sounded superior. ‘My postman did this? What is the world coming to? You saying he’s got a copy of my Aunt Harriet’s yearly letter to me?’

There was the sound of a couple of footsteps and I imagined Warita stepping forward. She lowered her voice. ‘He’s got a smartphone video recording,’ she said. ‘Of you. Coming over. Using the ‘services’ of Kellie Agermon.’

There was a long pause. Just the ambient sounds and the occasional cawing of a bird. I would dearly have loved to have seen Mortlake’s face.

‘One,’ Warita said, breaking the silence. ‘Just one of the concrete items we have on you.’

Another pause. By the fact he wasn’t speaking, I could tell this was all hitting home.

‘We have you, Ray Mortlake,’ Warita said. ‘Don’t be under any illusion.’

Mortlake spoke then. His voice had become hard and gravelly. ‘Make it stick,’ he said quietly and with malevolence. ‘Because I will find
something
.’

Thurton finished the call and stood up. He put the phone in his trouser pocket.

‘I think Thurton is preparing to leave,’ I said into the phone.

‘Mr Mortlake,’ Warita said. ‘In less than an hour Robert Thurton will become Belize’s new Prime Minister.’

‘First thing you’ve said that I agree with.’

‘We both know what he is going to do once he becomes PM.’

‘Celebrate, I’d imagine.’

‘You know what I’m talking about. And you know you can stop him.’

‘We’ve worked hard for this. Why would I stop it now?’

‘Because many thousands will die.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.’

There were more footsteps and then a sort of scuffling sound. I thought I heard a high wince. ‘Listen to me, you bastard, you know exactly what I’m talking about.’

‘Get her off me.’ Sounded muffled, pained. I think she’d grabbed his face or something.

Thurton stepped round to the front of his desk. He picked up his jacket, pushed his right arm through the sleeve.

‘He’s leaving now.’

‘This is your last chance. You can take this phone. Stop him. Now.’

‘Go to hell, sweetheart.’

Thurton had his jacket on. He picked up a brown folder from his desk. He turned in the direction of the door, the folder almost swinging in his hand, like he was in a good mood.

‘Thousands of lives, Warita…’

One second pause. ‘Yes,’ she said.

I squeezed the trigger. A second later Robert Thurton spun round, the file and the papers he was holding were thrown into the air. I fired again. Caught him as he fell to the floor. Two spidery holes now in the glass.

‘Over and out,’ I said to Warita, ending the call, as papers floated down to a bloodstained carpet across the road. I got up and rapidly took apart the rifle, slotting each piece into the foam interior of an attaché case. Wig and glasses back on I unlocked the door and hurried to the stairs. I didn’t go down.

I went up. To the roof.

The sunlight hit my eyes and reflected sharply off the silver attaché case. I heard a beep and I tapped the earpiece.

‘Is he dead?’ a man’s voice asked.

‘No, but he’s removed from the election.’

‘Noted. Please hold.’ I jogged past air con units to the rear of the building. A woman’s voice came on the line. ‘Luc, it’s Charlie. There’s massive activity at Giuttieri’s place. I think he might be getting ready to ship out.’

‘Roger that,’ I said.

With one hand on the metal rail I rapidly descended the fire escape. I jumped the last three steps and walked casually down a side turning and got into the rear of a Suzuki 4x4 and was driven smoothly away.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Charlie had kept in contact and, as I neared Belize City, had informed me that a convoy of cars had left Giuttieri’s residence and headed north.

She kept up a running commentary of their location. The deep blue sea came into view and I drove parallel to it as I sped along the Western Highway. Before the highway took me into the centre of Belize City, I pulled into Chetumal Street.

Charlie told me they were now on the Philip Goldson Highway and we both wondered if they were heading for the airport.

I picked them up about five minutes later. A procession of four Range Rovers. I followed for a few minutes and then, curiously, the rear vehicle indicated to turn right and then peeled away. The three cars in front carried on straight.

I had decided to stick with the lead cars, but then I caught a glimpse of Giuttieri’s bulk in the back of the rear car as it swung round.

I too took the turning.

A minute later the car slowed down. Giuttieri, with two of his men, got out of the car. Giuttieri straightened his white shirt and brushed his trousers and they walked inside what looked like the entrance to a park.

I parked the car and strolled to the entrance. I removed my handgun and walked inside.

It wasn’t a park. It was a cemetery.

I immediately felt like a trespasser. I looked around and saw him in the distance, over to the left. Giuttieri, head bowed, hands clasped in front of his large stomach, his two men either side of him. They had their backs to me and were looking at an ornate gravestone. I took a couple of paces inside and then something cold and metal was pressed into the base of my skull.

‘Drop it,’ a man’s voice said.

I dropped the gun. Slowly held my hands out.

The man picked up the gun as another adeptly frisked me. How many men did this guy
have
?

I was frogmarched up the gravel path.

One of the men guarding Giuttieri stepped to one side as we approached and looked around at me with a blank expression. I was pushed into the gap he’d left.

Ernesto Giuttieri didn’t take his eyes from the grave.

‘He came in with a gun,’ one of the men behind me said.

‘Disrespectful. On top of everything else,’ Giuttieri said. I couldn’t get over how quietly he spoke.

I looked at the gravestone. It was as tall as I was. Carved angels adorned both sides. The inscription read:
Carmela Bonita Giuttieri. Loving Daughter and Sister. Taken Too Early
.

‘Your appetites outgrew your logic,’ I said. ‘You can’t destroy a city because of the actions of four people twenty years ago.’

I thought I could hear him exhaling. For the first time he turned from the gravestone and looked at me. His tiny round eyes were wet. I could see a single glistening track running down his left cheek.

‘I can.’

Two words. Two quietly spoken words. But charged with the pain of twenty years, they were the loudest things I’d heard since coming to Belize.

‘Ray Mortlake will rot in a jail,’ I said. ‘Robert Thurton will spend the next six months in a hospital.’ I leaned a little closer. ‘It is over.’

Giuttieri glanced at the men behind me and gently nodded. They immediately released their grip on me.

‘Come,’ Giuttieri said. Someone prodded me in the back and I followed Giuttieri as he strolled back towards the entrance.

Giuttieri glanced back at me. ‘I didn’t want to speak in front of Carmela. She does not like violence. Out of respect to those, including my sister, who lay here, my men will not harm you in this sacred place.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘But as soon as you step outside, you will be killed.’

‘More deaths?’ I said. ‘Haven’t you had enough?’

Giuttieri gazed at me. His expression was of somebody looking at someone so dim they could not possibly understand. He turned and strolled out. His men brushed past me and followed. With them standing behind him, facing me, Giuttieri turned back to me. He didn’t smile as such, but his lips made some sort of expression. He then leaned forward slightly and waved his hand around. ‘Pick a plot,’ he said.

The bodyguards grinned. Still smiling, one of his men looked around to his left.

‘Take it easy. Take it easy. Drop your guns,’ a voice called out from the direction he was looking.

The bodyguard’s eyes widened and he raised his gun and suddenly there was a muffled noise and his head snapped back and he slammed to the ground. The other three bodyguards rapidly pulled their guns from inside their jackets, but three soft retorts spoke and each man, in turn, dropped where they stood.

Giuttieri’s hands tensed upwards slightly, but his expression didn’t change much. Still the same blank, emotionless shell.

I stepped towards the entrance.

Giuttieri was looking back where the silenced bullets had come from. A man in a wheel chair rolled himself forward. Two men with raised guns strode beside him.

‘My wife, Grace,’ Steenhoek said, ‘has been talking to the police as if she has been gagged for seven months and is in need of vocal exercise. Trust me, that is not the case.’