The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) (17 page)

***

Petros went to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee and strolled into the garden. Here he contacted Amadou in Libya.

              In seconds the phone was answered. “Amadou.”

              “It’s Petros.”

              “Long time.”

              “Since the revolution. Are you busy?”

              “Yes and no. The radicals are fighting each other so I sell weapons to both sides but it’s small stuff. Do you need my assistance?”

              “If you can spare a week or two I need someone to watch my back who I can trust. You I trust.”

              “When and where?”

              “We meet at the harbour in Palermo in two days.”

              “Are we taking a trip?”

              “I’m searching for something. When we meet, I’ll fill in the blanks. Bring ZZ, he’s useful.”

              “He’s changed since you last saw him. Taller and an expert with small arms and like his late friend, Akeem, deadly with a knife. Women tend to be his failing. One glance from a beautiful woman and he’s like a love-sick puppy.”

              “No problem. No women on this trip. See you and ZZ Thursday morning. Give me a buzz if you’re going to be late.”

              “We haven’t discussed a fee.”

              “Same as last time.”

              “Done. See you Thursday.” He broke the connection.

***

Miles Johnston sat at a centre table in MacDonald’s reading The Times, and sipping his coffee while he waited. He scowled as Mark sauntered in fifteen minutes late. “I’ve finished this muck they call coffee and I’m ready to leave.”

              “Where’s my Big Mac?”

              Miles handed him a white envelope. “Information.”

              He handed over one sheet of embassy paper. “This is all there is.” He moved to grab the envelope.

              Miles read the limited information and then allowed him to take his money. “Get your own Big Mac. You work for me not the other way round. Are you sure this is everything?”

              “I copied the file.”

              Miles stood and placed the paper in his brief case.

              “What’s next?” asked Mark.

              “I’ll be in touch.”

              “Might as well have my supper.”

              “I don’t know how you can eat those burgers.” With that Miles left as Mark joined the queue.

              In MacDonald’s car park, he texted Roly with the information. His mobile rang.

              “Where’s the boy and how is he dressed?”

              “Inside MacDonald’s eating. Light blue suit, white shirt, white and blue embassy tie. Why do you ask?”

              “Interest only.” Roly severed the connection.

***

Mark counted the money twice while he ate his two Big Macs. Tired and thinking of what he could buy, he strolled outside, his mind elsewhere. At this time in the evening, the traffic remained heavy so he waited for the lights to change before crossing the road.

              At speed, a white transit mounted the pavement. Mark heard the van before he saw it. He raced for cover but the nearside wing struck him hard catapulting his body into the air. Confused, he tried to rise as a white blur reversed and hurtled towards him. The rear wheels crushed his rib cage.

              With a roar, the van drove away, returned to the road, collided with a car, reversed, shot forward and vanished into a side street.

              Drivers halted their vehicles and went to Mark’s assistance. A woman checked for a pulse but shook her head at the others.

              The police arrived fifteen minutes later and took charge of the accident scene.

***

Satisfied at his stay of execution, Miles arrived home in a happy frame of mind. As he stepped out of his garage, he experienced excruciating pain and slumped to the ground.

              A tall dark-haired man dressed in white overalls searched Miles’ pockets. In his briefcase he discovered the sheet of embassy paper and a mobile. With help, the body ended up in the passenger seat. With his companion following in another car, he drove to an abandoned factory. He shifted Miles’ body into the driver’s seat and fastened the seat belt. From the other car, the driver removed two five litre red plastic containers and emptied their contents over Miles and the interior of the car.

              A Zippo lighter flared and one of the men tossed it onto the rear seat. In an instant, the interior erupted in flames. He slammed the door and strolled casually to the waiting vehicle.

              The driver, using Miles’ mobile, texted his home number. “
Am negotiating major contract. Working late will stay in hotel tonight. See you tomorrow.”

He wiped it clean and tossed it out of the window. “Fancy a pint?”

              “Why not?”

              “Okay. We dump and torch this and take a black cab to the pub. You can always guarantee a lock-in at The Nag’s Head.

***

In the lounge of his Victorian home, Roland Wallace sat with Don Mercer and Peter Fox, all respectably dressed and wearing ties. Roly removed his glasses, cleaned and replaced them. He glanced at a single sheet of paper. “From the scant information I have, a man named Petros Kyriades may have stumbled upon a fortune in gold. I want it but at this early stage I’m prepared to let him do the work and at the right time relieve him of such an onerous task.”

              Don lit a cigarette. “Bit out of our league, isn’t it?”

              “Right up our street.” He stood, turned and stared through the window at his ornamental garden before facing the others. “This is my retirement fund. With what we could make we can enjoy the rest of our lives. Peter, talk to your telecommunications guys and tap into the Greek’s telephone line. I need to know what he’s planning. The ship he’s searching for is a Finders Keepers claim. My lawyer tells me a James Eden is the best man in London when it comes to salvage rights.”

              “What can I do?” said Don.

              “Bide your time. I’m going to get Edwards, my lawyer, to talk to this salvage expert.”

              Don stubbed out his cigarette. “No problem. Roly. This ain’t gonna happen overnight. When you need me, I’ll be available.”

              Don and Peter left the house. Moments later the roar from two Lotus sports cars charging along the drive, vibrated the windows as they departed.

              Roly leant back in his chair and closed his eyes.  

Chapter Eleven

The wall phone in the kitchen gave its shrill ring tone. Petros lifted the handset. “Petros Kyriades.”

              “Good morning, Mr Kyriades. This is Fiona at A A Travel. Your ticket for Palermo is ready. I have arranged a car to pick you up and another to take you from the airport to the harbour.”

              “Thank you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He replaced the handset. “Dog, we’re going for a run.”

              Charlie bounded into the kitchen and sat.

              “Give me a chance to change.”

              Dressed in his navy blue tracksuit, Petros and Charlie raced up the hill towards the local travel agent.

              From the fair-haired Fiona he collected an envelope. “Mr Kyriades, you could have booked your ticket on line.”

              He smiled. “I might press the wrong keys. You never do. Plus, you can order cars.”

              Outside Charlie waited. “Time to see who’s the fastest. Ready, steady, go.”

              Charlie showed the way home but waited for Petros before racing to the river’s edge where he poked around in the shrubs.

              Petros strolled into the house, made himself a coffee and sat watching the news on television until interrupted by the doorbell.

              “Good Morning, Mr Kyriades.”

              His eyes scanned the two men wearing BT engineers’ overalls. “Is there a problem?”

              “Water, sir,” said a tall, willowy man with red curly hair. “Mains burst and the lines are contaminated. If it’s convenient, can we check your connections? My apologies.” He removed an identity card from the top pocket of his overall. “My ID, sir. If you have any doubts, please telephone for confirmation.”

              “How long will you be?”

              He turned to his partner, a short, heavily-built man with a scar the full length of his right cheek. “What do you reckon, Alf?”

              “Ten minutes at most.”

              “Follow me. The main box is under the stairs.” Petros opened the half door, turned on the light and pointed.

              “Thank you, sir. Shouldn’t be long.”

              Petros watched as he removed the cover and began poking probes onto the connections. “I’ll leave you to it.” He returned to the kitchen and finished his coffee.

              “We’ve finished, sir. Secured a couple of your terminals for good measure. Have you a bin where I can dump the ends?”

              “Give them to me; I’ll get rid of them.”

              “Thank you, sir. We’ll let ourselves out.”

              “Let me,” said Petros. “If Dog sees you without me you’ll be in trouble.”

              As the door opened Petros shouted, “Dog.”

              Charlie loped across the lawn and the drive but stopped and barred his teeth at the two men.

              “He dislikes strangers,” said Petros.

              The two men stepped out and once inside their van, drove away.

              Petros stroked Charlie’s head. “You sensed something, Dog. Let’s go and see what they were up to.”

              Under the stairs, he removed the BT cover and laughed when he saw the chip tucked behind the main connections. “I wonder who they work for? No problem. You want to listen, be my guest.”

              Still chuckling he strolled into his den and picked up his mobile.

              “Yes.”

              “Hi, Bear. Two men arrived and placed a bug on my telephone line. Have you the number of an engineer?”

              “I’ll contact a friend of mine. I guess you’d prefer privacy?”

              “I’d like it fixed.”

              “I’ll ring back if he can’t make it in the next hour or so.”

              “Thanks, talk later.”

              Less than half a mile away two men listened to a call from Maria to Petros.

              “Maria, hang up. This line’s bugged.”

              “What on earth do you mean?”

              “Maria, don’t argue. Hang up.” Petros ended the call.

              “We’ve been rumbled. The Greek’s no fool.”

              “What are we going to tell the boss?” said the other.

              “The truth. He might not like it but never ever lie to him or he’ll have your balls for dinner.”

***

Todd Aitkin, a professional communications expert and an associate of Bear’s, arrived at Petros’ house and checked the bug. “Not exactly top of the range but it works. Do you want me to disconnect or fuck with their reception?”

              “Your choice.”

              “I choose The Rolling Stones and ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.’”

              “Classic.”

              For a time Todd added a few chips of his own to the circuitry. “All systems go. Every time you make a call my little bug starts broadcasting The Rolling Stones to whoever they are if they listen. Bit of fun really but it lets them know not to bother. I suggest you draw your curtains at night. It dampens infra red listening devices.”

              “What do I owe you?”