Blood Whispers (23 page)

Engjell scrambled across the large, slippery boulders and stood in the spot beside the boat that Keira had occupied just moments earlier. He looked down at the pontoons reaching out into the dark water, but there was no sign of Keira.

Engjell cocked his head to the side.

Something had triggered the security lights, so he was in no doubt that this was where the lawyer was hiding. He cautiously made his way along the edge of the boatyard, across the metal bridge and down on to the pontoons. Sail ropes snapped against their masts and buoys creaked as the boats swayed gently against their moorings. Engjell stood for a moment and listened. He thought he detected a faint splashing sound on the far side of one of the boats. Someone swimming.

Engjell moved cautiously along the nearest of the four pontoons, checking the water for any signs of the lawyer.

Suddenly a sensor at the furthermost end of the platform triggered, illuminating a figure that shone out of the darkness like an apparition.

It was Keira Lynch, staring back at Engjell in silence, as though she had already accepted her fate. Standing there defiantly, with her hair clinging to the side of her face, dripping blood and seawater on to the dry boards of the jetty.

Engjell smiled. He never spoke to his victims, preferring their own screams or pleading cries to be the last thing they heard before they died rather than his voice. But for the lawyer he was going to make an exception: she had been a little more challenging than his usual prey: she deserved something better.

Engjell couldn’t resist it.

‘I’ve been watching you,’ he said in a thin weedy voice.

He then slowly dropped his head forward and raised his arms out to the side in the shape of a cross.

The Watcher was enjoying the moment: the delicious feeling of power over another human being whose life he was about to extinguish. Engjell raised his eyes to savour the young woman’s moment of torment, but the lawyer was holding something out in front of her, clasping it with both hands.

Engjell cocked his head to the side as the smile slowly disappeared from his face.

Rebecca Rey’s police standard-issue Glock semi-automatic that Keira was holding made a loud cracking sound that echoed around the bay.

Engjell E Zeze felt the impact of the bullet as it slammed into his chest and sent him sprawling backwards on to the wooden decking.

When he next opened his eyes he saw the lawyer standing over him, her finger through the trigger guard preparing to deliver the kill-shot.

He stared up at her in disbelief: his eyes full of fear.

But the shot never came.

The narrow La Galerie lounge in the George V hotel was buzzing with the low hum of early evening drinkers. Busy waiters strolled up and down the plush Savonnerie carpet delivering trays of cocktails and fine wines to the refined clientele of wealthy Parisians and overseas visitors enjoying the mood set by a musician playing lounge-jazz on the grand piano in the corner. Large vases filled with oversized blooms in contrasting lime-green and purple complemented the elaborate décor and added a more contemporary touch. Five crystal chandeliers hanging in a neat row overhead gave off a warm seductive glow that made spending money a painless experience.

The spray-tanned blonde sitting at a table for four near the piano laughed out loud at a joke that wasn’t so funny. It was more about letting the Serbian guy who’d made the crack think she was having a great time. The laugh was the least false thing about her. Even the Manolo Blahnik kitten-heel pumps she was wearing were fakes. She looked a million dollars, but only cost a few thousand to construct. The Serb was paying nine hundred an hour and he’d booked her for an overnight, so right now he was the funniest guy on the planet.

‘You got any friends want to party too?’ he asked her in broken French, sitting there with his legs splayed open and his left arm draped casually over her shoulder.

‘Sure, I got a friend,’ replied Claudette, raising her eyebrow as far as her Botoxed forehead would allow. She gave him a look that made him shift his groin forward to stay comfortable and said, ‘She loves to party,’ like she was delivering a line in a cheap porno movie.

The Serb was in good shape – not bad looking in a rough sort of way, but his dress sense didn’t fit with the five-star surroundings. The suit was off the peg rather than tailored and his black shirt was tucked into his trousers, which in her book was a no-no. Claudette’s first thought when she’d noticed the loafers with no socks was,
Small time made good
. But what did she care: they were halfway through their first bottle of €14,000 wine and he had his hand in the air looking to order another. He could be as small as he liked as long as he remembered his PIN. The next question confirmed what she already knew: this guy had as much class as a double-shot can of ready-mixed pina colada.

‘How much for her to swing by?’

‘You want to know what she looks like or just how much she cost?’ Claudette framed the question with a big smile so as not to piss him off.

‘I’m more interested in what she does.’

Claudette took a sip of red wine and tipped her head over to the side to whisper in his ear. ‘She’s very pretty blonde, with long skinny legs and beautiful tits, who does whatever you want, but she likes to take control. If you think you can handle it, I will give Sophie a call?’

A waiter arrived at the table.

‘Monsieur, you have a visitor in reception. Would you like me to bring her through?’

‘No. I’d like another bottle of wine.’

‘Oui, Monsieur. The 1995 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Grand Cru?’

‘Is that the one we just had?’

‘Oui, Monsieur.’

‘Yeah, that one, and will you tell those two guys to show the visitor up to my room? I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘Certainly,’ said the waiter as he set off.

Claudette looked to the far end of the room where the Serbian had been pointing and saw two men dressed in dark suits sitting at the table nearest to the main lobby. They seemed more interested in who was entering and leaving La Galerie than in having any sort of conversation with one another.

‘Friends of yours?’

‘Bodyguards.’

Claudette made a face. ‘You have a body needs guarding?’

She could tell from his big dumb grin that he liked that one.

‘You tell me,’ he replied, overplaying it.

‘Why don’t I get my friend round?’ said Claudette, nuzzling into him. ‘We can let you know.’

Abazi slid his hand across her thigh and down between her legs. ‘I have to go take care of some business, won’t take long. Call your friend, tell her to come by, then I take care of you both.’

‘Pardonnez moi,’ said the waiter as he approached the table where Besnik and Andrej were sitting, ‘Monsieur has a guest in the lobby.’ He indicated Fisnik Abazi with a slight gesture of his hand. ‘He has asked if you could take the visitor to his room. He will join you shortly.’

Besnik was already on his feet. ‘Andrej, go sit with the hooker, keep her company until Mister Abazi gets back.’

Besnik left the table and headed out of La Galerie into the large marble-floored reception area. A woman was standing next to a statue of Marie Antoinette by the arched art-deco doors at the entrance.

The woman was of medium build, weighed less than a hundred and fifty pounds and had dark brown hair down to her shoulders. Besnik recognized her face, but couldn’t remember where from.

‘You are here for meeting?’

She nodded.

‘Who with?’

‘Mister Abazi.’

‘Follow me.’

‘You look different with your hair like that. It suits you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You travelling in disguise?’

‘Strathclyde police have put in a request to Interpol to have you put on the Red Notice list.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s the closest thing they have to an international arrest warrant. Technically I’m breaking the law by not disclosing your whereabouts to them. It wouldn’t be good for me to be seen with you.’

‘You’re my lawyer.’

‘Doesn’t make any difference.’

‘Officially too; I notice you cashed my cheque.’

‘I set up a trust fund for someone. It all went into that.’

Abazi looked surprised. ‘All of it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘No. A small boy whose mother and grandparents were murdered.’

‘You’re all heart.’

‘I’ve changed my name too. It’s Niamh McGuire now.’

‘What happened to Keira Lynch?’

‘She’d had enough. Niamh’s in charge now. Any future cheques should be made out to her.’

‘Who’s Niamh McGuire?’

‘Me . . . It’s my real name.’

‘Whatever you say.’ Abazi flicked her a look, but wasn’t interested enough to pursue the topic.

He handed her a sheaf of papers, ‘Here.’

The headed notepaper read,
Médecin Généraliste
, with the name and address of a private clinic written below.

‘What’s this?’

‘Copies of medical reports for safe keeping.’

‘Why are you giving them to me?’

‘It says there in black and white that I have longstanding medical issues, kidney and heart problems, that kinda shit; pneumonia, even.’

‘You look fine to me.’

‘Got the idea from Jacques Chirac, but he’s not the only one. President Marcos, General Pinochet, Chris Kuruneri the finance minister for Zimbabwe, that’s just a few: there’s loads of them. They all got something in common – even a guy called Ladislaw Gura as far back as 1945, a member of the SS at Belsen – all of them, “too ill to stand trial”. Goes without saying – you get busted, you’re gonna be feeling fucking sick. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not intending to get caught, but if I am, then we’ve got this in our back pocket to let them know just how ill I feel. A bit of forward planning.’

‘What d’you want me to do with them?’

‘Keep them somewhere safe.’ Abazi paused and gave her a tight little smirk before changing the subject. ‘How d’you like my room?’

Abazi had taken the presidential suite for three nights. It had an office, a gymnasium and a lounge-dining area with its own separate kitchen. The lounge was floored in polished parquet and had thick panelled walls painted off-white. The room was filled with antiques and grand pieces of Louis Quatorze furniture upholstered in rich blue velvets and damasks, with contrasting details picked out in gold.

‘A little too busy for my tastes.’

‘I heard someone broke into Sellar’s house and attacked him.’

‘So I believe. I don’t think they got away with anything. Sellar managed to fight them off.’

Abazi laughed. ‘Is that the official story?’

‘That’s what he’s telling everyone.’

‘He really is an idiot. He screamed like a stuck pig for them not to hurt him, cried the whole time. They got exactly what they wanted.’ Abazi pulled a small sample bottle from his pocket and threw it to her. ‘For you.’

‘What’s this?’

‘His blood.’

She placed the dark brown liquid gingerly on the coffee table in front of her.

‘What do I want with Sellar’s blood?’

‘It has a story to whisper to you. You’re holding his life in your hands now. Trust me: one day soon I’ll text you the code. Then it will all fall into place. But like I told you; I don’t give you everything at once. I’m still holding a few things back so you’ll stay on-board.’

‘Is that why you wanted to see me, to give me a bottle of blood?’

‘Not only that.’ He walked over and lifted a USB stick from the dining table. ‘I have in here all the documents you’ll need to fight the CIA. Flight plans, delivery dates, names and contacts throughout the supply chain working for the Americans. All the drug shipments they were involved in. Everything in here will back up your case.’

‘Why not just courier it to me?’

‘You think I’m going to trust all this shit to the post? This tiny little stick is an atom bomb. I don’t want it falling into the wrong hands.’

Abazi brought the USB stick over and placed it in her hand. ‘Did you hear what happened to the two CIA agents?’

‘Not the full story: only rumours. The police are staying very tight lipped.’

‘They walked bang into the centre of a party I’d laid on for the Holy Man and got themselves shot. But not before they’d taken out eleven of my soldiers.’

Abazi was watching for her reaction.

She gave a slight shrug and said, ‘Shame!’

‘Yeah. They must have been a pretty good shot to kill that many of my men all by themselves.’

She nodded. ‘Must have.’

‘I hear E Zeze is recovering well.’

‘He’s fine.’

‘You should have killed him.’

‘He’s more useful alive. He’s not being very communicative, but it’s early days.’

‘He’s not going to say a goddamn thing. You should have put a bullet in his head when you had the chance. What happened, did you get scared?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘Like I said, he’s more useful alive.’

‘You got something else you need to say?’

‘What happened to Rebecca Rey?’

‘Who she?’

‘The police officer. No one has had any contact with her.’

‘Who knows?’

‘I think
you
do.’

‘She hasn’t come home?’

‘No. You gave me your word you’d let her go.’

‘I gave you my word I wouldn’t kill her.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I kept my word.’

‘D’you know where she is, then?’

‘Like I said.
I
didn’t kill her.’

‘But, someone did?’

‘Who knows?’

Abazi was heading towards the door. ‘Well, lovely as it is to see you with your beautiful brown hair, Miss Lynch, I got some other business I need to take care of.’

‘It’s McGuire.’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s McGuire now, not Lynch.’

‘Yeah, sure . . . McGuire.’

‘D’you mind if I quickly run to the toilet?’ she asked, placing the USB stick and blood sample in her bag.

‘Sure. That door at the end of the lobby, then first right.’

As she headed away from him Abazi shouted to Besnik, ‘Call down to Andrej and tell him to bring the girls up. We’re done here.’ Besnik Osmani’s huge frame appeared at the other end of the hallway. ‘Sure thing, Mister Abazi.’

Claudette and Sophie were laughing as the lift door opened on the top floor. Andrej stood to one side as the pair of hookers stepped out then he held the door to let the elegant brunette in.

‘What floor?’ asked Andrej, with an unconvincing charm-school smile.

‘Foyer, please.’

Andrej pressed the button marked ‘F’ and slipped out between the closing doors. He let the girls walk ahead of him so that he could watch their asses swaying from side to side as they sashayed down the corridor. ‘When you finish with the boss, you come see me?’

‘You couldn’t afford my travel expenses, baby‚’ replied Claudette over her shoulder.

Although he had a key to Abazi’s suite, Andrej still knocked before opening the door.

As he moved through into the small lobby he could tell that something felt wrong. Andrej had grown up with guns, served time in the military: the faint, acrid smell of burnt metal was unmistakable. He drew his Glock from the holster concealed under his jacket and gestured with his left hand for the girls to stop.

‘Wait here, don’t fucking move,’ he said, leaving them standing at the front door.

He leant forward slowly and peered round the corner into the hallway. The trail of blood started halfway along the corridor and led towards the bedroom, where Besnik Osmani’s body lay motionless in the doorway.

Andrej was aware of a movement behind him and turned quickly, weapon raised, ready to fire.

Claudette froze when she saw the gun.

‘Take your friend and go wait back in the bar,’ he snapped at her.

Claudette didn’t speak. The look on his face told her he wasn’t messing around: the party was over. Claudette nodded and quietly did as she was told.

Andrej waited for the front door to click closed behind the girls before cautiously making his way into the lounge.

Fisnik Abazi was slumped to the side of one of the blue velvet sofas. He had been shot twice: once in the head and once in the chest. His hands were clasped round a stab wound in his throat; blood still seeping through his clenched fingers. It trickled down his wrist and dripped on to a glistening patch that was spreading slowly across his black cotton shirt.

Andrej took a few steps further into the lounge.

A noise in the hallway made him turn.

‘I told you to go wait in the fucking bar.’

The brunette he’d held the lift for was standing there like a statue, with her arms down by her side, staring at him.