The Blood King Conspiracy (Matt Drake 2) (12 page)

“I guess we could use you.”

“Ah, there’s the sweet talking Drake I know. I’m heading over to Miami on the next flight out. Call you when I land.”

The connection went dead. Drake let out a deep breath and gestured wildly. “Let’s go find a damn computer.”

*****

“Calico Jack and Anne Bonny did have a child together. Born in Cuba, it was quickly taken to sea. It started its life in battle as Jack attacked several Dutch merchant vessels . . .” Ben paused, reading on. The others were all stood around him like a team of bodyguards, taking up most of the tiny cafe on Marlborough Street.

“Child’s not spoken of again for some time. When Calico Jack was captured, Anne Bonney spoke at his trial, saying the immortal line -
if he had fought like a man, he need not be hanged like a dog.’
” Ben whistled. “Nice woman.”

“Be warned . . .” Hayden said with half a smile.

“After the trial Bonnet claimed to be pregnant, an act which gave her a stay of execution. Her trial was halted and then . . . then she was spared execution.”

“So they had two kids?” Kinimaka was frowning as if all the information hurt his brain.

“The trial was in Jamaica,” Ben lectured. “If Bonney was pregnant then she probably settled there.”

“You said Calico Jack was
born
in Jamaica,” Drake said. “Ironic that he was hanged there too. But what if Bonney - the lonely, pregnant widow - was taken in by Rackham’s old family and brought her two kids up in his old house?”

“Makes sense.” Ben nodded. “And the historical records should be right here.”

Drake slapped his friend’s shoulders. “Were
Bad to the Bone,
matey.
Bad to the Bone.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Blood King, man, myth and psychotic killer, stood at the prow of his boat, gazing out to sea. The sun was fading in the sky, sinking low towards the far mountains, and it was
that
time of day when he felt the need and the deep desire to preserve his reputation.

His men were well versed. They nodded respectfully at the mere flick of his head and scurried off to initiate the most terrible deed of the day.

On this quiet day, at least.

The Blood King took a few minutes to survey his kingdom. And it was a vast, sumptuous kingdom. Six hundred feet and fifteen thousand gross tons. An early-warning system. Laser shields. Armour plating. Helicopter hangar. Submarine dock. The list went on to the tune of $800 million.

But no matter. There was no record of the
Stormbringer
ever being commissioned, let alone constructed. No matter, its on-board mini-sub and tenders allowed the ‘crew’ access and egress without danger of being spotted, and its tendency to keep to unused waters kept its visibility low key. Even if it was seen in the occasional harbour, its outside was designed to look like a Super Yacht’s charter, something the mega-rich of Monaco or Dubai might rent for a few months at a time.

Occasionally he lost track of exactly who was on his ship. He employed a small army, literally, and a crew of hundreds. But again, no matter, he employed people he trusted to look after the banality of everyday life.

He pursued other interests.

Like now, for instance.

His men were dragging a half-starved Ukranian up from below decks. The Blood King let his lip curl in distaste. The prisoner wore little apart from tattered boxer shorts and a stinking blanket of filth. After so many days of imprisonment he’d lost the will to scream. All hope of escape or reprieve had well and truly deserted him.

The Blood King liked seeing desperation in a man’s eyes. The thrill came when his captive finally understood he was about to die. After that it was the gloating, and then moments of pleasure when the Blood King watched the man’s blood wash across his shoes.

The Blood King lifted an eyebrow. A lackey brought today’s weapon of choice - a good old-fashioned broadsword. No doubt priceless. No doubt ancient. But still something that would rest at the bottom of the ocean in about ten minutes.

“Here.” He drew an imaginary line with the point of the sword. His men dragged the prisoner forward, carefully placing his knees exactly where the Blood King demanded.

Voice deep and rough, accent unblemished from untold years of being away from his mother country, the Blood King asked the prisoner if he had had a good life; if he missed his family, his children. If he hoped one day to see them again, in heaven.

The blank, broken look turned immediately into recollection and regret. Into hope. A momentary spirit galvanised the prisoner and he started to have thoughts about moving. Then the Blood King severed his dirty head from his dirty shoulders and he thought no more.

Thick blood washed the decks.

“One a day, every day, forever,” the Blood King grunted. “Tomorrow we will spin the Vodka bottle again. Let some of them have their hope.”

He turned to study the far, purple mountains, the dead man and the horrendous deed already forgotten. “It will be but brief.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The flight from Nassau to Kingston, Jamaica, took a couple of hours. Upon landing Drake received a call from Wells. The SAS commander had no new information whatsoever and Drake found himself wondering if the guy was fishing.

“Look, sir,” he found it hard to give up old habits, “either you’ve been told to pump me for information or you’ve heard something and want in. Either way, just ask.”

“You know I keep tabs on the Japanese chatter,” Wells admitted, then went quiet.

Drake sighed. “Yes, she’s coming.” He filed with the others into passport control. “Look, I’m going to have to go now. I guess I’ll be seeing you soon?”

“Just try to keep me away.” And the line went dead, leaving Drake wondering how, with all this amazing technology around, the great secret of the Blood King still remained.

Half an hour later and they were well on their way through Kingston, seated inside a rumbling, bouncing van. Like the
reggae
vans of Barbados, this thing was ancient, colourful and extremely noisy. Bob Marley tunes blasted from the music box. The only difference was they were alone on this journey, instead of being crammed in with forty other people on a fifteen-seater ride.

The place they were looking for was called Stony Hill, now part of a warren of roads and housing on the edge of a no-man’s-land. The
man
they were looking for was Lionel Raychim, an engineer now retired, responsible for several of Jamaica’s main roads that formed the backbone of the island’s transport system.

Rick’s Bar was located in a grubby corner of a cul-de-sac, a ramshackle place surrounded by stone buildings, the very focus of the sun’s baking heat.

Drake paid the driver and headed for a door covered by American beer signs.
Budweiser. Coors. Michelob
. “Don’t worry,” he said, laying a consoling hand around Ben’s shoulders, “we’ll get you a glass of icy cold milk.”

Rick’s Bar was surprisingly agreeable once the heat and the location were fastened away behind them. The meandering, dimly lit place was wood-panelled and decorated with a mind-boggling array of furnishings: from a pirate cutlass to a Jolly Roger flag that hung next to the green and black Jamaican flag, and from the often replicated picture of workers sitting along the girders of the Empire State Building, to standard bikini babes posing on an idyllic beach. Drake smiled. It was easy to imagine ole
Rick
tacking stuff on the walls here and there, anything he could get his hands on. The place smelled of beer, sweat and cooking meat.

A family of English tourists, their legs and arms the colour of virgin paper, were finishing off a meal, not looking at their food but studying the locals as carefully and warily as they could. A drunk sat at the bar, head slumped and hair dangling in his own dinner.

“Awesome,” Kennedy shook her head. “Let’s find Raychim and get back to civilisation.”

“This ain’t so bad,” said Hayden looking a little hurt. “Small town girl - I grew up in a place with a bar like this. We can’t all have a Denny’s on the doorstep you know.”

Kinimaka walked slap bang into a table, spilling a guy’s drink and waking up the drunk at the bar. The Hawaiian said: “Oops, sorry,” and skirted around, going red.

“If that’d been me,” Ben commented, “there’d have been threats, fist shaking, maybe even a head-butt.”

Drake glanced at him. “Not while I’m here, there wouldn’t.”

They found a table and sat down, Kinimaka looking especially uncomfortable perched on an undersized chair. A waitress with jet-black curly hair and a dirty pinny came out from the back, spotted them, and hurried over.

“Help you?” Her English was stilted and tuneful, but a million times better than any of their Jamaican.

“I hope so,” Kennedy took the lead. “We’re looking for Buds, all round, and a chat with Lionel Raychim.”

The waitress instantly looked suspicious. “Wha’ you need wit’ old man
Ray?”

“A history lesson,” said Kennedy laying some cash on the table. “He around today?”

“Whoever y’ask prob’ly tol’ you he ‘round every day,” said the waitress studying them hard before seeming to come to a decision. “Jus’ wait.”

She went to the bar, took her pinny off, then turned and disappeared around the side into another room. Drake surveyed the place, catching the eyes of Kennedy, Hayden and Kinimaka. They got the message, each abruptly sitting lighter and weighing their options.

Around the corner came a tall, spare man with white hair, a white beard and wearing a white suit. Oddly, he still looked more tanned than the English family who gawped at him and surreptitiously reached for camera phones. Upon reaching their table he sat down, spirited the money away and shouted loudly for beer.

His eyes met Drake’s. “What do you need?”

Kennedy spoke first, butting in with such vigour that her unshod hair whipped forward. “We believe you might be the descendant of a pirate called Calico Jack. His only descendant. And that you still own the farm where his family were brought up.” Out loud it actually sounded ludicrous, though their research was sound.

Raychim glared at them. The waitress made a reappearance, bringing them their Buds and sliding Ben’s across with a little wink. Drake grinned.

“Alcohol, not milk? Wasn’t that a song?”

“Dr Feelgood.” Ben studied the Bud. “We covered it. The band, I mean.”

Kennedy gave Raychim a little push. “Are you that man, Mr Raychim?”

The man’s eyes flicked from left to right. “You eating?”

Drake took a closer look. Lionel Raychim’s hands were shaking, just a little. His nose was a red network of broken veins. His tongue flicked nervously across his lips. The man was a drunk, and probably didn’t eat much. “Choose what you want,” Drake said. “Just do us a favour - talk whilst you eat. We don’t have a lot of time.”

Raychim nodded and ordered the biggest steak and chips dinner on the menu with all the trimmings, and more Bud besides. “I still own that farm, though I hadn’t been there in over five years.”

Kennedy leaned forward.
“Hadn’t?”
Drake couldn’t help but watch her long black hair fall this way and that.

“There was a break-in two days ago. Many books were taken.”

“What kind of books?”

“Old ones. The kind of thing that might pertain to my ancestor, the famous pirate.”

Drake had been thinking:
two days? They were really that far behind their rivals?
Then Raychim’s words jolted him.

“They
took
the books?”

“Hmm,” Raychim became distracted as his food arrived. Kinimaka had ordered a burger. No one else dared the local fare.

“Most of them.”

Kennedy bit. “You saying they didn’t get what they wanted? Do you think that something in these books might be helpful to them?”

“So many questions,” Raychim drained half his first Bud, using his napkin to hold the glass and wiping his mouth on a white sleeve.

“Not everything.” Raychim put his knife and fork down and grinned. “I may be old, I may be a drunk. I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t stupid. I
knew
, as soon as that cursed old box was dragged up on prime-time TV that people would come sniffing. You ain’t the first, won’t be the last.”

Hayden placed her arms on the table.” But we
are
the most official.” She flashed her credentials.

Raychim looked relieved. “It’s a book they are looking for,” he said immediately. “I have it in my car.”

*****

Not surprisingly, Raychim’s car was parked outside. Within ten minutes, Ben was thumbing carefully through the pages of the antiquated book.
“Yes,
” he exclaimed, “this is the scribe’s continuation piece. You know . . . ” he mused, “ . . . this book might be worth a
fortune
if offered in the right circles.”