“I can’t afford to lose another man, Mr Mitcheson.” Lottie didn’t bother denying it. “If McManus comes back, all well and good. Somehow I don’t think he will. And while the men are good at what they do, I need you to organise them.” She stubbed out the cigarette. “Andre Segassa has been waiting to establish his own operation and will deal with his own contacts on the other side. I need to cover things here. I’ll double your contracted amount and pay another seventy-five thousand on completion.”
As she was speaking, Gary entered the room and stood by the door. At the same time Howie drifted across the patio to stand directly outside the glass doors. Doug was nowhere to be seen, but Mitcheson knew he wouldn’t be far away. It was a clear and chilling indication of what would unfold if he told Grossman he didn’t want any part of her plan.
They were preparing to ditch him.
“All right.” He nodded and, because it was probably expected, added, “but make it a hundred thousand… There’s more risk involved.”
Lottie Grossman smiled, her painted lips gathering into a small, obscene rosebud of victory. He was speaking a language she understood. “Agreed. Let’s have dinner and go over the plans, shall we?”
While Palmer sat smoking by the window, Riley finished her next batch of notes and emailed them to Brask. The fat man had been effusive when Riley phoned him earlier, saying the first batch she sent had already aroused a lot of interest. The editor was pushing for more.
Encouraged by Palmer to focus on work while she still could, Riley had sunk herself in the detailed task of collating the facts and adding her own commentary. It had turned out to be an excellent therapy, preventing her being overtaken by thoughts about the near miss with McManus at the building site.
As the laptop beeped obediently, Riley looked at Palmer. “You think Mitcheson will come through?”
“I think so.” He’d shown Riley the details Charlie had sent from London concerning the extent of Mitcheson’s involvement in the Bosnia business. Her relief had been palpable. “But time will tell.”
When he’d gone, Riley closed the laptop and lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The image of Mitcheson’s face became that of McManus’s, leering down at her with blood streaming from his smashed nose, eyes glinting with hate and frustration. She shivered and wrapped her arms across her chest, and wondered if Mitcheson would have nightmares about the gunman’s death down the shaft.
The following morning Riley’s mobile bleeped with a message from Mitcheson. His voice was low and hurried, and she guessed he was calling from the garden of the villa. She listened intently, then rang Palmer and arranged to meet him downstairs for breakfast.
By the time he joined her she was demolishing a plate of bacon and eggs.
He sat down and poured a cup of coffee before lighting his first cigarette of the day.
“For Christ’s sake, Palmer,” Riley protested, waving the smoke away, “at least let me get some food down before you smoke us both to death. God, you’re so unhealthy.”
He doused the cigarette. “So what’s the news from our man on the inside?”
“According to John, Lottie Grossman’s got it into her head she can cheat the Moroccans and take the drugs and the money. She sweet-talked the one called Segassa into dealing direct with her instead of through his boss, and got Mitcheson’s men seeing things her way. He thinks he’d have joined McManus by now if he’d showed signs of backing out.”
Palmer whistled silently. “So much for army buddies. And Lottie must be off her trolley. Segassa will bide his time then skin her alive.”
“We should try again to get Mitcheson to bale out.”
Palmer shook his head. “It won’t change anything. And he’s not stupid; he’ll know when to jump. When and where’s the deal going through?”
“There’s a stretch of coast just before Motril where the government’s doing some underwater survey work. Boats come and go all the time; another one won’t be noticed. The Moroccans have tested it out twice recently and reckon it’s safe. They’re going for an exchange at midday today.”
“Did he say how?”
“The Moroccans are using a flotation device to drop the drugs off from a small fishing boat. The device keeps the package just below the surface. The Grossman boat dumps a small buoy over the side with the money, and each boat picks up its package as it goes by.”
“Neat,” Palmer commented. “With two ex-Royal Marines working the pick-up, it’ll be easy money.”
“Right. And the boats go their separate ways with nobody the wiser.”
“Until the Moroccans find they’ve been cheated. If Segassa doesn’t do his part it could get messy.”
Riley looked sombre at the idea. “I know. John doesn’t like it, either.”
“So what’s he going to do?”
Riley frowned. “He didn’t say.”
Chapter 41
Had anyone stopped the Soukia as it ploughed a course off the island of Alboran, they would have found an ordinary fishing boat that had been making the same run for years. A cursory inspection would have uncovered nothing more interesting than nets, ice-boxes and wet-weather gear, with a crew of three tanned, grizzled men in their fifties.
The only unusual piece of equipment would have been a set of scuba gear with some minor modifications which one of the men was sitting on while he mended a stretch of damaged netting. Attached to the equipment by strong plastic strapping was a large rubber-cased box that no fishing vessel normally carries, and which the man was ready to dump over the side should any naval or coastguard vessels come too close.
In the tiny wheelhouse the skipper cocked his head to one side and answered his mobile phone. He listened for a while, then glanced at a map and gave their position before switching off the phone.
Midday off the coast near Motril, and they could begin their journey home.
Riley pulled the car off the road near a short stretch of beach and glanced at her watch. It was 11.30. She looked across at two small hotels nestled against a backdrop of sandy rock and coarse, scrubby trees. The Hotel Palma was neat and brightly painted in white and sea-blue, while its rival, the Flores was a modern aluminium and glass creation. The road here followed a sharp curve in the coastline, clinging to a steep drop down to the sea, and other than the small line of sand which had largely been man-made to bolster the two hotels, there wasn’t much to attract tourists.
Offshore a cluster of small vessels was moored in haphazard fashion, with bright marker-buoys bobbing gently on the waves among them. Other vessels moved back and forth, heading east and west towards Almeria and Malaga. Most were gleaming white with flashes of shiny chrome, crewed by people for whom this was a highway to pleasure and relaxation, not work.
Palmer raised his head from the back seat and picked up a pair of binoculars he had purchased that morning in Malaga. They wouldn’t have impressed a naval officer or a bird watcher, but they were quite sufficient for his needs.
“I hope you don’t intend claiming for those on expenses,” Riley said dryly.
“Of course not.” He focused on the moored craft. “I put them on yours.” There was little activity except for a small semi-rigid boat with two men on board. They were holding station near the marker-buoys and as he watched, a black-suited figure popped up from the water and passed up what looked like a large, yellow underwater camera. One of the two men on board took it from him, while the other helped him clamber over the rounded gunwale.
“Might be part of the survey crew,” he said. “Looks like they’re getting ready to go to lunch.”
Riley was looking towards the hotels, where a few vehicles were parked and a coach was unloading tourists. A Land Cruiser was just pulling in from the Malaga direction, its tinted windows masking the occupants.