Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (18 page)

Chapter 40

 
Roberto Velazquez, the
island’s Chief of Police, was bending earnestly over his desk. He was involved
in precision work of the highest order. One mistake and the results would be
incalculable. He knew none of the police chiefs on the surrounding islands
could even attempt to pull this off. So his concentration levels were intense.

Every year,
Chief of Police, Velazquez, performed what was, virtually, a religious rite -
adjusting the truss rod on his electric blue 1960 Fender Deluxe Jazz Bass. It
required, experience, technical knowledge, lightness of touch and unlimited
veneration for an instrument that had supplied, care of Aston ‘Family-Man’
Barret, most of the bass lines for Bob Marley’s classics. The ritual went on
for a week, with infinitesimally small modifications every day to give the wood
ample time to settle to any subtle changes in ambient temperature and humidity,
prior to further adjustments.

When Mrs
Hathaway tapped lightly on the police headquarters hut, Roberto’s adoration had
to be suspended. He might be a reggae bass guitarist first, and a police chief
second, but he considered himself an honourable man and a consummate
professional.

‘Kick it
open, it ain’t locked!’

She kicked.
The door swung open. And immediately Roberto fell back under the spell that, a
few weeks ago, had caused such inconvenient damage to his skull.

‘Good
afternoon, Mr Velazquez. How’s your head coming along?’

Roberto’s
head was, in fact, swimming with admiration tinged with lust, but he hid his
true feelings, and played to the gallery.

‘A bit of
pain from time to time, but it’s bound to get better, some day, isn't it?’

‘Yes,’ said
Mrs Hathaway with all the sympathy she could muster.

She knew she
was in the gallery, but this was not the time to throw rotten tomatoes.

‘I have a
problem, and I wondered if you could give me some of your professional advice.’

‘Hey!’ said
Roberto, throwing out his arms. ‘You’re in the right place, baby. Shoot!’

Mrs Hathaway
chose to ignore the ‘baby’ bit, and got straight down to the point.

‘I have a
pilots licence to fly a small plane, and as part of the Daring Dooz Challenge
Two, I have to fly a rather large, World War II flying boat down to the Amazon -
and back.

‘Ain’t it
just the same controls, but bigger?’

She decided
to keep the conversation to legal matters.

‘I have three
problems.’

‘One: I don't
have a certificate to pilot the flying boat.’

‘Two: We
could be tracked as we fly through various countries’ airspace, and I’m sure
their military people would have something to say about that.’

‘And Three?’
asked Roberto.

‘I can deal
with Three!’

‘So, it’s One
and Two? Hm! Certification and airspace. Hm! Give me a couple of hours.’

Mrs Hathaway
smiled, a gorgeous smile, thanked him profusely, and left.

Roberto gazed
at the recently closed door for a few minutes. Then, absent-mindedly picking up
his bass, he lobbed it over to the office armchair, where it bounced and slid
to the floor with a sort of faint, thumping clang. He didn't give it a second
glance.

Instead, he
cleared his desk, took out a pencil, sharpened it, opened his phone book and
began work on something really exciting - getting answers One and Two for the
Vision.

Chapter 41

 
Roberto
waited for Mrs Hathaway’s return with mixed
feelings.
He’d solved Two - the
countries’ airspace thing. But One - the flying boat certification - had completely
eluded him.

When she eventually kicked the door
open, he leapt to his feet and his heart leapt with him.

‘Do take a seat,’ he said, smiling
charmingly, while shoving the
1960 Fender Deluxe Jazz Bass out of the way with his foot.

Mrs Hathaway
sat in the office armchair.

‘Any luck?’

‘Luck this
ain’t,’ said Roberto with a confident smile. ‘This is all about high level
contacts, calling in favours and compromising photographs.’

Mrs Hathaway
looked worried. ‘I’m not sure…’

‘Don't you
worry your…’ He was going to say ‘pretty little head’ but Aubrey had told him about
Enfield Bin Man, and he’d seen the footage on YouTube. He was concerned a
misplaced word could severely damage a blossoming relationship, not to mention
his shoulder blades.

‘Don't you
worry yourself,’ he continued. ‘I think we got something going here. See, I
have this associate who works for the police in Mexico City and he drinks with
a guy with good contacts in Mexican Air Traffic Control, and he has a number of
non-official liaisons with, shall we say members of a semi-legal social group,
who have compromising information, including the negatives, on a leading
politician in Honduras, and he knows this woman who had a fling with an
un-named air traffic control guy in Nicaragua, and…’

Mrs Hathaway had had enough. Quite rightly, she reckoned the less she
knew the better.

‘And the result is?’

‘It’s all clear for your trip to the Amazon.’

 
Roberto beamed.

‘All you have to do is let me know when you’re taking off and your ETA.’

He gave her a big smile and a double thumbs up. Right sign. Wrong man.

‘That’s very good news,’ she said and leaned forward to kiss him on the
cheek.

‘Thank you.’

Despite hyperventilating with happiness, Roberto continued with the
not-so-good news.

‘I’m afraid we’ve had no luck at all with the certificate. Couldn't get
anyone to swing it, even when we had HD video footage of their, shall we say,
physical transgressions.’

 
He gave Mrs Hathaway a knowing
wink. She was not in a ‘knowing wink’ mood, but she didn't let it show. This
was an important breakthrough. She smiled, thanked Roberto again, and left him
alone in his headquarters hut.

Yes, there was
still
the
certificate problem, but she was cycling away with half a result. She’d been
given the go-ahead, even though it involved dozens of blind eyes being turned.
It also meant she wouldn't have to be dodging heat-seeking missiles for 4,000
miles, and who wouldn't be pleased with
that
?

*

When Mrs Hathaway got back to the Hotel
du Lack, she was, understandably, in half a good mood. She parked her bike and
waved to
Pierre,
whose reception desk duties currently involved removing the bearings from an
electric lawnmower.

‘Watch out,’
he said. ‘There’s a few rogue ones on the floor.’

 
Mick, Jim and Aubrey were sat enjoying
the Hotel du Lack’s
Cocktail Happy Hour. Mick reckoned ‘happy hour’ meant
that, for 60 minutes, Pierre served drinks in clean glasses. But, still, they
were all happy - both with the drinks they were consuming and the secret plans
they were formulating. None of them was even slightly unhappy when Mrs Hathaway
skidded unsteadily by their table with a half-cheery ‘see you later’.

Once she was
in her bedroom, she snapped into action - picking up her sat phone and dialling
Giles. As usual, she got straight to the point.

‘Hello Giles,
I need you to help me.’

‘Fire away.’

‘I need you
to forge some certification papers which prove I’m qualified to fly a
Catalina.’

‘Absolutely
outrageous! That’s illegal! What sort of organisation do you think this is?’
shouted Giles, flicking on the scrambler.

‘No
problem sweetheart,’ he cooed. ‘I should have thought of it before. We have the
research teams, we have the printers and well, let’s say I know a little bit
about pulling the wool over people’s eyes. Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.
The Catalina will be with you on Monday. The manual’s excellent isn't it?’

‘Yes.’

Giles was
particularly pleased to hear this, as he’d only had a quick glance at the
cover.

‘I’m
reading it flat out. Although I
do
worry about what might happen if I get ill. No one else will have any idea.’

‘Don't
worry, there’s parachutes for everyone and two rubber dinghies on board!’ He
laughed, then realised his mistake.

‘Only
joking.’

‘I should
jolly well think so, too.’

He
changed tack.

‘So,
Tallulah - this is your next Daring Dooz Challenge. If it’s anywhere near as
good as Challenge One, we’ll be quids in. I mean we’ll be pushing the
international publishing envelope - er.’

He
changed tack again, and went for the big finish.

‘Enjoy
the flight!’

‘I
certainly intend to do
exactly
that.’

She ended
the call with some satisfaction. All that remained was Three: to learn how to
fly the thing - and, thanks to the manual, that looked as if it was in the bag.

Time, she
thought, to pop downstairs for a celebratory drink.

Within
minutes of joining the others, Pierre shouted over that there was a call for
her.

It was
Roberto Velazquez.

‘Hello, Mrs
Hathaway. How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Sorry to
bother you so late, Mrs Hathaway.’

‘It’s only 8
o’clock.’

‘Oh yes.’

There was a
pause. She waited for him to speak.

‘It's just I -
er - forgot to mention something - for all the air traffic controllers to,
like, you know, ‘not see’ your flying boat, what’s it called again…?’

‘A
Catalina.’

‘Yeah! For
all the air traffic controllers to, like, you know, ‘not see’ your Catalina…’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s - er -
got to fly all the way at - er - an altitude of - er - under 200 feet.’

‘What!’

‘Or it
might have been 150 feet, hang on, I wrote it down somewhere.’

There was
the sound of shuffling papers, while Mrs Hathaway’s blood temperature shot to well
above boiling point.

‘No,
you’re in luck, it’s 200 feet!’

Though
her throat was constricting rapidly, and she felt her eyes were starting to
bulge, she managed to say ‘thank you’. But she struggled to put the receiver
down without slamming the whole phone through the top of the reception desk.

200 feet
was
not
an altitude. 200 feet was how
high she could hit a baseball - at least on a video simulator.

4000
miles at 200 feet! She breathed in. She breathed out. She breathed in, again,
deeper this time and held it, until she thought she was going to burst. Then
let the air out in a thin controlled stream.

Mrs
Hathaway waved across at Mick. He smiled, waved back and raised his glass in
salute. Perhaps, she thought, it was time for a little chat with Mick about his
‘They Win. You Lose.’ philosophy, and how it could stop you murdering people.

Chapter 42

One of the strangest things to happen
over the next few days was the dramatic increase in Aubrey’s enthusiasm for the
venture. He asked questions about the
Catalina and its history in World War II. He
poured over maps - usually it was lager he poured over them, but nevertheless,
he poked his finger at the dry areas and asked questions like ‘What’s them blue
bits?’ and ‘So this Amazon’s a river then?’ He confided in Mrs Hathaway that he
was excited about the flight.

‘I never
flown before. I expect it won't be as rough as the yacht fing?’

‘No,
Aubrey,’ said Mrs Hathaway with her fingers crossed behind her back. ‘It will
be as smooth as glass - remember, I’ve got the manual!’

He also
asked about where he’d be sitting and wondered if he’d get a good view. She was
brutally honest and told him about the 200 feet altitude limit, but he reacted
very positively.

‘I don't
mind lookin’ at waves, specially if I’m not getting’ wet and they can't sweep you
overboard.’

This was
a remarkable turnround in Aubrey’s attitude to danger and discomfort. She was
most impressed - it was another positive step on the journey.

As for the rest of the team, Mick and
Jim half-heartedly continued their training, and Roberto
Velazquez remained
un-murdered, but only just.

Mrs Hathaway
had calmed down and, after a ‘They Win. You Lose.’ therapy session with Mick,
and, fortified by several brandies, had realised getting cross was a waste of
time, particularly when she had £2 million in her bank account.

On Monday, an
email arrived saying the
Catalina would be arriving that day, at a specific map reference.

When they
looked at a map, the arrival point was in the bay on the north side of the
island where Uncle Sodding Jocelyn said he was planning his millionaire’s
boating pond.

‘Poetic
justice,’ exclaimed Mick. Though nobody could quite work out why he said it.

Pierre
had been mending his pick-up truck all week and, despite oily engine parts and
back axles appearing on the reception desk at meal times, he had succeeded, and
was in triumphant mode as he strode into the dining area.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen, I believe your flying boat is due to arrive any minute. How
about I run you all down to the bay, courtesy of the Hotel du Lack.

‘Thank
you very much,’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘Most kind.’

‘No
problem,’ said Pierre, ‘that’ll be three dollars each.’

They paid
up and arrived at the bay. It was completely deserted and the Catalina was
nowhere to be seen. They all agreed to wait, standing in a little group on the
wooden pier. This was the right decision, as a few minutes later, Mrs Hathaway
spotted a tiny speck on the horizon. Soon it was clear the Catalina was heading
straight for them. They were all genuinely excited, especially Aubrey.

‘This is
it Tallulah,’ he exclaimed, as he jumped up and down, clapping his hands.
‘Woooo Hoooo! We’re goin’ for an adventure in a Catalina to that Amazon place!’

It was a
beautiful aircraft. It roared overhead and the pilot dipped its wings to show
he’d spotted the little group at the end of the wooden pier. He banked the
plane and came round for the landing. As the Catalina made contact with the
blue waters of the bay, a white plumes shot out on either side. Perfection.

‘Ere,
‘ere, over ‘ere,’ shouted Aubrey jumping up and down and waving his hands above
his head.

The
engines were switched off and the Catalina dropped anchor. The passenger door
swung open and an inflatable dinghy appeared. The pilot lowered himself into
it, started the outboard and sped towards the pier.

The pilot
was tall and thin wearing a ‘Catalina’ branded baseball cap and a World War II
leather flying jacket over a Britney Spears t-shirt.

‘Hi,’ he
said, ‘I’m Hank. And
you
, I presume,
are Mrs Hathaway?’

He
started to offer his hand then stopped in his tracks.

‘Hey!’ he
said changing the handshake to an exaggerated point. ‘You’re the Enfield Bin
Lady. Wow!’

And he
performed the actions.

 
‘Grab, Flip, Whack. I can't tell you how much
me and the boys back at the hanger appreciate that. For the first week, they
ran it on repeat on the canteen TV screens.’

He
repeated the action.

‘Grab,
Flip, Whack. Lady, that was priceless! So what you doin’ here?’

‘That
wasn’t me. That was my twin sister,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ever mindful of Giles’
concern about the Darin Dooz story getting out.

‘Oh hell,
sorry, my mistake. But, let your sis’ know she is hot stuff and I tell you, she
is
much
appreciated by…’

‘The boys
back in the hanger.’

‘You got
it!’

Hank said
hello to everyone else, but couldn't take his eyes of Tallulah.

‘Right,
let’s get started, jump in and I’ll run you through the controls, especially
the new sat nav stuff.’

She
stepped into the dinghy and turned to the team.

‘This
will take some time, and it’s all the boring bits. Probably best if you go back
to the hotel. I’ll make my own way back.’

‘But, I’m
interested,’ pleaded Aubrey. ‘Let me come as well, I want to know all about
everythin’.’

Impressed
as Mrs Hathaway was by this new thirst for knowledge, she insisted he went back
to the hotel with everyone else. So off he went, as Tallulah and Hank made the
short dinghy trip to the Catalina and climbed into its belly.

Hank made
a call for a helicopter to pick him up in an hour. Then started his guided tour
by asking questions about her previous flying experience.

Mrs
Hathaway saw this as a direct threat to Daring Dooz Challenge Two and,
consequently, to the financial security of her future with Aubrey. So she lied.
She said an experienced Catalina pilot would be arriving in a few days, and she
just wanted to know her way around the controls, in case he got ill.

Hank took
her through the basics, and was amazed at how much she knew. The Catalina
needed a specialist pilot, but he reckoned that, with a months’ intensive,
she’d be up there with the best of them.

An hour
later, right on time, Hank’s chopper arrived. Mrs Hathaway refused a lift back
to the hotel, not just because Hank said she would have to sit on his knee, but
because she didn’t want him asking around about her fictitious pilot.

After she
waved goodbye to Hank, she headed back to the Catalina. Now she was alone with
the beast. She sat in the cockpit and flicked open her manual. It was time to
get serious.