Fire Hawk (23 page)

‘A Keo beer,' said Sam.

‘Two,' ordered Mowbray.

The waiter took away his empty coffee cup.

‘How are you feeling?' Mowbray enquired, with concern. ‘All your Baghdad bruises . . .'

‘Better. The pain's more mental now,' Sam admitted. ‘Been here long?' he asked, turning the conversation away from himself.

‘Twenty minutes. It's a faster run from Nicosia than I expected.' Mowbray took a sugar lump from the bowl on the table and toyed with it. ‘This is a really bad business, Sam. Must have been a terrible shock for you.'

‘Hasn't sunk in. But I'm not out here because I was a friend of hers,' he added defensively.

‘God no. I know that.' Mowbray clasped his hands together, as if deciding from now on to restrict his words to business. ‘Look, I need to warn you to be very careful about how you operate here. The Cypriots are desperately sensitive. Murdered foreigners are bad news, both for tourism and for the offshore activities which keep this country afloat. When anything goes wrong which might reflect badly on them, their instinct is to conceal and ignore rather than to investigate.'

‘I understand all that.' Sam didn't need lectures. ‘Have you picked up anything more about Khalil's movements here?'

Mowbray deferred his answer as the waiter appeared with their beers. He paid for them immediately.

‘Khalil and his minders seem to have disappeared. Once we'd told the police Chrissie was looking for him because she was in the debt collection business, they naturally wanted to interview them about her death. But
too late. They'd gone. And the other problem is that the Central Bank hasn't released details of any offshore companies Khalil might have been involved with. The bank protects its foreign clients' confidentiality pretty fiercely, insisting on clear evidence of financial wrongdoing before being ready to co-operate with the forces of law. London's still working on that, telling them Khalil may have been using his businesses here to circumvent UN sanctions.'

He paused, searching Sam's face for some evidence of what state he was really in behind the mask.

‘Shall I tell you what's known about Chrissie?'

Sam swallowed. ‘Yes. I think you'd better.'

‘Well, as you know, she came over from Amman on Sunday evening. Checked into the Mondiale Hotel in Limassol. Five stars.'

‘Nothing but the best,' Sam murmured. Chrissie had always enjoyed spending money, particularly other people's.

‘She got lucky,' Mowbray told him. ‘Initially anyway. Khalil and his escorts were staying in the Mondiale too.'

‘Ah. Handy.'

‘So, on Monday she tailed him to the office of a Limassol lawyer specialising in—'

‘Offshore businesses. Yes, I know. Waddell told me. What happened then?'

Mowbray sighed. ‘Well, that's the trouble. We don't really know. She phoned the lawyer's name through to London in the evening, then dined in the hotel restaurant alone. The head waiter confirmed that to the police and the meal for one was on her unpaid bill, which
I
settled. But what she did on Tuesday is something of a mystery. The police say she was seen in the hotel in the evening, drinking with a couple of high rollers. They suspect she went with them to some casino or other, but haven't identified the men or the place.'

‘Could those high rollers have been the Iraqis?'

‘You tell me. All we know is her bed wasn't slept in Tuesday night. Then, on Wednesday, at about five in the morning, she – her corpse – was found by a police patrol checking for stolen cars in a car park by the waterfront.'

‘Where?' Sam croaked, wincing at the word ‘corpse'. ‘Where exactly was this?'

Mowbray unfolded a map of Limassol and spread it on the table.

‘Here,' he pointed. ‘Bang in the centre of the main promenade. The buildings overlooking it are mostly offices – empty during the night.'

‘Shit . . .' breathed Sam. It was getting to him now. Mowbray's matter-of-factness was bringing it home. ‘Where is she – her body?'

‘At the Limassol morgue. The autopsy this morning was incomplete. Something unclear still about the way she died. Choking apparently, but no sign of pressure on the throat or anything. Just some bruises on her body and stress marks on the wrists and ankles suggesting she'd been tied up at some stage. So they were doing more tests. But we're moving her tomorrow hopefully. Back to the UK on the RAF Herc that shuttles to Lyneham every Friday. A funeral's being set up for Saturday. A private one. Just family, I'm told. Martin Kessler wants it over with quickly before the media realise the body's even left the island.'

‘I'd like to see her.' The words slipped out.

‘Yes, I imagined you would. Best if you wait until she's moved to the RAF base at Akrotiri. I've passed your cover name to a Squadron Leader Banks. Give him a ring first.' He wrote the number down on a page from a notebook.

‘Don't the police have any witnesses?' Sam asked in exasperation. ‘
Somebody
must have seen something.'

‘Well they may have by now, but they've not told us.'
Mowbray leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. ‘The man in charge is an Anoteros Ypastinomos – a chief inspector to you and me – but he's no ball of fire. Got where he is through family connections. Father was an EOKA folk-hero in the nineteen-fifties. Killed a couple of British soldiers during the independence struggle but was never nailed for it. The son isn't much keener on the British than the father was. Not exactly making waves for us. But he's the High Commission's problem, not yours. For what it's worth I'll be getting an update tonight. I'll ring you later. Where are you staying?'

‘I'll try the Mondiale,' Sam answered automatically.

‘Of course.'

Mowbray lifted an eyebrow. Then he leaned forward again, placing his elbows on the table. A hand went to his mouth and he nibbled unconsciously at a nail as if debating how to phrase the next part of what he had to say.

‘There's something else you ought to know, but don't for heaven's sake jump to any conclusions on this one. There's no proof of any connection.'

‘Connection? With what?'

‘With Khalil's visit to Cyprus.'

‘You're talking riddles.'

‘Sorry. There . . . there's been a report from the UN Special Commission in Baghdad.'

‘Anthrax!'

‘Well, yes, actually. They've found evidence the Iraqis
have
been producing biological weapons grade material in the past few weeks. The man in charge of the production committed suicide when they exposed him.'

‘Did he!' He felt a certain satisfaction at what Mowbray was telling him, vindication of his belief that the message whispered to him in Baghdad
was
genuine. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me more.'

‘UNSCOM have had a team in Iraq for the past few
days. They're pulling out this afternoon. The Iraqis have withdrawn all co-operation.'

‘But what exactly have they got?'

‘Look, it's only the sort of evidence they always knew they
would
find one day.'

‘Quentin!'

‘No, Sam. Just because some unidentified man in Baghdad whispered a warning to you about anthrax weapons being smuggled out of the country does not mean there's a link. All this proves is the Iraqis are still experimenting with the stuff despite all their denials. It'll slap on the head any chance of UN sanctions being lifted in the near future, so it's of major political significance. But what UNSCOM has
not
uncovered is any evidence the Iraqis were planning to use the stuff. And when we're talking about biological weapons capabilities, it's
intentions
that matter more than anything else.'

Sam held his breath. He wasn't hearing Mowbray's words any more. In his head the links were clear, creating a conspiracy theory that was frightening in its potential.

‘There could be a link,' he began.

‘No evidence, Sam,' Mowbray insisted. ‘No evidence.'

‘Let's just play with a scenario.'

Mowbray shrugged uncomfortably.

‘Let's imagine the anthrax production the UN uncovered
was
for warheads that have already been sneaked out of Iraq. And let's imagine also that the people who imprisoned me in Baghdad are directly involved in the scheme to use the warheads.'

‘That's stretching credibility. They were just security men as far as we know.'

‘But Quentin, their direct involvement is the only way I can explain why they were so damned desperate for me not to have found out about the anthrax.'

‘It's not the way London sees it.'

‘Bugger London. Look, suppose I'm right. Now,
getting anthrax out of the country would be no great problem considering the leakiness of the Jordan border. The hard bit is to get the weapon to the right target at the right time for maximum effect. And for that they might need money. A lot of it. So
that
could be why Khalil was brought to Cyprus. For them to use the cash stashed away in the accounts he controlled in order to buy whatever help they needed to carry out the attack.'

‘Hypothetical speculation,' said Mowbray dismissively.

‘Sure, but plausible. Now, follow that on. Chrissie turns up suddenly. She gets too close. Learns something that could wreck the Iraqis' whole scheme. Learns perhaps how the money was to be spent. So they kill her.'

Mowbray pursed his lips and blew out. ‘I have to tell you that the feeling in London is that the money Khalil was brought here to free up was for something much more probable, namely to finance another palace for Saddam Hussein.' He flattened his hands together and touched them against his lips. His grey eyes had lost their certainty, however.

Sam downed the rest of his beer. The instinct that he was right and the great minds in London were wrong was powering him forward like a Californian surf.

‘Facts, old man,' Mowbray growled at him. ‘We
must
deal in facts and not suppositions.'

‘Okay. Hang around and I'll bring you some.' Sam stood up, refolding the map Mowbray had spread on the table. ‘I can have this?'

‘Sure. But where are you going so suddenly?'

‘Wherever it was Chrissie went.'

The Limassol highway skirted the foothills of the Troodos mountains, its two-lane dual carriageway almost free of traffic. Pulling down the blind to protect his eyes from the last of the crimson sun, Sam glanced right towards
the purple heights of Mount Olympus which would be capped by snow in a matter of weeks. As the car dipped over a ridge, Limassol's hotels and apartment blocks appeared ahead, a hazy holiday and business conurbation which stood ugly and square against the leaching red of the horizon.

Junction 21 was signposted and Sam dropped his speed. The Mondiale Hotel was on the beach well short of the town itself. He turned left, then left again onto the old coast road. The entrance was down a winding drive lined with flower-beds and bungalows. The parking areas were mostly full, but he found a space, then took his bag into the spacious lobby.

It was a hotel of a type he was well familiar with, making its living from conference facilities. And there was a business group resident at the moment, he noted, judging by the clusters of young people in crisp shirts and neatly pressed blouses standing around, their chests decked with name badges.

After his ‘Terry Malone' credit card had been swiped for the bill he took the lift to the third floor. No sea views available, they'd told him, and seemed surprised that he didn't care. He dumped his holdall on the double bed, then peered from the window down into the car park. It was after six by now and visiting businessmen who'd had dealings in Limassol during the day were returning to their five-star roost.

He closed the heavy beige curtains, unzipped the holdall and pulled out his wash-bag. He took a quick shower, then ran a battery shaver over his chin and dressed in dark grey trousers and the light check jacket that didn't crease which he always travelled with. Then, looking like any other businessman dressed for whatever the night might bring, he took the lift to the ground floor and sauntered into the lobby, racking his brains to think
how Chrissie would have set about her task here four days earlier.

He heard a babble of bright young voices from the far side of the wide lounge. A long, narrow bar overlooking the pool and closed off with a crimson rope was crammed with conference delegates in dark suits and cocktail dresses, all animated, all still wearing their name labels. Tupperware reps, Sam guessed, although they could have been Mormons for all he knew. He strolled over to take a closer look and collided with someone heading in the same direction.

‘Sorry!
So
sorry.' A young woman with straight blonde hair tied in a short pony tail whose otherwise appealing face was dulled by a receding chin, grabbed at his arm to steady herself. ‘So
terribly
sorry. Wasn't looking where I was going.'

Something told Sam the collision hadn't been entirely accidental.

‘My fault entirely,' he answered courteously. She had a trim, tidy figure encased in a low-cut black dress. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes of course. You going to the reception?' She shot a glance at his lapel. ‘Oh no. No badge.'

‘Wish I was,' he beamed, mind on autopilot.

‘Well . . .'

It was all she said. Her eyebrows fluttered a couple of times as if to suggest that it wouldn't be hard to gatecrash, but he didn't react.

‘Well, have a good evening anyway.'

‘Yes. You too.'

He watched her disappear into the throng beyond the crimson rope, then turned to take in the expanse of the lobby.

How would Chrissie have stalked Khalil? Once she'd made the happy discovery that he was resident here, would she have just waited for the Iraqis to come down
from their rooms? Waited where? On one of the velvet sofas in the lobby? A stool in the bar? And when Khalil appeared, how had she observed him? There were two ways to watch a mark. Unseen from a distance or right up close. Getting close was Chrissie's style.