The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance (10 page)

Wordlessly, the man began counting. How the passport would serve his client was of no concern to him. In his trade, he asked no questions and wanted no answers. It was better that way. Many a man passed through this room at the back of his house. What many of them did was anybody’s guess. He went on counting silently as Pavel handed him the second bundle. It had been several years since this man had first walked through his door in need of the special services, which he provided with appropriate discretion. He glanced at Pavel furtively before resuming his count. He wondered when last he had been in Romania. He knew he was Romanian. That much he knew about Pavel. As for him, it had been a long time since he had seen their homeland. He heaved a burdened sigh as he began on the third bundle. “Everything is order,” he said upon finishing.

Pavel closed his briefcase and rose. He thanked the man and walked down the dimly lit passage to the front door. The door shut behind him with a creak as he stepped onto the pavement and walked briskly to the nearest intersection.

It was already mid-afternoon and the traffic was picking up. Pavel realized he had just enough time to shower and change before getting to his opening in Notting Hill. He looked up and down the street for signs of a cab. He spied three a block away. Stepping to the edge of the sidewalk, he signaled for one. “The Royal Garden, please,” he said jumping into the first cab to pull up.

Ironic that the term shoot applies to both gun and camera, Pavel mused as he settled into the backseat of the cab. That evening, the gallery walls in Notting Hill would display an impressive collection of famous faces shot by him, Paul Morrison, the acclaimed photographer. It was not something that would occur to most people, Pavel conceded, but photography was power. It was the power to make or break the image of celebrity. Regardless of that, Pavel was clear about one thing. His success rode on his keen awareness of the narcissistic nature of people. In the focus of his lens, the beautiful became more beautiful; the unattractive became charismatic. He dispensed a godlike benevolence upon all his subjects and reaped a substantial income for doing so.

However, as much as photography satisfied his thirst for control, for Pavel photography was not the ultimate thrill. What excited him as nothing else did was the power that comes at that moment when the prey is at the mercy of the hunter. In Pavel’s dark alternate world, the relationship between himself and his subjects was of a more insidious nature. In the secret place where he lived the life of any given fictitious name, his was the power to bring down the powerful – as swiftly and surely as the hunter brings down the unsuspecting buck grazing in the shade of the forest.

Pavel’s thoughts traveled to the island he would soon be visiting. He was breaking his cardinal rule by meeting the woman. No client had ever seen his face. However, his main contact there had assured him the woman knew nothing of what the plan entailed. The fact was he knew very little himself. He would have to wait until the woman delivered the package to learn the full scope of the operation. How they had located the Spaniard in the first place remained a mystery. His circle of associates was small, and discreet. Any information about their activities was tightly guarded. But it was the Spaniard who had set up the line of communication between Pavel and the client.

Whoever the client was, they were acting with extreme caution. Until now, his only communication with them had been by phone. That line of communication had been complex. There had been three callers, the third being the woman. Their numbers had been untraceable. Judging by the secrecy in which the operation was being conducted, he was sure none of them had used their real names. The name the woman had given him was Susan. An amused smile flitted across Pavel’s face. Susan indeed. Surely she could have been a little more creative.

There was not a minute to spare by the time the cab pulled up in front of the Royal Garden. Not waiting for change, Pavel paid the driver and leapt out, rushing up the steps and past the liveried doorman as he hurried to the elevators across the marble floor. He had exactly twenty minutes to shower and dress before leaving again.

A sweeping view of Kensington Gardens and the flashing of his message light greeted him as he opened the door and stepped into his room. He went over to the phone with a puzzled frown. The gallery only had his U.K. mobile number. The woman going by the name Susan had yet another mobile number. No one knew where he was staying. Uneasily, he checked the message. It was a woman’s voice, a foreign accent warning someone she would be running half an hour late. She would meet them in the lobby at seven thirty. The mystery solved, Pavel hurriedly showered and dressed.

He arrived at the gallery not a second too soon. He paused to catch his breath as his eyes flitted around the throng of celebrities pouring in. The place filled quickly and, fed by an abundance of good wine, the noise level began rising accordingly. Pavel did the obligatory rounds, stopping for more than a brief exchange with those he thought might be helpful in advancing his career at a future time. He was trapped in a tedious conversation with a woman with much too much to say about nothing, when the owner of the gallery rescued him.

“Paul, darling, there’s a ravishing lady who would like to meet you,” she whispered in his ear.

Pavel glanced around the room. “Is there really now? Where is she?”

“I’ve never met her before. She confessed she crashed, came with a friend. But trust me, I’m hardly exaggerating when I say she’s wearing an emerald the size of my fist.”

Pavel’s eyes lit with interest. “You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity. Lead the way.”

She was dressed in black, studying a photograph of Pete Doherty, as they went over to where she stood with her back to them. The gallery owner touched her deferentially on the shoulder and announced Pavel. The lady turned to face them. Pavel’s breath caught in his throat. She was the most striking woman he had ever laid eyes on, her hair like ebony satin, her lips full and luscious. Pavel found himself searching for words. She extended a meticulously manicured hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morrison,” she said studying his face. “My name is Maria Echevarría.” Pavel looked into her eyes, searching the depths of those deep, mysterious pools for a revelation of some kind. The eyes, dark mirrors of inscrutability, revealed nothing more than the slightest hint of interest, if that indeed was what he saw. Despite himself, he was inadvertently drawn to the emerald. It was dangling just above her cleavage. He appraised it to be at least 40 carats. Her outfit smacked of haute couture, so he had no doubt the jewel was the real thing.

It seemed a lifetime drifted by before she said in a voice like silk, “I love your work. It would make me so happy if you could take my picture one day, though I’m sure you must be in high demand.”

Pavel jumped at the opportunity. “It can most certainly be arranged,” he said eagerly. “I would love to photograph you. You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met.”

For a breathtaking moment she warmed and the full lips parted in a smile that stopped his heart.

“By the way,” he said disquieted by the effect she was having on him, “I can’t place your accent. Where are you from?”

“Colombia,” she breathed as if the name were sacred.

Pavel froze. Was his client Colombian, he wondered frantically? He quickly recovered his composure as he realized it could be nothing other than a coincidence. The woman he was meeting the following day couldn’t possibly know of his Paul Morrison identity, or his real identity for that matter. It was impossible this could be her. But was it?

“It’s strange we’ve never met before,” he said eyeing her warily.

“Not so strange considering the distance separating us,” she smiled. “But I’m sure it can be bridged quite easily.” She reached inside her purse and handed him her card.

FIFTEEN

A deep furrow appeared on Mike’s brow as he opened the morning paper and read the headline.

McGuire Boat and Victims’ Bodies Recovered

By LAUREN ANDERSON

The 36-foot Bertram sport fisher belonging to well known businessman Raymond McGuire was recovered approximately eight miles south of Fisherman’s Key on Wednesday morning. The Criminal Investigation Department reports having found five bodies on board the boat, which was registered in McGuire’s name. Based on reports gathered from employees and patrons of South Lagoon Marina where the boat was last seen, the bodies are believed to be those of …

Mike stared at the photograph of the McGuires taken on their boat during a recent marlin tournament. He finished reading the brief news report and went for the phone.

“Hi, it’s me. You busy this morning?”

“Not terribly. Why?”

“Mind if I come on up? There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“When were you thinking of coming?”

“Now.”

It looked like rain as Mike glanced up through the windshield at the dark clouds lying low over the mountains. The realization it was about to pour had hardly hit him when there was a loud splatter against the windshield. It came down suddenly, drowning out every other sound as it thundered on the roof of the car. Mike put the wipers on full speed, peering through the blinding sheet of rain, slowing almost to a stop as he approached each precarious corner of the mountain road. It had become near to impossible to see where he was going, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. These deluges most often came and went in no time at all.

Mike finally arrived at the cottage. Pulling up as near to the porch as he could, he quickly climbed out and made a dash for it. He threw the door open to find Ivy moving through the living room with a mop. She stopped mopping just long enough to watch Mike deposit a puddle onto the newly polished floor. “You’re soaking wet, Mr. Mike,” she muttered sourly. “You’re making a mess.” With that, she returned to her task without another word.

“Where is Mr. Logan?” Mike asked.

“He’s in the den, sir,” Ivy replied crisply. She then began mopping around his feet furiously as if he didn’t exist. Stepping out of her way, Mike squished his way across the living room in search of Logan.

“I’m here,” he shouted dripping his way towards the den.

Logan laughed as he saw him. “What’s up, man? You look like a drowned rat.”

“It’s coming down out there. Got a dry shirt I can borrow?”

“Help yourself. You’ll probably find something in the guest room.”

Mike returned wearing a dry shirt and a worried look. “Pour me a stiff one,” he said sitting heavily.

Logan went over to the bar and splashed a double Scotch into two glasses. His look was probing as he handed Mike his drink.

Mike waited for Logan to sit. “Remember when you asked if I knew anything about the disappearance of the McGuire boat?” he said as Logan settled back into his chair.

“Yes, I remember asking about that,” Logan said, wondering where Mike was going with this.

His unspoken question was answered as Mike said, “An acquaintance of mine claims he knows who committed the murders.”

Logan stared at Mike incredulously. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve known who did it all along?”

“No, thank God for that. As it stands, it was too much information.”

Mike took a swig of his Scotch. “I must look like a priest who’s hungry for confessions. Sometimes I wonder why people tell me the things they tell me. Perfect example is this guy. Why he would call to tell me a friend of his confessed to blowing away everybody on the McGuire boat is beyond me.”

Still not recovered from his astonishment, Logan asked, “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“You know me, Logan. I’m the last to betray a confidence.” He paused. But I can’t, in all conscience, sit back and say nothing about this any longer. I think I have to tell the authorities what I know. They can take it from there.”

I have to say I don’t understand what took you so long. Is the person who confided in you a particularly close friend?”

“No, just somebody I have a drink with from time to time. The truth is I was a bit skeptical about the whole thing. Who wouldn’t be? Why would anybody go around the place confessing to murder?”

“Good question. Seems pretty unlikely.”

“My friend didn’t know what to make of it either. According to him, the guy who made the crazy confession is a cokehead.”

“But being a cokehead hardly means you’re a murderer. If that were the case…”

Mike couldn’t help laughing. “Let’s not go there.”

“So what’s your gut feeling?” Logan asked, the smile fading from his face.

“I don’t know what to make of it. The whole thing is nuts. Be that as it may, the person who confided in me is worried, and not without good reason. If there’s any truth to the story, he’s screwed.”

“Well, you lie with dogs, you rise with fleas,” Logan shrugged.

“Knowing how things go nowadays, I’m not about to pass judgment on the guy, Logan. Sometimes people get desperate. He just took advantage of an opportunity to make a quick buck. Happens all the time. I don’t think he foresaw what he was walking into. Nobody could have foreseen something like that. It just doesn’t happen.”

“Unless McGuire was involved in something shady.”

“Anything’s possible, but I doubt it.”

“Why do you doubt it?”

“According to the buzz, he was heavily in debt, overextended himself.”

Logan frowned as something came back to him. He recalled Lauren telling him a seaplane had been seen hovering around Fisherman’s Key at the time the McGuire boat disappeared. “Think McGuire may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he surmised as he thought about it.

“That’s what I think,” Mike agreed. “Fact is virtually everyone in the Caribbean and Central America has been affected in one way or another by the drug business. You don’t have to be directly involved to get killed. McGuire and crew are a perfect case in point.”