Wings of the Morning (48 page)

Which is what? It seems pretty clear. McCabe was induced to access and keep passing the total secrets of David’s despicable Plan Zero. And the person to whom he has been giving this
information is called Thierry Cestac. A Frenchman, sounding mature and with a slight lisp. Could this be the same man who had abducted Alexa in 1970? The year when he had flown out to his posting
in Singapore?

Yes, Connie told himself, it’s a huge coincidence, but it’s just possible. Thirty years on and he might be about to meet the man who caused him to commit two acts of murder at
Bahrain Airport: the Russian woman and the big Arab. Conrad spread his arms on his desk and clenched his fists as details of memory flashed before him. He saw again that sly little bastard Riaz, he
visualised Alexa, standing her on the dead bodies to push her over the cubicles, sitting in his aircraft seat and willing Peter Bushell to get them into the air. And it made sense that
‘Cestac’ meant nothing to David Heaven. He knew about the abduction but had never heard the name, while Cestac himself would have neither known nor cared about the final outcome.
Whatever, it would become clear on Saturday which gave him two full days to do some overdue research.

Conrad drove into London and reached The Mansion House fifteen minutes early. He hadn’t entered the building since his abrupt departure over three years before. It felt longer to him, more
like from another age and lifetime. The reception area was unattended for the weekend, but Bill Evans appeared immediately. Bill was Bow Bells cockney, retired through disability from the Police
Flying Squad to manage security for The Mansion House with razor sharp efficiency. He had come in at David’s request and was keeping a sharp look out for the arrivals. Bill gave Conrad a warm
greeting and escorted him directly to the small conference room where Ursula was on hand to settle him with a cup of tea and left him to himself. He took a gulp to help wash down the couple of
pills which were due about now and glanced around. The room was quiet, enclosed, with no windows: the temperature control gurgled softly in the background. There was a sideboard against one wall,
flanked by two armchairs, but the room was dominated by an oval table which could seat maybe ten, but now there were half a dozen chairs drawn up. He took one of them. He didn’t have long to
wait. David came striding in with a mug of coffee in hand and on his heels was Rory Trollope looking overdressed in a suit and tie, carrying a smart briefcase. He was wearing heavy rimmed
spectacles and looked like a fat cat accountant. David said simply, ‘Rory happened to be around.’

He followed this curt announcement with, ‘thanks for coming, Connie. I still don’t know what the hell this is all about, but I’m bloody glad to have you with me. Now, how are
we going to sit?’

He had no time to answer his own question as they heard footsteps outside. The door was opened by Bill Evans who stood aside to allow their visitors to enter the conference room.

There were three of them. In front and in charge was the man who must be Thierry Cestac. He was quite tall, a little stooped at the shoulders, very slim, over long hair which marched in pepper
and salt waves over his ears. He stood for a second in the doorway, fixing Conrad with a piercing gaze from the clear grey eyes set wide to frame the long, aquiline nose. The face was clean shaven
and heavily lined. He was immaculately presented in pure French fashion: an open necked shirt under a sports jacket of subdued pattern, flannel trousers, highly polished loafer shoes in deep brown.
There was no denying the presence of the man but he was well into the autumn of his years. Sixty-five if he was a day, David decided, perhaps more.

Cestac advanced into the room to give space to his companions. The first was similarly slender, but a shorter man with a sallow complexion and oyster colouring. He was quiet, composed: his eyes
moved constantly and his long, thin hands hung by his sides with ever flexing fingers. It was difficult to put an age to this man, but the third was obviously mid-forties, average height with a
stocky, powerful build. He had a boxer’s face with a broken nose beneath a bullet head with its light bristle of crew cut hair. His gaze lingered briefly on Bill Evans as he passed through
the doorway.

David Heaven made no greeting and didn’t rise from his seat. He simply gestured at the chairs opposite. The Frenchman took his time. When he had settled himself, he looked across the table
into David’s eyes.

‘You are Mr David Heaven, I assume,’ he said, and the suggestion of a lisp was in his voice with its slight accent, ‘is one of these two gentlemen Felix Maas?’

David made no reply and Cestac continued,

‘No matter, it is you, M’sieu Heaven to whom I wish to speak. With me are Toussaint,’ and he nodded at the sallow face to his right, ‘and Mr. Margolis from London.’
The bullet head inclined. In the short silence which followed, David gave no reaction. He held Cestac’s gaze and said simply, ‘State your business.’

‘Very well,’ and the voice rose a notch in volume to assert an authority.

‘My name is Thierry Cestac. I am entirely informed as to your Plan Zero. Your past employee Mr McCabe was able to provide me with the fullest detail through electronic access to the work
of Mr Maas. I have followed your progress over the last two years and I know that you are now approaching your deadline. Mr McCabe was an extremely clever man, but with aberrant taste and quite
unreliable. I decided to send him to carry a personal message to you. That is how we are together today.

‘My requirement, M’sieu, is quite straightforward. I embrace your concept and admire what you have achieved. I do not wish to interrupt your activity. My interest is in power. I have
now reached a maturity in years and I wish to exercise power for myself. You have provided me with the means of doing so. You can say that I am taking over your takeover. That is my demand.

‘Now, Mr Heaven, why should you agree? In truth, M’sieu, you have no other choice. I have out manoeuvred you. I am in possession of your facts and your plans, all of them, and I can
publish them across the world in an instant. But to be positive also, I can help you. I can guarantee your success. I have at my disposal large resources of manpower and armaments. We will have no
need for make believe charities.’

Cestac curled his lip in disdain as he continued.

‘Now Mr Heaven, I am a determined and ruthless man. I get what I want and now I want to acquire Plan Zero. The fate of McCabe gives you evidence of my ability. My people here today can
provide further demonstration.’

Cestac let the threat hang in the air as he prepared to continue. David stayed motionless with his eyes locked on the Frenchman’s face.

It was Conrad Aveling who spoke.

‘Thierry Alphonse Cestac. Born Pau, France 1928. Left home as a teenager. Fled to Paris. Took up with ageing roué. Inherited his property and money. Commenced a discreet and
successful career in international crime. Prostitution, drugs, brokering influence in Africa and Central Asia. Guarded by muscle, accompanied by this little wop of a knifeman.’

Cestac turned to face him with a pointing finger, saying ‘and you are who?’

‘My name is Aveling: a long time friend and colleague of Mr Heaven.’

‘Ah yes, Monsieur Aveling. Mr Conrad Aveling. I am familiar with the name, but I think you are now less close in friendship to Mr Heaven? No? Perhaps that is because you failed to keep
watch on McCabe as you had contracted to do. But you are trying to make amends, I see. Your summary of my background is correct as far as it goes and I commend you. Few people have been able to
discover even as much as that.’

Cestac smiled. If Connie’s revelations had disarmed him at all, he had made a remarkably swift recovery. By his side, Toussaint’s eyes burned with barely suppressed fury: he did not
suffer insult. Margolis appeared stolid and indifferent. David kept his silence, leaving the floor to Conrad who continued.

‘My relationship with Mr Heaven is not your concern, Mr Cestac, and it has no bearing on your demands. But there is another matter of which you should be aware. You and I have not met
before, but our paths have crossed — a long time ago. You will remember the occasion. Thirty years ago, January 1970, you seduced a French girl for sale to a deviant in Bahrain. She
is’, he emphasised the word, ‘a friend of mine and of Mr Heaven from our university days. She was to be delivered by your colleague, a Mr Georges Eboli. She did not arrive and he did
not return. I, myself, intervened.’

Cestac gave himself time to recover from the shock of genuine surprise and Connie pressed home his advantage by shifting forward in his seat and placing his meaty forearms on the table,
stretching out his hands, palm down, as if to invade the Frenchman’s territory.

Cestac rocked back on his chair and blew out his cheeks. He was giving signs of capitulation as he spoke.

‘Well. That is indeed a revelation and a coincidence. I remember the incident very clearly. How unfortunate it was.’

He gave a wintry smile and smoothed his long hair back from his forehead before continuing.

‘Of course I don’t recall the girl. She was just one amongst so many as you will understand. But I do remember the result. I lost a great deal of money, and that mattered to
me.’

As they were digesting the shock of his words, he added in a whisper — ‘Toussaint.’

The slight and sallow man moved in a blur. He half rose from his chair and leaned across the table, right arm supporting his weight while the left windmilled and shot forward with a glint
appearing at its wrist as he plunged his killing knife into Conrad Aveling’s right hand, to skewer it to the highly polished table.

Pandemonium ensued. Conrad screamed with the pain, clapping his left hand to his right wrist. Cestac was smiling, David was open mouthed, the thug Margolis was instantly on his feet and moving
to give himself space. Rory Trollope was the surprise to which Toussaint should have been alert. He had assessed this bulky young man as they had entered and wondered if the average suit and
spectacles aimed for disguise, but Conrad’s jibe at the ‘wop knifeman’ had diverted him and he had been craving for Cestac’s instruction to strike. He would not live long to
regret it.

Rory started with Margolis, using the smart briefcase preloaded with a couple of house bricks to attack the broken nose, smashing into it with such force that the former boxer collapsed in a
struggle to draw breath into his lungs.

Toussaint lunged for him with a fresh knife shaken from his wrist, but you can’t use a rifle against a tank. Rory caught the first thrust with his case, then pushing it back into the olive
face as he attacked with a salvo of kicks to the groin and the slight body, ignoring the slashing blade to grind his opponent into the plush carpet, one foot to the belly, the other to the head.
Toussaint lay writhing.

Meanwhile, there was a scene which would remain with David all his days. Connie didn’t try to free his hand. Crouching on the edge of his chair, he stretched across the table and grabbed
Cestac by his shirt front. By brute strength, he pulled the Frenchman across the width of the table using his one available arm. He sat back then, cradling Cestac in his left arm which he slipped
up around the chest while he wrapped his legs around the struggling body. He shifted himself further to work his left hand round Cestac’s throat.

It was a primeval scene and David was able only to sit and watch. Nevertheless, he could understand. Conrad had always exhibited extraordinary strength in his upper body. He was much older now
and his power diminished, but older also was this adversary from so long ago. The years fell away. The veins in Connie’s temples and neck stood out like whipcords. He grunted and groaned like
a beast from the deep. Cestac flailed and thrashed to escape. He could not. The struggle seemed to last an eternity.

Elsewhere in the room, Margolis lay like a stranded fish, whooping for breath. Toussaint lay terminally still. For David Heaven, this was a world beyond his ability and understanding. He sat
motionless and awaited the outcome.

Finally came conclusion. Cestac lay stretched, his feet drumming on the table, his neck in the grasp of Conrad’s left hand. The seventy year old Frenchman became quieter and then ceased
his struggle. It was over. He was gone and dead. Conrad let the body slide off him and onto the floor. He was himself a dreadful sight, mottled and puce from the effort. Rory moved in to release
his hand from Toussaint’s knife and Connie gasped from the pain. In spite of it, he managed to look at David and say ‘for Alexa.’ His voice was slurring. The eyes were
glazing.

David was conscious that Bill Evans had entered the room and was speaking to him.

‘I’ll clear up here, Boss. Danny Margolis isn’t a problem. I know him. He’ll just want out of here. We’ll give the other two the burial of St Luke.’

He saw David’s expression, ‘That’s not the Bible, Guv. It’s Met. Police speak from when Lord Lucan vanished. We’ll slip them over the side of a cross Channel ferry.
No traces and no questions.’

David was incapable of speech, but he nodded vaguely before turning back, twisting in his chair to look at Connie who was still slumped beside him with Rory on his other side, fumbling to
release Conrad’s tie and collar. David wanted to talk a while to his old mate, to use this moment to bridge the gap which had opened between them and to rebuild their friendship, starting
with some words of thanks for the supreme effort which Conrad had made. But his mood was changed in an instant by the look in Rory’s eye and David sprang up to bend over Connie’s
recumbent form.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘Not sure exactly, but he’s out of it and I can’t find a pulse. We’re in trouble here. Need a medic. Could be a heart attack. He’s not conscious.’

David was galvanised into action. He could do crisis management and he swept from the room bellowing for help from The Mansion House weekend staff. Within thirty minutes, the room was empty:
Conrad Aveling in an ambulance bound for Emergency, Bill Evans in a dark van bearing a macabre load out of London, with Danny Margolis back on the streets heading for anonymity.