‘You look sad, friend.’ A North American drawl roused Lindsay from his reverie. The 747 was now high above the Northern Atlantic, and the first class steward was preparing dinner. Lindsay looked up and nodded glumly. He was perched on a barstool, nursing his champagne, and he was all on his own. A large squat man in his shirt sleeves and braces, built like a bullfrog, stood looking at him. They were the only first class passengers on the flight, apart from a gaggle of Japanese united in oriental communion, and the bullfrog man was plainly lonely, or bored, or both.
Lindsay shook himself like a dog emerging from a pool. Sad was a fair description. He wondered when he would see Aileen again.
The two men inspected each other for a moment, each sizing up the other.The bullfrog man was a picture of conspicuous wealth in green and gold – pale green shirt, darker green braces and pants, with several massive gold rings glinting on his meaty paws, a heavy gold chain dangling from one fat wrist, a massive watch studded with diamonds circling the other, and heavy gold links holding his cuffs in place. He had little greenish bullfrog eyes, questing, hunting eyes, and he was plainly trying to place Lindsay.
Lindsay smiled slightly. He had kitted himself out in his best lightweight suit, a smart winter sale purchase from Simpsons, for the flight, teaming it with a good cream shirt, and a salmon pink silk tie. He also had gold cufflinks, each engraved with his family crest of a gryphon, and beige silk socks, and his shoes gleamed as though on parade. His wallet was fat, and he had plenty of clean shirts and underpants. He was a man to hold his own with the best.
The bullfrog man grinned - he had several gold teeth – and held out his hand. ‘Hi, my name is Bailey. Jack Bailey, I’m in real estate. What can I get you?’ His sentence flowed in one smooth bullfrog croak. But his eyes never ceased questing.
Lindsay opted for fresh champagne. It was an academic choice, because all the first class alcohol was free. But he had been drinking Moet, and he liked the sparkle, and it conveyed the right sort of image. Bailey opted for bourbon, and pulled a fat gold cigarcase from his pocket. ‘Smoke?’
Lindsay shook his head. He had given up smoking a couple of years earlier. But he felt a twinge of sadness, because he had liked expensive cigars.
‘You stopping over in New York?’
Lindsay shook his head again. ‘I’m going to Nassau.’
‘The Bahamas?’ Bailey’s eyes hardened a little. ‘Your first trip?’ He took a large swig of bourbon.
Lindsay nodded. He would be circumspect: journalists were not normally first class passengers. ‘I’m in the travel business. I’m going to look at a big new leisure project.’
‘Which one?’
‘King Cay.’
Bailey’s bullfrog eyes widened, and he suddenly seemed caught in the grips of a strong emotion. He puffed several times in rapid succession, wreathing himself in so much cigar smoke that he was caught in a fit of coughing. ‘Huh, you mean, huh, Collier’s baby?’
Lindsay nodded. Graham Collier, a multi-millionaire American, planned to turn a chunk of Bahamian limestone rock and pine scrub into a world class golf and sailing resort, and sell off luxury home plots to make himself a fresh fortune. Collier’s PR outfit had talked the Daily Telegraph into shaping a special colour supplement on the project, and Alan Whistler, the supplement’s editor, had passed Lindsay an invitation, together with a commissioning letter promising three hundred for two lush features.
‘Collier’s having a big thrash, and Simon Swann is chaperoning the British contingent.’ Whistler had been ebullient. He was a raffish man, fond of wearing bow ties. The supplement promised to top up his annual bonus generously. ‘D’you know Simon?’
Lindsay had beamed. Simon was a good man, with a fine taste in claret, and a generous understanding of journalist thirsts.
He took a fresh sip of champagne. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Collier.’
Bailey scowled. ‘He stinks.’
Lindsay looked at him quickly. King Cay was being billed as big, and smart, and glossy. Nothing stinking about that. ‘Why?’
‘He’s a crook. A goddam shyster.’
Lindsay waited.
‘I swear it, on my father’s grave.’ Bailey embarked on a fresh bout of coughing, and pulled out an enormous green silk handkerchief to wipe away saliva flecking the corner of his mouth. He began to bubble again, plainly working himself up into a rage. ‘Listen, friend.’ He lowered his voice, though they were the only two at the bar. ‘Altenburg dangles him like a puppet. You know about that?’
Lindsay shook his head. Bailey sounded to be grinding an axe, but he might learn some useful background.
‘Altenburg’s a kraut. He had this island, from some way back. Collier homed on it. He said he’d put up the cash for a big, big development, and promote it around the world. They went into partnership, and got off to a good start. But Altenburg kept his villa on the north shore of the island. Collier wanted the villa as well. He slotted everything into place, but Altenburg held out for ten mill. Collier didn’t have any more cash, so he came to me. I found some big money guys, and they said they would do it. But then Altenburg turned choosy. He said he didn’t like my big money guys, and he didn’t want the deal. So I talked to them, and they said, what the hell, let the guy go.’
Bailey chewed some more on his cigar. But Lindsay sensed the story still had some way to run. ‘What happened then?’
Bailey looked sulky. ‘Collier froze us out.’
‘How do you mean?’
Bailey blew a couple of smoke rings. ‘Well, he was stumped for cash, so we cut a tight deal. We said we’d give ten mill for half, two down and eight deferred.’
‘Half?’
‘Half his share in the project.’
Lindsay drew in his breath. Two million dollars two secure equity valued at fifty million seemed just a touch greedy.
Bailey shrugged. ‘He was desperate, and we had him across a barrel.’
‘How did he freeze you out?’
‘He took the cash, and then filed suit in the Bahamas High Court in Nassau on some technicality, and got the judge to put the deal on ice.’
Lindsay felt like laughing. But he thought it might not be polite. ‘Win-win for Collier?’
Bailey nodded morosely. ‘We gotta wait for the outcome of a full hearing.’
‘Some time from now?’
‘Maybe two years.’
‘What happened to the two million?’
‘It’s in an escrow account.’
Lindsay began to understand Bailey’s sourness. The money was frozen, pending a trial. He probed a little further. ‘Tough on your big money guys.’
‘They ain’t pleased.’ Bailey chewed at his cigar. ‘Now he’s cutting a new deal with Vitoria.’
Lindsay prepared for another lengthy explanation.
‘Vitoria’s a Latino, out of Cuba. He’s sweet on Altenburg’s daughter. Altenburg wants him to take our place. Vitoria wants the girl.’
‘Nice girl?’
Bailey nodded. ‘Only child. Altenburg cuts up for the best part of a billion, maybe, when he dies.’ He smiled a sad bullfrog smile. Perhaps he would have liked a billion dollar heiress for himself. But he was not the right kind of man.
Lindsay looked sympathetic. ‘You lost out.’
‘Collier’s gonna lose out. Vitoria’s gonna sink the project.’
Now Lindsay was totally lost.
‘He’s a cocanero, a drug king. Nobody’s gonna like King Cay when they find that out.’
‘Why don’t you spread it around?
Bailey spread two fat bullfrog hands. ‘Who can we tell? He’s got the Bahamian government in his pocket, he bribed the judge. He’s helping Uncle Sam over in Nicaragua. He talks to the good guys.’
Lindsay’s antennae began to twitch. Drugs, a billion dollar heiress, chicanery in high places, all packaged up with the CIA. Nice story. ‘Sounds like a good scandal.’
‘You think so?’ Bailey sniffed. ‘Nobody’s gonna run up against all these guys. Collier has Brewster Panton, the Bahamian prime minister, eating out of his hand. He’s handed the judge a couple of plots of prime beachfront. They all got their snouts in the same trough.’
Lindsay thought that a freelance might well do the running, but he needed to think a little. World class leisure project financed by a drug king, romantic interest, CIA plotting in the background. Freelance rights, book rights, film rights. He scented money, big, big money, to be made. But the steward was now hovering with two plates of smoked salmon, soft cheese and onion rings, and it was time to eat, with more champagne to float the salmon away. Bailey ate like a bullfrog, gorging himself silently, occasionally pushing stray scraps of food into his mouth with fat bullfrog fingers.
The empty salmon plates whisked away deftly, to be replaced by paupiettes of veal, nestling alongside steamed rice and green beans, and small strawberry tarts followed. They ate in silence again. But silence never caught any tidbits. Lindsay decided to take a chance.
‘Can you prove all this stuff, the drugs, the CIA, the beachfront?’
Bailey nodded vigorously. ‘Every darned word.’
‘Latin drugs buy into big leisure development in a sweetheart deal with Uncle Sam and the Bahamian government smiling in the background?’
Bailey’s eyes gleamed. ‘That’s the way it is.’ The bullfrog man lit a fresh cigar to go with his after dinner brandy, puffing at it until the cigar tip burned a red hot brazier under its covering of grey ash. He blew a fresh smoke ring, sending a succession of smaller rings through it, and watched the rings spiral away. ‘Cute story, huh?’
Lindsay felt a pang of doubt rise in his mind. A tiny voice of conscience nagged at him, because Collier had paid for his trip, and he was thinking of biting a hand intent on feeding him. But he sent the idea quickly packing. He was a freelance, and he followed his nose. Big money as well, maybe. But a thought returned to nag again, and he eyed Bailey.
‘Your big money guys sound pretty tough as well.’
Bailey was silent for a moment before replying. ‘They specialise in high risk business.’
Lindsay did not press. Drugs, mafiosi, big time swindling, CIA shenanigans. He took a deep breath. It was a time to be frank. He looked at the bullfrog man hard. ‘I better tell you something. I’m a journalist.’
Bailey quivered, his bullfrog eyes narrowing. ‘You said you was in travel.’
‘I am. I’m a travel writer.’
Now they were both assessing each other. Bailey blew a fresh ring, just over Lindsay’s head. It was a challenge.
‘Could be a good story.’
Bailey’s eyes narrowed. ‘So?’
‘Spread it around, and maybe your Cuban will pull out. Maybe somebody else will come in. Maybe you’ll unfreeze your two million.’
The bullfrog man waited.
‘But it will be a lot of hard work.’
Bailey scowled. ‘You’re asking for money.’ His voice soured. ‘Everyone wants money. Collier wants money. The judge wanted money.’
Lindsay smiled faintly. ‘You wanted to make a killing.’
The bullfrog man was silent for a moment. The steward brought coffee and brandies, and he swallowed another large slug. He was not a man to take half measures. Then he sighed. ‘I guess you’re right. What d’you have in mind?’
Lindsay had already worked out what he needed. ‘You payroll me for a month, fly me around, pay my hotel bills, so on and so forth.’
‘You’re asking a lot.’
‘I may get you off a hook.’
The bullfrog man blew more smoke rings. Then he took a deep breath, and downed the rest of his brandy. ‘I guess bum journalists don’t fly first class.’
Lindsay held up his own glass in a toast. ‘You’ll be grateful.’
Meanwhile others were also taking a close interest in Lindsay’s plans. Wotan was speaking on a secure line to the Bahamas, and his voice was carved in ice. ‘He is a journalist, a travel writer. He is on his way.’
A distant voice rapped an acknowledgement. ‘Yes, Grand Master.’ Wotan was speaking to Wilhelm Altenburg, the only one of Tristan Altenburg’s three sons to have survived the war. Wilhelm had built decaying Altenburg family interests in Mexico and Europe into a major commercial empire, and was now backing Graham Collier in a major new resort project on King Cay, a strategically important island bang in the centre of the Bahamas. He was a long way from Berlin. But he would always help when he could.
‘Our American friends want him sent back here.’ Wotan paused, and looked around quickly. But he was alone in his office. The small portait of the Fuhrer stared at him piercingly.
‘I will do it, Grand Master.’ Wilhelm Altenburg rapped his reply, and replaced his receiver. It would be easy to find a journalist, they were all flying to the Bahamas for Collier’s launch. Maybe at the party – hop, the man would vanish, just like that, and none would miss him. It would not be a very taxing task, and he would do it for his father, rather than for Wotan, because blood was thicker than any other tie.
Major Jones was also speaking on a secure line. ‘He’s staying at the British Colonial.’
‘No problem.’ Police Commissioner Jack Hayes was a former Military Police man, more recently a star in criminal intelligence at New Scotland Yard, now the most senior member of the Bahamas Police Force. ‘We’ll keep an eye on him. Why don’t you come as well?’
Major Jones guffawed a little wistfully. Hayes had been trying to get him to cross the Atlantic for some time now, offering a post centred on creating and developing criminal intelligence operations in partnership with the Americans. It was a tempting job, but his daughter Annabel had just started at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, and he was not sure that he he was quite yet ready to release the apple of his eye to a pack of ravening student actors. ‘We’ll come in the autumn.’
‘Any time, Ifanwy.’ Hayes used the Welsh diminutive: it was a mark of deep-rooted affection. ‘Molly has been pestering me. We want you here.’
Major Jones replaced his receiver and sighed. Jack Hayes was perhaps his oldest friend, with a son just two years older than Annabel studying law at Balliol. The two young people were close, and both Molly Hayes and Muriel Jones had begun counting the days, knowing it for a match made in heaven. Muriel also wanted dearly to move to the Bahamas, for Thames Valley damp had begun troubling her arthritis, and she had reached an age when arthritis ceased to be a joke. Jack had assembled an enticing package: carte blanche at work, plenty of money, a dream villa on an interest free mortgage, generous pension rights. But he still could not quite let go of Annabel. Perhaps in the autumn, perhaps before winter.