Counterpoint (11 page)

“I don’t know what you mean!” Exclaimed
Max astonished. He pulled out the brief, and as he expected, it
mentioned no password.

“I think Mr Leighton said something
rather odd to you before you left, a memorable phrase perhaps?”

Then it dawned on Max,
Sam had wished him
Bon appetite
instead of
Bon
voyage
. He thought it odd at the time, but
assumed because it was lunchtime, that is what he meant!

“Ah! Yes, I think I know what you
mean,” said Max thoughtfully.

Abdul politely turned
away, as Max typed it into the computer. The characters all
appeared as asterisks on the screen. Then the screen changed to
show large amounts of money, transferred to many numbered accounts.
Finally, the screen changed to display,
Transaction Completed
.

Max thought to himself, who writes
these cheesy programs, don’t they have any imagination!

Seconds later Abdul’s mobile phone
rang; it was his client confirming receipt of the funds. Abdul
turned to Max and said he could now take the statuette.

Feeling possible treachery about to
happen, Carla quietly stood up and moved close to the door and
glanced into the hall. No one was there, thankfully. Max felt his
mouth go dry, he knew the next stage was to take the box and get
out quick.

He moved to the table, lifted the box
and walked towards the door. Suddenly he caught sight of a movement
outside the window, but a closer look revealed nothing there, so he
hurried out.

Abdul and the two bullyboys did not
move or say anything, and left Max and Carla to walk safely out.
Placing the box between them on the rear seat, they sank back with
relief in the cool sanctuary of the car.

“Let’s get out of here,” ordered Carla
tensely, and the Chauffer drove off smoothly, through the opening
gates. The car glided effortlessly along the narrow, winding
country road. Bright sunlight flickered hypnotically through the
dense leafy canopy causing their anxiety to drain away, as Max and
Carla relaxed.

Suddenly, Max became alert, he was sure
they had passed this point on the road five minutes ago, and that
he did not remember going to the house this way. He then dismissed
it, there must be other ways back to the hotel and perhaps the
chauffeur missed a turn.

Several minutes later the Chauffeur
spoke. “I think there is a problem with the tyre.”

Marcus, sat in the front passenger
seat, looked at him enquiringly as the car slowed and pulled onto
the grass verge, the boot lid popping up as the chauffeur
stopped.

Carla tensed and touched Max’s knee. “I
know,” he said, under his breath.

The chauffeur got out and walked out of
sight to the rear of the car just as a battered Toyota coasted up
silently behind them, also out of sight, screened by the raised
boot lid.

The chauffeur returned to Max’s door
and pointed a gun at him through the window.

“Get out,” snapped the fat man, who
crept up to Carla’s window and motioned her out, with his gun.

“You as well,” said the chauffeur to
Max. They all got out.

The fat man spoke again. “So you’re the
bitch Philippe is so upset about. Well now you will suffer the
indignation and pain of losing out, when I relieve you of the
statuette.”

She stiffened in anger; Max saw it and
prayed she would do nothing silly. She stayed silent and
unmoving.

The chauffeur frisked Max to search for
weapons. Finding none, he turned to Carla. A slight smile crossed
his lips as he contemplated sliding his hand between her slender
tanned legs and groping her. He passed slowly around the back of
the car, and she turned to face him slowly raising her arms.

The fat man moved slightly away as she
moved, holding his gun on her whilst the chauffeur pocketed his.
She let the chauffeur place his hands under her raised arms,
tempting him to fondle her firm jutting breasts.

The fat man was desiring them too, but
had to watch the chauffeur slowly cup them in his hands, pushing
the firm nipples in with his thumbs, she pushed them deeper into
his hands squirming slightly as she did so. He felt all around
them, the fat man was getting a woody at the thought of what it
must be like to hold them.

She opened her legs more than
necessary, as though begging him to fondle her there and raised her
arms more.

“Hurry up!” Snapped the fat man,
sweating profusely and getting totally distracted, but the
chauffeur wanted to play some more.

Running his hands down her back,
fingers down her spine, she gave a little gasp as they reached the
small of her back and pressed her belly, squirming slightly against
his. His penis was hard and straining at his jockey shorts, she
felt it prodding into her; “it’s working,” she thought.

As his hands followed the curve of her
neat, firm buttocks, he stepped back slightly for the finale
between her legs. He could almost taste it with anticipation, she
would be small, and tight, neatly trimmed if not shaved smooth, he
fantasised.

He would feel all this through her thin
panties. He would slide his hand up the inside of her leg, and
slide his finger along the grove up to her clitoris. He wondered if
this would make her wet and horny, perhaps she was already wet!

He went for it and so did she, ramming
her knee hard up between the fronts of his thighs, crushing his
neatly pouched testicles into his pubic bone.

He should have known better, it was a
classic move for a woman. Simultaneously and with the speed of a
striking cobra she smacked the fat man’s gun hand away from her,
towards the chauffeur. The gun fired, the bullet hitting the man in
the head, as he doubled over with pain. Before the fat man could
re-aim at her, she had twisted the gun out of his hand and was
pointing it back at him. Staggering back slightly at the sight of
his own gun the wrong way round, she kicked him in the balls, as
well. The kick was not so well directed; he closed his legs on her
foot before it struck. Like a whiplash, she brought the gun down
hard against the side of his head; he fell still on the road. “God,
he stinks,” she shouted. “Fatso must have a crappy, nappy.”

Max had reached her by now and looked
down in amazement at the two bodies.

“Remind me not to get frisky with you
when you’re moody,” he said grimly. He added, “We had better find
our way home before we get into more trouble, with this corpse on
our hands.”

With Marcus’s help, they found their
way back to the hotel and packed to leave for the airport, on the
next available flight, to Malé in the Maldives.

After reporting the ambush to Sam, he
arranged for someone to meet them at the dock, and take them to the
Ocean Raider.

Marcus received separate instructions,
and a substantial increase in his fee, to keep quiet. He then left
the hotel.

In the town, near the airport Max
ditched the white Mercedes. He wiped it clean of prints, left the
windows open and the keys in the ignition, so someone could steal
it. They took a taxi the rest of the way to the Airport.

There was no wasted time at check-in;
they were on the plane within one hour of arrival in Colombo. To
their relief, Customs and the flight to Malé went smoothly.

Shortly after Max and Carla landed in
Malé, the Maldives, it suddenly grew dark, typical so close to the
equator. They walked from the plane to the terminal and having
collected their luggage and the precious statuette, passed through
Customs.

A well-dressed young man followed them
as they stepped out of the terminal building and caught up with
them. He was wearing a crisp white shirt with tie and dark,
well-pressed trousers. He was a Maldivian and speaking in perfect
English, introduced himself as Mohamed, a member of the crew on
Ocean Raider, sent to get them. He beckoned bag boys to bring the
cases; Max carried the statuette case himself, along to the public
jetty.

Nervously they walked on to the jetty,
peering into the darkness beyond the sparse lighting, for signs of
attackers. All they could see were motor launches in abundance,
busily dropping off returning holidaymakers for the flight home and
whisking others away to exotic island destinations.

Suddenly, out of the darkness hurtled a
powerful motor launch, engine racing in reverse to stop the boat,
inches away from destruction against the jetty. Mohamed motioned
them to board.

The slightly choppy water and boat wash
made boarding difficult; the boat engine was gunned expertly,
forward and reverse, to keep hard in but not touching the
staging.

The boat's sudden appearance and urgent
revving in this dimly lit and busy harbour, was menacing; they were
given no time to think about escape if this was a trap. Two strong
men had already leapt out and were loading the baggage.

Max and Carla carefully picked the
right moment to leap aboard the unrestrained launch. As soon as the
last pair of feet hit the deck, the boat reversed full throttle out
into the night.

The waves were choppy in the balmy
moist breeze, but that did not deter the helmsman from a full
40-knot dash, out into the night. Everyone hung onto something
fixed down, with a vengeance, as the powerful launch bucked and
slammed into the waves, sending folds of white foam over the black
water and heavy spray high into the air.

Looking up, Max saw the inky blackness
of the night sky, pierced with diamond bright stars. Ahead, a
myriad of bright coloured lights stabbed across the foam flecked,
black ocean where the sky met the sea. A beautiful sight for a
holidaymaker, but deadly sinister for Max and Carla, in the hands
of the unknown crew.

Small boats whizzed towards them with
flashing navigation lights, dark islands and reefs rose up out of
the sea as they approached the reefs and shore, lined with the
white tell tale of broken water.

Many islands lay dark and mysterious,
fading away as they passed; others had the twinkling lights of
civilization, seeming suspended low down on the black curtain of
the tropical night.

After 15 minutes of clinging onto the
careening boat Max’s arms were aching and he wondered when it would
stop. He looked across at his beloved Carla. Her face was taut with
anxiety, she did not like water deep enough to drown in, and less
so when she was not in control.

Max studied the two men, sat down low
in the stern, with the cases. The light from the open doorway of
the cabin just caught their faces. They were slim and muscular,
their arm muscles knotted tight as they gripped the gunnels. It was
difficult to read their faces, so tense, and in this strange light,
but they had a look of menace about them.

Max looked away, hoping this was not
going to turn out to be another showdown.

In the distance, Carla could see what
she thought was a small ship, judging by the lights. Max saw it
much clearer with his improved eyes; it was indeed a small ship, in
fact, a beautiful white gin palace of a ship. This was the kind of
Super Yacht, only the few very seriously rich people in the world,
would own, surely, they were not going to be staying there!

Max discovered later that the 180-metre
long £300 million vessel could accommodate 70 passengers in
exquisite luxury. There was a helipad at the stern and under it a
Robinson R66 helicopter to allow easy transportation of guests and
luggage when cruising.

As the powerful launch approached Ocean
Raider, steps were immediately lowered, parallel to the hull, and
the area lit by strong lights, so their boarding was safe and
swift.

Max went first, followed by Carla and
the baggage handlers.

Captain Steel greeted them with a warm
smile and a firm handshake, as they mounted the deck. The
clean-shaven, forty-year-old man in pristine white cotton uniform,
was English through and through, probably ex-navy judging by his
manner.

He ushered them through to the lounge,
the air conditioning was set at a dry 22 degrees C, but it felt
like they had stepped into a cold store by comparison with the 28 °
C humid night air outside. The sheer opulence and grandeur of the
lounge was hard to take, Max felt unworthy and dishevelled in these
sumptuous surroundings. He felt he wanted a bath and fresh clothes
before sitting down on the plush velvet upholstery.

Still, the steward had just presented
them with long cool, non-alcoholic drinks, too tempting to leave,
so he made the best of it. Captain Steel already knew about the
trouble with the chauffeur and the fat man in Sri Lanka. Sam had
briefed him, and warned him to take every precaution to protect the
statuette. That was why they were practically, snatched from the
jetty, no opportunity for an attacker to plan a strike.

Captain Steel placed the statuette in
the ships vault, so it was no longer a Max’s problem, if anything
happened to it. The ship and captain were owned by The
Organisation, so it was their responsibility from now on, reasoned
Max.

After their drinks and de-briefing, Max
and Carla were shown to their magnificent stateroom. Already their
clothes had been unpacked, their toiletry items laid out
appropriately, and dirty clothes whisked off to the laundry. All
they had to do was strip off, climb into the bath, and pamper
themselves.

“I could learn to like this, pretty
quick,” muttered Max, as he surveyed the immaculate and gleaming
en-suite.

“Better not get too used to it, we’re
just short-term guests,” cautioned Carla.

An hour later, they were dressed
formally for dinner; Max looked extremely smart in his white dinner
jacket and black trousers, sapphire blue silk bow tie and
cummerbund. He even felt the Rolex was appropriate under these
conditions, and inwardly cringed at the idea of wearing a €10.00
watch, ever again.