FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE (31 page)

“No, no, that’s OK Mimi. Thanks.
Arrivederci,
…goodbye.”

Hearing that Natalia Yelena hasn’t been around for a week makes me feel real queasy. Where the heck is she? Did Nico tell the Russian thugs that I’ve stashed her at my place?
Merda
…shit! I can’t believe Nico would sell me out like that. We’ve been buddies since second grade. Naw, he wouldn’t do that…would he? I can’t exactly drop everything here and rush back to find my Russian beauty…but I wish I could.

———

My package flight back to Britain leaves tomorrow, and there’s still no sign of the Lebanese prick or the missing Customs man. If something doesn’t happen to get this show back on the road today…well, it’s not worth thinking about.

I am having one little bit of luck. Those big black dudes that hang around outside the hotel hustling tourists recognise me, so they’ve been keeping their distance all week. They probably think Flynn will step out and kick the crap out of them again.

The usual line of taxis is outside the hotel. A man with a briefcase beat me to the first taxi, so I got the second one. I told the driver to take me somewhere on the main road to Banjul where I can sit outside and watch the traffic. He dropped me at a workers’ café with decent outside seating under a striped awning. I’m keeping an eye on the cars heading to and from Banjul, hoping against hope that I’ll see Hussein’s black Range Rover.

I’m real close to declaring ‘a shit on all their houses’ – I know my Shakespeare, see. Then, lo and behold, that gigantic woman Hussein has the kid with comes out of nowhere and shakes my hand.

“Hello, hello. I do not remember your name mister. My daughter is with my Hussein now, he’s buying her a new uniform for the Muslim school.”

“Hello there. So you’re meeting Hussein and your daughter, here?”

“Yes. He will drop her back here when they are finished shopping.”

“Please, have a seat. Do you want something to drink?”

“Thank you. An iced tea would be lovely.”

I went into the café and ordered a beer for me and an iced tea for the big mamma. I don’t know about Mohammed, but I gave thanks to the good Lord, Holy Mother of God Mary, and her husband Joseph. I even remembered the first couple of lines of Hail Mary…from my days as an altar boy.

Ten minutes later Hussein’s black Ranger Rover drove by the café. He parked and was walking his daughter to the table before he noticed me sitting there with his woman. He dumped the girl back on her mother and took off like a scolded cat before I could grab him.

“Twenty Minutes! I’ll be back in twenty minutes!” he yelled out the window as he took off.

The fat lady grinned and the kid smiled. I bought a bowl of fish and rice for the mother and an ice cream float for the kid. Then I waited.

Forty-five minutes later Hussein reappeared in a cloud of red dust blown up by his Range Rover. He handed me a stack of blank certificates from the Gambian Ministry of Forestry. They’re embossed with the Ministry of Forestry seal and officially stamped by the Customs Office – the one I’d been waiting outside of for days. Maybe this Hussein guy could be ‘worth his weight in gold’ as Finn claims. Although, I doubt it.

Hussein said he’d drive me back to the hotel and we all climbed into the Range Rover.

“How’s the Fearless One? He’s keeping well?” Hussein asked.

“Who…who’s keeping well? Oh, you mean Finn. While we’re on the subject of the Fearless One, why do you guys call him fearless anyway? Did he kill a lion barehanded or what?”

“No Gerry Gant, nothing like that. We call him the Fearless One because of all the brave things he does to help his people…battling the British Army, fighting their tanks with sticks and stones and broken bottles. These are very brave things, yes? You understand? One of his companions called him ‘Fearless Flynn’ when he first came to the Gambia for the peanut oil. Everyone agreed it must be because he does so many fearless things for his countrymen. You see, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah, Hussein. I getcha.” That’s what I said, but it’s not what I’m thinking. I’m thinking more along the lines of fearless deeds like robbing banks, blowing up bridges and railroad tracks, killing horses and old pansy dukes out fishing. Yeah, real brave shit like that.

Hussein’s worship of ‘the Fearless One’ sure put the complete and total kibosh on any ideas I still had about getting some deals going with these Africans behind Finn’s back. Anyway, I don’t need the goddamn Irish Republican Army on my case.

———

It took twenty-four hours to get to Hong Kong from Gambia. I got a taxi from the airport to the Kowloon side of Victoria Harbour, then the Sea Ranch motor launch picked me up and got me home to Lantau Island within an hour.

I panicked when I noticed most of Nataliya Yelena’s new clothes are missing from the bedroom closet. I poured myself a couple shots of scotch, trying to get my thinking straight after the seventeen hour flight from England to Hong Kong.

The doorbell rang. “Come in, it’s open,” I yelled.

Rickie, the goddamn tennis coach from the residents’ club, walked in with a grin on his face. “Mister Gerry, don’t worry. Your fiancée Nataliya Yelena has been staying with me in my little house on Peng Chau Island. I’ll go now with my sampan and bring her to you.”

“You know where Nataliya is?! Hot damn Rickie! That’s the best news I’ve heard all year! GO GET HER NOW!”

Shit, I could’ve kissed the son-of-a-bitch. No Nico, no Russians, nothing wrong! But why was she staying with this gay guy? I can wait for explanations. No, I can’t. Shit, she’s OK.
Shit and Shinola
! I yelled to an empty house.

I showered, put on clean clothes and hustled down to the clubhouse. I grabbed one of the new electric golf carts Sea Ranch bought from Japan, drove it down to the little pier and waited for Rickie to arrive with Nataliya Yelena.

Rickie’s long, narrow sampan is powered by a small two-stroke motor stuck on the end of a pole; I heard it before I saw them. The sampan came putt-putt-putting around the headland, then Rickie cut the motor and they drifted silently to the small pier.

My goddamn heart jumped for joy the moment I spotted her waving at me – just like the college student I know she is. Like they say in the old books, I’m smitten…never felt like it before!

The gay tennis coach gave us a hand with all the stuff Nataliya had taken with her to his place. She told me she figured it would be eight to twelve days till I got home.

When we got back to the house I offered Rickie a drink, a coffee, anything he likes. I guess my offer didn’t come across too sincere, ’cuz he kissed Nataliya Yelena on both cheeks and stuck out his hand to shake mine. I took his hand, and for the first time ever I shook the hand of a fairy. It was OK – not sweaty, not limp. He left mumbling something about being booked for tennis lessons and running late.

I grabbed a hold of Nataliya Yelena, who’s still hanging on to a bunch of shorts, tops and tennis rackets. It’s been seven days, eight hours and forty-eight minutes since I ravished her – and that’s too long for a guy with a leaping heart like mine. Anyways, it’s not my heart I’m concerned with right now, but the ringing phone put me off my plan to carry her to the bedroom.

———

Gerry was waiting at the small pier with an electric golf cart when I arrived back in the sampan with Rickie. I waved to him from the boat, and I think he was just as excited to see me as I was to see him.

How could I have ever wondered if he really loves me? The look on his face said more than words. Yes, yes he does,
oн любит меня
…he loves me.

HONG KONG and LANTAU ISLAND: SEPTEMBER, 1985

I’m beginning to
develop a Hong Kong belly bulge from all the meals I've been enjoying in Plume’s and the restaurants around Central. So I got up early and jogged from Tregunter Path to the office; I arrived about two hours earlier than normal.

I pushed through the entrance of Tivoli Mansion to find ex-Colour-Sergeant Singh seated at his porter's desk reading the
South China Morning Times
. The headline on the front page is huge: ‘DEBONAIRE WINE MERCHANT ARRESTED FOR JACUZZI SLAYING’.

“Good morning sir,” said ex-Colour-Sergeant Singh, as he put down the newspaper. “Please excuse me, I was just finishing the paper. Is everything all right, sir? This is a rather unusually early start for you….May I be of any assistance, sir?” he asked, as he folded the paper.

“Yes ex-Colour-Sergeant Singh, I would appreciate a quick look through that newspaper when you’re finished with it. Are you finished with it?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, as he handed me the paper.

Sui-Lin and the dispatch manager aren’t in yet, which suits me. I don’t particularly want them to see me reading the article.

It’s been three months since the ‘Jacuzzi incident’. I’m pleased to see that the wider investigation has slowed down now with the arrest, and that the homosexual-encounter-gone-wrong angle seems to be sticking. Nevertheless, there are five people who can link me to the dead stockbroker; two I don’t worry about, but the other three are a different kettle of fish.

Uncle Sui is a man of his word; he would never inform on me. And I highly doubt he’d risk the health and safety of his fellow Mountain Master in Belfast who’s getting friendly with the lads.

The Scots accountant who introduced me to the deceased is unlikely to be useful in any investigation. Hamish is a cute hoor, and I know he’ll not be a bother.

As for the other three, I’m not so sure. I’m sleeping with one of them. Another has just begged me to snatch a child in Moscow. And the third has enough trouble himself to worry about, so I heard. It’s not very likely that any of them will turn informer…but you can never be sure.

I’ll have to keep a close eye on Susie. So far, she hasn’t connected the dead stockbroker with the man she met and the phone calls she made while I was in the Gambia. They’ve been using an old photo of him in the news – from his younger and better looking days – and I introduced him by a pseudonym, so Susie never knew his real name.

Gerry spotted me in the American Club during my second meal with the now departed stockbroker, but he’s never mentioned it. Anyway, he’s ‘smitten’ with Nataliya Yelena, and he wants me to smuggle her daughter out of the Soviet Union so that they ‘can be a family’. I don’t think he’ll be a problem, at least not while he needs me to rescue his girlfriend’s daughter…to avoid Russian Mafia reprisals.

Paul has his mind full of threats from the Hong Kong branch of the 14K Triad. The Securities and Commodities investigations aren’t mentioned in the article, and I’m not the deceased’s only former client. I doubt Paul will be making any connections with me. Still, you never can tell.

———

It put me in the driver’s seat when Gerry told me his problem and asked if I can help. I haven’t a clue yet if I can help; I’ll have to talk to Mac. But I’m happier when I’m the one doing the favours – I’ve never felt comfortable being on the receiving end of favours.

Gerry’s gone up in my estimation; I didn’t think he had any genuine feelings. But falling for a Russian girl working for ex-KGB thugs, and the kind of problems that brings, goes to show he’s human after all.

I phoned Mac and gave him the basics in
amadán
code. He got into top gear at the thought of us working on a snatch that doesn’t involve an unwilling target. At least we hope we won’t be taking Nakita Sylvina against her will. Mac said he’ll make some calls and get back to me.

We have to treat this as we would a snatch for the Provos. Every possible obstacle has to be considered and planned for. Each detail will influence the outcome of this operation in an oppressively bureaucratic, heavily policed country thousands of kilometres away. I’ve never been up against the Russians, but hopefully we’ll be in Mainland China, or the Sea of Japan, before they have any notion of what we’ve done.

Three rings, stop, two rings, stop, one ring, stop. That’s the signal to be at my chosen telephone kiosk in thirty minutes. Mac is on the move.

We had a proper conversation in our
amadán
code, and a plan began to develop. With luck, and a Russian speaker in our group, we should get away with it. The plan even includes a bonus I hadn’t thought of; Mac said he’ll ask Anna to get involved because she speaks Russian like a native. It seems like it was many years ago, but it’s only been twenty-one months since I left Sweden and Anna – with Ingrid’s bank money. I’m looking forward to cuddling up with Anna again, so I hope she agrees to join us. If she won’t help we’ll have to find a female Russian speaker good enough to pass for a native.

Mac will get Finnish passports for Nakita Sylvina and our Russian speaker. I already have a Finnish passport for emergencies, and this business I consider an emergency. So whoever our Russian speaker is, she and I will travel to Moscow via Finland, but not together.

I asked Mac to arrange forged letters from a doctor in Helsinki to explain, in Russian, that my daughter and I are suffering chronic laryngitis. I hope this will cover the child from having to speak if we’re stopped. If I have to use my rudimentary Finnish it’s reasonable to bet that not too many people in Moscow will detect my foreign accent. It’s the Russians living near the border with Finland who have a basic understanding of Finnish, and who would definitely detect my accent.