Hands of the Traitor (16 page)

"Maybe the problem will go away if we
keep quiet."

"I'm worried about the press,
Jason."

"Let me get back to the States. I've
got contacts in the U.S. media. I can keep the lid on this
one."

"It's the foreign press who'll blow
the lid for us."

He nodded. His father had a valid
point. "How about I visit the grandson and ask him straight out for
Sophie Bernay's address?"

"Miller tried it at the place where
Rider works. Hardly got inside the office door. The English are a
cold lot. They'll not welcome anyone from the next street, let
alone our side of the Atlantic."

"Do you know where the young PI
lives?"

"Miller got his home address
from the voting records in town, but I don't want Rider finding out
we're in England. He might go stirring things up
even
more."

*

MATT MADE sure his camera was tucked
safely out sight under the passenger seat of the Mini, and walked
into the street outside Ken's office to wait for Zoé. As well as
meeting Sophie in France, he wanted to explore the old launch site
where the Dutchman had dug up the ring. There might be something
there to photograph and tell his grandfather about.

The sun shone through Zoé's thin dress as
she walked towards him, down the street this time, instead of up.
The low cut dress hugged her body -- small dark flowers on a mid
blue background today. Amazing. Had she worked out about the sun
and chosen the direction for maximum impact?

The kiss was brief. She seemed to be
holding back. He found it hard to read Zoé's intentions, but
perhaps he was behaving the same way himself. Part of him sensed
that this could be the relationship he'd always wanted, and the
potential of it scared him. Zoé still hadn't found any nursing work
in England, and he wondered if she was even intending to find a job
over here. She gave the impression of wanting to escape from
something. He hoped it was from Florian.

"I've booked the cross-channel ferry
from Dover, and a hotel near Calais for tomorrow," he told
her.

"Separate rooms?"

He nodded. That had been her idea, not
his. "I'll pick you up from the hostel at ten."

"I will be ready. You look
anxious,
mon
ami
. You are
worried about your grandfather?"

"Granddad's okay. I just wish Ken
hadn't told Miller I'm off to France."

"You must not blame
yourself."

"I should never have written to
America using my own name. I wouldn't have done anything so
careless for a client."

"You did it for your
grandfather."

"I did it for me." He kicked a stone
along the road. "The Heinmans are a powerful family, but I can't
see them following us to France."

Zoé shook her head. "See, you are not
being careful. You have to assume the most evil will take
place."

"Assume the worst, because it may
happen?"

"
Exactement
. But maybe we can do nothing to stop
it."

"You're a fatalist." He didn't mean it
to sound like an accusation.

"I most certainly am not." Zoé sounded
shocked. "If we stay in England, the evil may happen in France. And
if we go to France, it may happen here. Anyone can get it right
with ... what is the word?"

"Hindsight?" he suggested.

"Yes, hindsight. Is that
fatalism?"

Matt kicked the stone again "Of course
it's not. It means the worst never happens when you're ready for
it. Fancy a Chinese takeaway in the park?"

*

JASON WENT DOWN to the bar and found
his father sitting alone.

He turned as Jason came through the
door, his fingertips together, studying them closely. "Sophie
Bernay. Yeah, that was her name all right. I've booked your trip
with my American Express. You're getting an early Eurostar train
through the Channel Tunnel to Calais in the morning."

"And what about you?" Jason
demanded.

"I'm going to get the old padre to
call on Alec Rider."

Jason felt angry. "I've had enough of
this garbage."

His father looked deathly pale. "Leave
your staff to look after things in New York, boy. I need you on
this Berlitzan business one hundred percent."

The crisis had brought out an
unexpected aggression in the old man. "I'm not interested in
covering up for you," Jason snapped. "Admit what you did in the war
was wrong, put DCI in the clear, and just disappear. I sometimes
wish you were dead."

"Find Sophie for me. That's all I'm
asking."

"And how do I do that? You have her
address?"

"Ask at the town halls in the area.
Tell them you want to pay a surprise visit on a wartime girlfriend
of your father's. Just make sure you get there ahead of
Rider."

"And pay her off?"

"Move her somewhere safe and wait for
me. I've got urgent business to attend to back here."

He stared at his father. How was the
fool going to find an old Canadian padre? Well, finding some
elderly French hooker called Sophie would be just as
difficult.

A woman called across from reception.
"Is there a Mr. Becker here? Telephone call for Mr.
Becker."

Jason tensed as he walked to the phone
at the desk, aware that he was being watched by several guests at
the bar. Only one man used his middle name. "Yes?"

"Becker, this is your favorite arms
dealer and money lender." Hammid Aziz roared with
laughter.

Jason tried to remain calm when he
heard the voice. "What do you want, Hammid?"

"Today is the day you pay me,
Becker."

The tone of voice sounded calm, almost
self-amused, but Jason had known Hammid Aziz for many years. He
recognized the danger the words concealed.

Aziz had already replaced the
receiver.

As he put the phone back, Jason saw
the solution in a flash. He had a chemist friend who had once dealt
with arms. The phone number was in his room. The single elevator
was always slow. He ran up the stairs, trying to forget the threat
he had heard on the hotel phone. His breathing quickly became
normal once he reached his room.

The number for his contact had a
Washington code. He took his cell phone from his pocket. All he got
was an answering machine saying that the office was closed for
seven days. He'd leave a message.

"Jason Heinman here. Get back to me on
my cell phone as soon as you can. There's something red hot in the
wind, and it could help both of us."

He gave the number and ended his call. If
this worked out he'd not only be in a position to cancel his debt
with Aziz, he could make a personal fortune. He'd not meant to say
anything amusing.

Something red hot in the
wind.

He smiled.

A strong smell of Berlitzan oil
bringing anger and death.

And then it struck him.

How did Aziz know he was in England?
And how the hell did he know which hotel?

Chapter
13

"WELL, WELL,
it's you, Becker.
Not running away, I hope." The man stepped forward to block the
hotel doorway.

"Carlo!" Jason stopped in
astonishment. "I was just going out to take a walk round the hotel
grounds." He tried to sound relaxed. It was not possible for Carlo
to be here in England.

Carlo shook his head. "Mr. Aziz wants
to know more about the offer you make your friend in Washington a
few minutes ago. Come and meet him in the car park."

Jason pushed the South American lackey
aside. "Don't be a fool, Carlo. Aziz has just been talking to me on
the phone. He's in America..."

Across the hotel car park a large
black limo sat under a tree, the interior light revealing a figure
in the rear seat.

Carlo smiled, showing a row of uneven
brown teeth. "It's the age of the car phone, Becker. Mr. Aziz
thought he'd check up on you." He pulled Jason by the arm. "Mr.
Aziz is a little short of time."

"How did you track me
here?"

"He knows you're here, Becker, like he
knows you're going to France."

Jason felt annoyed that he was being
taken for a fool. No way could Aziz be in touch with every hotel in
the world.

"Half a million bucks is a lot of
money, even to Mr. Aziz," responded Carlo. "A little insect has
followed you all the way from the States."

"A bug? I've been bugged?" He started
feeling in his pockets.

Carlo showed a wide grin of brown
teeth. "Not you, Becker. Your luggage. Mr. Aziz is clever with
electronic gizmos. Okay, you come now."

Jason lowered his voice. "I'm using my
usual name here -- Heinman. I only use Becker for personal
business. My great grandfather had it as his middle
name."

Carlo shrugged his thin shoulders.
"You use whatever name you want, Becker. I've come to take you to
Mr. Aziz."

A light drizzle blew across the car
park, and Jason realized his baseball cap was in his room. A smell
of damp earth filled the air but the ground looked dry under the
shelter of the large yew tree where the car was parked. The tinted
rear window was lowered just enough for conversation.

Jason moved cautiously, his feet
crunching loudly on the gravel. The occupant of the limo was now
sitting in darkness. It could be some sort of stupid
trick.

"Get in, Becker," the man inside the
limo said abruptly.

He recognized the Middle Eastern voice
immediately. "Hello, Hammid."

"Get in the car."

Jason sat on the far side of the wide
rear seat to face Hammid Aziz, and opened the window slightly. "I
think it's time we stopped playing games, Hammid. How about we
negotiate?"

Aziz stayed silent, probably puzzled by
being spoken to so sharply. Large drops of water crashed onto the
roof as a light breeze stirred the branches of the yew. Surely the
man's English included the word negotiate.

The arms broker spoke at last. "How
you mean, Becker?"

"We do a deal."

"Ah, a deal." Aziz nodded
thoughtfully. "I hear the message you leave on your friend's phone
in Washington. I know your father book a trip for you to France
tomorrow, so I ask myself what it is you have to offer. Me, I like
to listen to phone calls. It help me with my English. See, I go out
and buy all this ... what you say? ... this
electronics."

Aziz pointed to a complex instrument
panel let into the walnut fascia that would normally have held the
cocktail cabinet. The instrument dials and display screen glowed
green. "I listen to your phone, Becker. To your father's phone. To
everyone's phone." He slapped the seat. "No deals. You pay me
now."

"No, I don't pay you now, so let's get
that understood."

Aziz shrugged his padded shoulders,
and the loose-fitting jacket rose with sufficient expression to
make it clear that pleading would be pointless.

This called for direct confrontation.
"I think my father's done a deal with you."

"Oh yes, he done a deal with me. Your
father, he want your help to save DCI, so he ask me to get all over
your back. He no tell me why."

"And he's offered you some
oil?"

Aziz frowned. "What for this oil? For
my car? My bicycle? No, Becker, your father not offer me any
oil."

Jason kept his face close to the
partly open window to get some much-needed air. "Listen, Hammid, we
can help each other."

"Ah, the offer you tell your friend
about on your cell phone. What you got, Becker?" Aziz sounded
intrigued.

"Something better than money." Jason
struggled to get on top of the situation. "Let's forget my friend
in Washington. How about I sell it to you?"

"I want half million dollars in cash,
Becker," said Hammid Aziz flatly. "That why I come here to get it
back from you tonight."

"You're not listening, Hammid." He
leaned towards Aziz. He needed to put this little man on the
defensive. "We forget the loan and I sell you a special
oil."

Aziz shook his head. "You need
to give me an oil
well
to get me off your back, Becker." And he roared with
laughter at the joke.

Carlo turned round from the driving
seat and dutifully joined in with a broad grin of bad
teeth.

Jason ignored the insolence. "I can
get something that will put you right at the top of the world's
arms dealers. But I need your help."

"Okay." Aziz stopped laughing. "What
you want me to do?"

"I need a handgun and..." Jason
pointed to the electronic control panel. "And a bug to track an
Englishman's car." He looked at Aziz. "Like the one you've planted
on me."

Aziz shook his head slowly. "That one
use a satellite tracker. I no lend you that."