Luc: A Spy Thriller (16 page)

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

Lucia smiled broadly, the first proper smile I’d seen since the bomb had gone off. Then she probably realised the same and been reminded of Frank, because she suddenly stopped smiling and looked awkwardly down at the floor.

‘You know, that truly is a beautiful sight,’ I said, indicating the pair of them.

She looked up, her eyes now glistening. ‘Her parents are arriving shortly,’ she said.

I nodded.

***

A little later I brought a mug of coffee into the lounge room. Lucia was curled up on the sofa watching the small TV. Malena’s parents had arrived and taken her and Sylvia. They had family in Dangriga where they could go and stay. I handed Lucia the mug.

‘Are you leaving now?’ she asked, holding the mug in both hands.

I nodded.

Lucia was watching a news report on one of the channels and it suddenly caught my interest. There was a lot of hand-held footage of armed, well-trained police officers overpowering some of the rioters and dragging them away into vans.

‘I am standing in West Street,’ the female news reporter was saying. ‘Which only an hour ago was the scene of some of the most intense rioting. Now, calm has returned. And the clean-up is beginning. Local residents are praising the swift and decisive response from Julio Falcao.’

The picture then switched to a vox-pop of a middle-aged woman being interviewed in her doorway. ‘We need a man like that at the top,’ the woman said. ‘He gets things done. He doesn’t just hide and hope it’ll all go away. Just
hope
that everything will get better.’

The news reporter closed the piece. ‘That last comment is believed to be a reference to the Prime Minister. Many people have vocalised their thoughts that Mr Dutton has largely been silent throughout all the recent crises.’

‘It’s not his fault,’ Lucia said.

I smiled. ‘Are you always on the side of the underdog?’

Lucia took a sip of the coffee. ‘Maybe. Although you can’t really call the Prime Minister the underdog.’

‘True.’ I nodded.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Jimmy Dondero lived in Tallis Street, a dusty lane, lined with palm trees, telegraph poles and stray dogs. A newish red and grey Mitsubishi Animal 4x4 pickup truck was parked outside his home.

Dondero was the man whose phone number we’d frequently found on the phone of Hector Fernandez, the man in the red Jeep next to Pinto. I could just make out the house from where I was parked on the corner.

I pulled out my phone and dialled the number.

‘Charlie, it’s Luc.’

‘Ah, hello, Luc.’ Man’s voice.

‘Warren,’ I said.

‘Yes, hello, Luc. And thank you. Your drop in audible enthusiasm is most welcome. Really lifts my self-esteem.’

‘Happy to help.’ A breeze blew into the vehicle from the semi-open window.

‘Yep. These continuous digs at me are interesting. And I would like to return to them, I really would, but I’m glad you’ve rung because I have some information I need to impart. We’ve been scanning satellite pictures and local CCTV imagery and we’re pretty certain that you’re right. There does seem to have been a number of youths bussed into Belize overnight. It looks like there was more to this rioting than simple local anger.’

I nodded. ‘Giuttieri. I knew it.’

‘Think you’re probably right there, Luc.’

‘Warren, I need - .’

‘Anyway, getting back to these digs at me. As I say, they interest me. They do. And so what I thought I would do was to have a little look through your file. And do you know, it’s all becoming a little clearer now.’

I was frowning. I sat up in my seat. ‘You looked through my file?’

‘Keeping up. That’s good. It’s going to help. Yes, now obviously Philip Luc’s a legend…’

‘Kind of you.’

‘Ha ha. But I didn’t realise you actually
were
French. I mean, I know, keep the legend as close to the truth as possible, but even so. And your real name,’ he said, saying my real name, ‘is a bit of a French belter, isn’t it? I mean that truly is striped jersey and onions.’

‘I need you to - .’

‘Born in Clermont-Ferrand, thirty-one years ago. Parents, Eloise and Fabien, moved to England when their little boy was six.

‘Anyway, what I’m driving at is I think I can see where all your animus comes from. Can’t have been easy. Growing up in England as the lone French kid. Always known as Frenchie, or Froggie, or, what’s the new one? Cheese-eating surrender monkey?’

‘After my time.’

‘So, just the former ones. Well, they’re enough to be getting on with.’

I chewed the inside of my mouth.

‘Always felt like the outsider, did you?’ he asked. ‘Never really one of the gang.’

‘Well, the girls liked me. They loved a bit of French speak.’

‘Good. It helped to ease your pain, did it?’

‘Warren, I need you to arrange a meeting between myself and the Minister for National Security. Julio Falcao. If you can fit it in between your psychoanalysing.’

‘Merely stating I understand where you’re coming from. And, look, I’ve got troubles too. My glands, for instance…Well, maybe another time. No, I’m on your side here, Luc. And as for your request, I will get on to it immediately.’

‘Use the proper protocols.’

I could hear him sucking in air over his teeth. ‘Doing it again there, Luc. Implying I have no idea how to do my job. How was the security alarm before? Deafen you with its decibels? Or was it simply deactivated like I said it was?’

‘Call me on this number when you’ve arranged the meet.’

‘This number?’ he said. ‘Your number? Not Frank Sinatra’s number?’

‘Just do it, Warren.’

I cut the call, threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

I looked back out of the window. An old man in a faded cream shirt and grey trousers ambled towards me along Tallis Street, a chicken padding along beside him. The man was talking to the chicken. It was a strange sight (at least it was for me), and because of it I almost missed the figure striding out of the house.

My eyes flicked back across the street and I saw him. About six foot, dreadlocks tied at the back, and a beard. Black T-shirt, light cargo shorts, and a thin silver chain swinging down next to his thigh. A silver necklace hung from his neck and tattoos decorated the length of his right arm. He seemed to be shouting as he walked. There was nobody else that I could see, so he might’ve had a hands-free phone. But then a pregnant woman appeared behind him, carrying a baby, and she too was shouting, so I’d obviously arrived at a domestic.

Dondero swirled round, swinging his arms. He thrust his head towards the woman and shouted something else. I was too far away to hear the actual words. The woman pointed her free hand at Dondero and screamed something in return. Dondero pointed at the house, shouted some more, and with a swing of his arm to dismiss her he threw open the door of his pickup, got inside and roared off.

The woman screamed something after him. I thought I maybe heard some cursing.

I gave it five seconds, and as the pregnant woman stormed back into the house with the baby, I followed Dondero.

***

We had gone a little way, mainly through back streets. Dondera pulled into the side. I could see a group of dudes in T-shirts and combat shorts standing in front of a ramshackle bar. Dondera got out of the pickup and approached the group. They all bumped fists and hugged and Dondera said something and they all laughed. Dondera was a comedian, good to know.

After a couple more minutes of jovial chat, Dondera got back in his pickup, and with a beep of the horn, he screeched off. I had to give it a little longer this time. I had parked down the road, and the group of men weren’t going anywhere. Dondera’s Mitsubishi turned left. I didn’t know these streets at all well, so I hoped I wouldn’t lose him. I pulled out, passed the group of dudes, and took the left turning.

There was no sign of him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The Toyota prowled down the road and I scanned left and right to see if Dondero’s Mitsubishi was parked up a drive. Couldn’t see it anywhere.

I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand and cursed. Two lads on bicycles criss-crossed in front of me, and then stood up on the pedals, coasting. They then furiously pedalled down the street as if racing each other and turned left. I watched them go and then smiled as, in the distance, they passed in front of Jimmy Dondero who was casually strolling up the path of a house. I briefly saw a woman open the door and Jimmy Dondero held his arms out a little and danced inside.

I parked up on the side of the road and wondered how long I’d have to wait.

I relaxed back in my seat, resting my elbow out of the window. A short while later a boy of about ten with a corn row hairstyle and a NY Mets T-shirt appeared at the window.

He didn’t say anything at first, he just grinned.

I did the same, except for the grinning bit.

‘You want to buy food?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘You want to buy drink?’

‘No.’

‘You been to New York?’

‘Yes.’

‘You like it?’

‘I thought it was terrific.’

‘I’m going to New York.’

‘Well, goodbye then.’

‘Soon as I leave school. I’m going to New York. I’m going to be a billionaire. People will write things about me.’

I looked at him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Silvio. Silvio Martinez.’

‘I’ll look out for it. Did you say you were selling drinks?’

‘Yes sir,’ he said enthusiastically, and then rolled off all the drinks he had to offer. I asked for a can of Coke. He disappeared from the window, there was some rummaging and clinking, and then he reappeared with a glistening, chilled can of Coca Cola. He was evidently dragging round a portable cooler box. ‘Two dollars. Cash.’ Not exactly a bargain, but I guess he had to make a profit.

I swopped the money for the drink.

‘So what are you saying, Silvio? In a few years’ time I can boast to people that I once bought a drink from
the
Silvio Martinez?’

He thought about this, his head going a little to one side. ‘Why you waiting,’ he concluded. ‘You boast now.’

I laughed, and he disappeared with the heavy cooler box - ‘Goodbye, sir’ - as he’d just spotted another customer. The potential customer didn’t buy though, pushing the little boy out of the way. But Silvio was undeterred as he disappeared around the corner seeking new clients for his flourishing enterprise.

The potential customer continued strolling down the street. He was dressed fairly smartly in shirt and trousers. He turned left, where the lads had disappeared with their bikes. And then, to my surprise he walked up the front path of the house that Dondero had gone into, and let himself in with his own key.

I sat up a little in my seat.

Two minutes later Dondero reappeared, sauntering out of the house, putting his T-shirt back on, and smiling a wolfish, smug smile. The potential customer reappeared, gesticulating and shouting something at Dondero. Dondero snapped round and ran at the man and drove a punch straight into the man’s face. The man went down like a sack of potatoes, flat on his back. But Dondero hadn’t finished. He kicked the man in the back. Then spat on him.

The woman reappeared, wrapping a dressing gown around her scantily dressed self. When she saw the man on the ground a shocked hand went up to her mouth. She looked at Dondero. She put her index finger and little finger up to her ear and lips and silently mouthed, ‘Call me.’

Dondero grinned. He got back into the Mitsubishi Animal and roared off.

***

A woman with a lot of make-up and little clothing was dancing to her own tune outside a bar. Dondero honked his horn and the woman snapped her head up to look and began enthusiastically waving at him. Dondero parked beside her, got out, and hugged and kissed her and twirled her around.

If this was what he was going to spend his day doing, then I may have to put this one down to experience and move on. I was learning nothing. Nothing, anyway, of relevance.

I had the radio on, Love FM. It was a phone-in show and they were currently discussing the Prime Minister, Neville Dutton. From what I was hearing Mike was right. There was no great love out there for Neville.

Dondero and the woman stopped dancing and he kissed her full on the lips and then left her and strolled up the street, his silver chain swinging back and forth. He had a confident swagger. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that he thought of himself as a lion in the jungle. He stepped into a grocery store/cash and carry. The woman danced off down the street. I watched her go, and then looked back at the shop.

After about five minutes Dondero strolled back out of the store. He wasn’t empty handed. Dondero was pushing an upright trolley that had three crates of water bottles stacked on it. He pushed the squeaking trolley over to his vehicle and lifted each crate onto the back of the pickup. He then returned the trolley to the store.