Luc: A Spy Thriller (17 page)

Well now, this was interesting. What did he want with all that water? Then again, maybe the more pertinent question would be, who does he want all that water for?

I got on the phone to Warren.

I reached out and turned the radio down. ‘Warren. Luc. Answer me a question, could you. Does Jimmy Dondero own a bar, nightclub, any sort of business with a lot of people in it?’

‘Dondero?’ he said. ‘No. From what I’ve been able to gather, he’s a Mr Fixer. Doesn’t own anything.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘Why the question?’

‘I don’t know, really, I’ve just had a thought. A crazy thought, maybe, but…’

‘What? You can tell me, Luc. We’re on the same side. Unless you’re a double for the DGSE.’

I ignored him and said, ‘Let London know this. I’m just beginning to wonder whether Dondero might have something to do with the hostages.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Dondero headed west. I wouldn’t exactly say he was a smooth driver. Ran over a lot of kerbs when turning, and a lot of chalk dust was thrown up when he ploughed through potholes. From my limited knowledge of the environs I tried to guess where he may be driving to. Then I realised it could be anywhere.

‘How old is he?’ a caller asked on the radio. ‘Crazy. He should be at school. I never vote for him.’

‘He’s forty-one,’ the host said. ‘Not quite your school age.’

‘He can’t do his job. Get
rid
of him.’

‘Some people are saying he should resign. I guess you agree?’

‘Yeah, resign. Go. Julio Falcao, Bob Thurton, Matty Sunindra, any of them can do better job. Take your homework and leave.’

The Mitsubishi Animal swung into the roadside again and Dondero jumped out. He strolled into some sort of a builder’s yard. Three minutes later he was back, carrying something on his shoulder. Looked like a roll of black tarpaulin. He threw the tarpaulin into the back of the truck and then jumped back in the driver’s seat. I held back again and slowly, steadily, followed. I was more thoughtful this time.

It was only a guess that the water was for the hostages. Might not be. Maybe Dondera had nothing to do with the hostages. Might be maligning him falsely. But his number was on the phone of thugs who worked for Mortlake/Giuttieri. That much we knew. So it was logical to assume that Dondera might well work in some sort of capacity for them too. And somebody was obviously dealing with the hostages. So when Dondera buys a hundred bottles of water, we may reasonably suspect it could be him.

So what was the tarpaulin to be used for?

Yes, it could be to cover something.

But I wondered if there was a more terrible thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

‘Man’s an embarrassment to our country,’ said a caller.

‘You think they’re going to kill the hostages?’ Warren asked on the phone.

‘Warren, I don’t know. Just let London know it’s a possibility.’

‘You don’t think he did a good job with the recent floods?’

‘Black tarpaulin. Sounds ghoulish,’ Warren said. ‘How do you think they’d do it?’

‘Good job?
What
good job?’ said the caller.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied to Warren.

‘There was that film, wasn’t there, where they used pigs. Or was that to remove the evidence? I can’t remember now.’

‘If he’s listening, time’s up, bro.’ The assault on the Prime Minister continued.

A small white Fiat Punto overtook me. We were in a side street near the river.

‘Just tell London, Warren. If we can prove that the hostages are still in Belize, and nothing to do with Guatemala, then maybe we can lessen this simmering heat.’

‘Got that,’ Warren said.

‘Thanks.’ I ended the call and placed the phone on the dash.

The Punto had overtaken the car in front of me and the one in front of that, before pulling in behind Dondero’s Mitsubishi.

Then, to my surprise, it ran straight into the back of him.

I could see Dondera rock forward and then snap his head round to look. He slammed on the brakes and so did the Punto. The other two cars behind managed to avoid the collision and obviously didn’t want to get involved and they shot off past the two stationary vehicles. I slowed to a halt by the opposite kerb.

A woman stormed out of the Punto’s passenger seat. I recognised her immediately as the pregnant woman who Dondero was arguing with when I first saw him. His girlfriend? Wife?

Dondera was out of his pickup and before he had a chance to do anything the woman laid into him, shouting, slapping him. Dondera was now shouting and gesticulating back. The driver’s door of the Punto opened and a pudgy, balding man in his forties got out and rushed over to the woman’s side. The man wore sandals, long shorts and a white linen shirt. He lay a protective arm around the pregnant woman, and said something to Dondero. This very much angered Dondero and he started pushing the newcomer and shouting in his face. The newcomer pushed him back, pointing a finger at him.

Then Dondera pulled out a knife.

The pregnant woman backed away and screamed at him. Dondera slashed at the air in front of the man and told him to go away. Dondera looked like he was losing it.

The woman was still screaming, and Dondera turned and pointed the knife at her and I heard him shout at her to shut up.

The balding man seemed to have had enough and he reached behind him and brought something out from under his shirt.

When he pointed it at Dondera a second or two later I could clearly see it was a gun.

Dondera visibly did not appreciate being publicly challenged and he lunged with his knife at the other man.

I heard the gunshot. And Dondera stopped. He looked curiously at the man. He looked down. Looked at the glistening liquid spreading on his black T-shirt. Then he looked up at the man. Staggered forwards. The man got out of his way and Dondera collapsed onto the ground.

No, no, no, no, I thought. I jumped out of the Toyota and sprinted up to the three of them.

The woman had stopped screaming. There was an eerie calm.

If we were working on the assumption that Dondero was involved in the kidnapping of the hostages, then he was the only lead we had to them.

He couldn’t die.

I crouched down beside him. I quickly turned him over onto his back, a clinking sound coming from his chains.

‘Jimmy. Jimmy,’ I said, looking into his blood-shot eyes. ‘I work for Mortlake. Where are the hostages, Jimmy? Let me finish the job.’

His face was contorted in pain. His cloudy eyes were losing focus.

‘Stay with me, Jimmy.’

The woman started screaming again. A dragonfly as large as my fist hovered close, as if curious about the unfolding scene. And that’s when I felt him go. I put my ear to his chest, checked his neck for a pulse.

Nothing.

Jimmy Dondero was dead.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I tried in vain to resuscitate him, but it was useless. I sank back dejected on my haunches. Then I remembered the woman. If she was his wife or girlfriend she may well know
something
.

I twirled round to look at her.

I had been aware of some activity behind me when I was trying to resuscitate Dondero, but I hadn’t taken much notice. Now I could see the woman was sitting on the kerb, her knees pulled up. She was wearing a flowing orange and white dress, which slung low between her raised knees. The dress had a plunging neckline and her swelled cleavage rose and fell as she puffed out heavy breaths. The balding man was crouched beside her, holding her hand.

‘We have to get you to a hospital,’ he said to her. He glanced over at Dondero. ‘We also have to get away from here.’

He carefully helped the woman to stand up. Her cheeks were puffing in and out. She hugged her enormous belly with her left hand.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Do you know anything about - ?’

‘Get lost,’ the man said. He opened the back of the Fiat Punto and helped the heavily pregnant woman onto the back seat.

‘Listen,’ I said more forcefully.

‘I’m getting my sister to a hospital,’ the man said, not looking at me, continuing to care for his sister. ‘You try and stop me and you’ll end up like your friend Jimmy.’ He carefully fastened the seat belt across her. ‘All right?’ he asked her. She nodded, panting furiously.

The man then swung round and pulled the gun from his belt and pointed it at me. ‘You got what I said, man?’

He threw open the driver’s door and jumped in. He started the vehicle, swung out and shot off.

Dammit.

I hurried back to the dead body of Jimmy Dondero lying in the road. His black T-shirt and cargo shorts were covered in blood and limestone chalk. I rifled through his pockets. I grabbed his wallet, his mobile phone and his car keys.

‘Hey, wo, look at this guy.’

Some people had gathered behind me as I was taking the belongings from the dead body. No, it didn’t look good, but I couldn’t help that right now.

The driver’s door of Dondero’s vehicle was still open and I stepped in and quickly started her up. I shut the door, just as people were starting to throw things at me. Drinks cans, pebbles. Bouncing loudly off the bodywork and side window.

I took off, leaving the heated rabble behind. I opened all windows as there was an overpowering smell of cannabis in the car.

I had lost the Punto but I could only guess they’d go to the main Karl Heusner hospital and as I drove through the early evening traffic I flicked through Jimmy Dondero’s mobile phone. There was a security code needed. I wondered if it would be the same as Hector Villio Fernandez’s. What was it? 71729. I tapped it in.

Bingo.

On his Contacts page he had, among others, an Alvirez, a Carly, a Gail, a Malicia and a Mr Mortlake.
Mr
, if you please. Seeing his name oddly lifted my spirits. We definitely knew now that he worked for Mortlake.

Scrolling through his recent text messages, I found a few that Dondero had sent to Mortlake. One, dated the 12th at 09:34 said, ‘
Arrived. Security no big deal
.’ Another, 46 minutes later said, ‘
We go for dozen. This OK?
’ A third, timed at 14:28, simply said, ‘
We have them
.’ This was roughly the time the tourists had been kidnapped. We had our man.

Dondero had the hostages.

Except now he was dead.

I flicked through the other text messages on Dondero’s mobile phone in the hope that he would mention the whereabouts of the hostages, but there was nothing. I opened the glove compartment. Untidy stack of CDs and a rag.

The pregnant woman and her brother were our only leads now.

***

The hospital car park was overcrowded and I parked the Mitsubishi on a side path and raced through the entrance, side-stepping patients and visitors and some nurses. I turned back to the nurses.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I’m looking for Maternity.’

They both smiled, sensing my urgency, no doubt mistaking me for a soon-to-be-father.

‘First floor. East Wing. Good luck.’

I thanked them and raced around the corner for the lifts. I stabbed at the button, pressing it a few times. As I waited I glanced around. And immediately recognised someone down the corridor at the coffee machine. It was Grace. Wife of Steenhoek.

I looked back at the lift. Come on, hurry up, I thought.

Three seconds later they opened with a ping and I hurried inside after an elderly couple had stepped out.

I pressed the button for the first floor.

The maternity unit had a softer, pinker feel than the rest of the hospital that I’d seen. I hurried up to the reception desk.

‘Yes, sir?’ asked the receptionist.

‘Good afternoon. I’m looking for…’ And then realised I didn’t know the name of the pregnant woman.

‘Yes sir?’

‘I’m looking for Mrs Dondero,’ I said. It was the only name I could guess at.

The receptionist tapped some keys on her computer.

‘Actually, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I see her brother. Thank you.’ He was pacing up and down the corridor to my right.

When he saw me striding towards him he stiffened with anger. He pointed back down the corridor with his finger. ‘Get the hell out of here. Now.’

‘Listen to me,’ I said standing directly in front of him. I lowered my voice. ‘You murdered someone. And I am a witness to that fact. So if I was you I’d start being a little more helpful towards me.’

‘It was self-defence, and you can say what you want. I don’t help friends of Jimmy Dondero.’

‘I’m not a friend of Jimmy Dondero.’

‘You work with him. Same deal.’