Luc: A Spy Thriller (23 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A rickety van was dawdling in front. A Toyota Prado, with the slim figure of Robert Thurton II sitting in the back, was two cars in front of that.

I had the radio on and was listening to Falcao make his speech at the St George’s Caye event. I had no doubt that his personal security and Warita’s team were good. And they would need to be. It was a brave stance he was taking. But if Giuttieri was planning to take him out at this event, then Falcao was going to be very lucky to get through the day.

In the distance I saw a curious thing. It was a large white object at a forty-five degree angle. At first I thought it looked like some sort of missile. As I got closer though, I could see it was a modern art type sculpture resting in the centre of a roundabout. I’ve got to be honest, I have no idea what it represented. The Prado swung round the roundabout and took the second turning. I watched as the rickety van took the first turning, thank you, and I indicated and took the second, following the Toyota.

‘
Man’s bravery can be unbounded in the moment where there can be no return
,’ Falcao’s words came through the radio. ‘
When all is on the line. When every bridge has been burned and the only way is to go forward. At this moment bravery can burn bright.

‘But what of the moments when there is a choice? Or indeed many choices. A choice to run. Stay where you are. Or return to safety.

‘Then, bravery takes on a different hue.

‘Because to go forward when you
can
go back, that is true courage. And it is in these moments we see the truly courageous.

‘They choose, actually choose, make the
decision
, to go forward. Towards the danger.

‘Not without fear. In spite of the fear.

‘This is the courageous man.

‘And this is the Baymen of 1798. Those determined souls who marched forward and fought a mighty enemy. Who engaged in a battle for freedom.

‘And who won.

‘It is these who we celebrate today
.
These Baymen. These Belizean men.
’

The call came through.

‘Luc, it’s Charlie.’

‘Glad it’s you, Charlie.’

‘Yes, Warren’s been telling me you two have been getting on famously. Soulmates, I’d say. It’s a rare thing.’

‘Isn’t it.’

‘So, Luc.’ Getting down to business. ‘You’ve got a press pass. You’re Stephen Pringle, reporter for
The Times
. Thurton has agreed to a twenty minute interview today at 11.00 a.m. It’s at his offices at the National Assembly building. I’ll email over all the details.’

‘Good work, Charlie. And Charlie, try not to have any more time off. Sleep is overrated in the young.’

‘Gotcha, Luc.’

***

The man at the security gate eyed my press pass and nodded me through. I was shown to an outer office on the first floor. I dropped the pass back in the pocket of my light blue shirt and sat on a cushioned chair. I didn’t have long to wait. A young woman with long golden earrings and a writing pad showed me into Thurton’s office.

‘Mr Thurton, this is Stephen Pringle from the London
Times
.’

Thurton rose from his desk and held out his hand. His off-white shirt seemed too baggy for his thin, angular body.

‘Mr Pringle, very nice to meet you,’ he said. We shook hands. He had a thin moustache, which I didn’t think he’d had in the photograph.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said.

‘Not at all. Spent some wonderful times in London. How’s Barney Macdougall? Is he still at
The Times
?’

I smiled. ‘I try and stay out of Mac’s way. Yes, he’s still there.’

Thurton laughed. ‘You’re probably wise. Barney’s a fearsome sub-editor. But he’s a great storyteller.’

‘Aye. That he is.’ We both laughed at my attempt at a Scots accent.

A journalist is a cover that we often use. Charlie had emailed me the info again concerning
The Times
, but it hadn’t changed much since my training.

‘Anyway,’ I said, pulling the smartphone from my pocket and switching on the voice recorder. I placed it onto the table midway between us. ‘First off, Mr Thurton, it’s been a pretty tumultuous few days for Belize. Are things under control now?’

Thurton nodded soberly. ‘Yes, it has been a difficult couple of days. But we are a strong nation. And we will stay strong.’ He took his glasses off and put the end of one arm into his mouth.

‘Things under control?’

‘Yes, I hope so.’

‘Only hope?’ I asked.

‘I believe our security services have been doing a marvellous job. I continue to have full confidence in them.’

‘How do you think the Prime Minister has handled the crisis?’

‘The Prime Minister is a man of great integrity.’

‘Did you think the possible motion of no confidence in him was justified?’

‘I didn’t call for a motion.’

‘But did you agree with it?’

‘Well, it’s irrelevant now that we have a leadership contest.’

I nodded. ‘And what do you think your chances are in the upcoming leadership election?’

‘Look, I leave all that to others. As long as I can continue to serve my country in some capacity - that’s what matters to me.’

‘Did you see this coming?’

His forehead creased a little. ‘Excuse me?’

‘The leadership election. It seems to have come out of nowhere. Did anybody foresee it?’

He shook his head. ‘I certainly didn’t. Wasn’t it one of your countrymen who said that a week was a long time in politics?’

I nodded. ‘I believe that’s right.’ I leaned back and it was here that I attached the tiny microphone to the underside of my chair.

‘What do you think of your nearest rival for the leadership, Julio Falcao?’

‘Well, Julio is an outstanding politician. It’s not a secret that we don’t see eye to eye on everything. But if he does become leader, I look to serve him in any way I can.’ We continued on like this for a few more minutes and then he looked at his watch. ‘And now, I do apologise, but I have much still to get through.’ He put his glasses back on. ‘And tonight I’m to be grilled on
Ask the Question
, so…’

‘You must love those programmes,’ I said grinning.

‘It’s a good opportunity to get across to people what I believe in,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Thurton. The people of the UK are most concerned with what’s been going on. It’s good to know that things appear to be under control now.’

Thurton smiled and nodded and we shook hands. ‘Give my regards to Barney,’ he said.

‘Will do.’

I left the room and strolled down the corridor.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The Zeiss 10x54 zoom binoculars stood on a tripod at the front window of the top floor apartment of Mrs Juanita Contenza, an elderly lady who had been listening to old fashioned Belizean jazz rhythms on her ancient gramophone when I had earlier called. Mrs Contenza had now temporarily vacated her one bedroomed apartment and was being excellently catered for by those lovelies in the black pencil skirts at the British Embassy.

Looking through the Zeiss I turned the lens and Thurton came into focus. He was crouched down, flicking through some paperwork in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. I was looking directly down into his office window from the building opposite. He stood up and kicked the drawer closed and took the file back to his desk.

I watched for a good hour. He had a further two meetings. One was with a journalist from
The Belize Times
. They talked of the upcoming leadership election. They also talked of more domestic matters. The second was a meeting with a member of the Senate. Discussing something valid but, for my ears, mundane. I’m glad I just about managed to stay awake though. Because Thurton had a third meeting.

And this one was with Ray Mortlake.

Mortlake strode into the office with his bodyguard, Salazar. The microphone picked it all up, if a little muffled.

‘How’s your day been, Thurton?’ Mortlake asked. Salazar stood away to the right, out of my sight.

‘Okay. Busy as usual. The life of a politician.’

‘You wanna try being a lawyer.’ Mortlake’s New York accent was still strong.

‘I’ll stick to being a humble politician.’ I could see the weak grin on his face.

‘Next week you’ll be the Prime Minister and we’ll both be as rich as Croesus. Get used to it.’ He looked around the office. ‘Before we start preparing for your
Ask Any Crap
appearance, anything happen today that we should know about?’

Thurton shrugged and gave another weak grin. ‘Publicity went well.’ I could hear the smirk in his voice. He sounded like a fourteen-year-old trying to impress an eighteen-year-old.

‘Shut up, Bob,’ Mortlake said. ‘And I’m serious. This is an election. We got people who want to stop us. Anybody meet you, try and contact you, who you didn’t know, were unsure of?’

Thurton shook his head. ‘I meet lots of people. I don’t know. I’m a politician.’

‘Well you wanna get out of that habit. Look, you wanna be on the lookout for people who don’t have your best interests at heart. You got me?’

‘Yes, sure.’

‘We’re moving heaven and earth for you, all right? We don’t want it ruined at the last minute. The Brits especially have it in their craw to stop you.’

‘The British? Why?’

‘Who knows about the goddam Brits. Does anybody?’

‘I’ve always go on well with - .’

Mortlake pointed a finger at Thurton. ‘Have you met any Brits recently?’ I tensed.

‘No. Actually, yes.’

‘Who?’

‘It was just a guy from the London
Times.
’

‘What guy?’ Mortlake sounded suspicious as hell.

‘A journalist.’

‘When was this? This a scheduled meet?’

‘Today. A few hours ago. It was a last minute arrangement, but they were doing a piece on the leadership election. Why not?’

‘From the London
Times
?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know this journalist? You’ve seen him before? One of the usual?’

‘Well, no, but…’

Mortlake reached into his case and pulled out his laptop. He tapped out something on it and then strode round to Thurton. ‘This the guy you saw?’ He put the open laptop on the desk in front of Thurton.

‘Yes. That looks like him.’

Mortlake nodded. ‘Journalist, eh?’ There was a hissing sound. I couldn’t see, he had his back to me, but I think Mortlake was letting air out through gritted teeth.

‘That sonofabitch is not a journalist.’

‘He said he was.’

Mortlake got animated. ‘Where did he go? In this office, where did he go?’

Thurton shrugged. ‘He sat in that chair. Put his recorder on the desk.’

Mortlake marched to the front of the desk. He crouched down and looked under the desk, felt underneath with his hands. He stood up. He was motionless for a touch of a second. Then he seemed to see the chair. He grabbed it, turned it upside down.

‘Son of a bitch,’ Mortlake roared. He plucked off the mic. A scuffing sound came through my ear bud. Mortlake then threw the chair across the room. It disappeared out of my view, but the sound of the crash was
loud
.

‘Goddam it, we got people masquerading as journalists to get in here, and when they do they bug the goddam place.’ That sounded like a little speech for the microphone. The outraged innocent.

Mortlake dropped the mic onto the carpet. He then smashed his heel down on top of it four times. The first time loudly disabled it.

Mortlake looked up. He looked at the window. He slowly approached it. His face scanned from left to right.

Then he looked up.

The Zeiss has an anti-glare coating. But it’s not 100%. If you’re looking for it, you might just find it.

Mortlake looked as if he had just found it.

He backed away, pulled out his phone and disappeared from view. My phone began to ring.

It couldn’t be…

I looked at the display. It wasn’t.

‘Luc, it’s Aranda. Are you near a TV?’

‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘Something bad. Switch on the TV.’

‘Is Falcao okay?’

‘We kept him alive. But we couldn’t count on this. I’ve got to go. Switch on the TV.’

I backed up and went across the living room. An old Sharp TV stood in the corner, a potted plant on a lace doily sitting on top. I switched on the TV and then went hunting for the remote. I found it down the side of the brown armchair. I switched channels until I got the news. A male reporter was standing outside an apartment block. Police tape was stretched across the road behind him.