The Collectors - Book Four: Diamonds and Sand (The Collectors Series 4) (10 page)

“
Do I have a choice?”

“The decision is yours. I
can and will walk out of your house and cease to exist.”

Petros put on his best poker face.
“If I agree and for the moment it remains a big bloody if, who’s my contact?”

John remained specific. “We will
make contact as and when. Your objective is to recover Eva’s hoard. We will pick up the trail from there. Be warned she is a tough bitch, uses men, carries a knife and knows how to use it.”

“
That fills me with confidence. The final decision remains with my partner. Some financial assistance might help.”

“In spite of what you may hear
, government departments are not awash with money. We might stretch to covering reasonable expenses.”

Petros laughed. “Does reasonable stretch to a five star hotel?”

John glanced at his watch and walked to the door. “Three stars and someone will be in touch.”

Petros opened the door and watched as his strange vis
itor strolled to his car. Not until did Soames drive onto the main road did he close the door.

Maria descended the stairs with
Alysa and Charlie following. “Who’s that man?”

“John Soames. It seems I’ve been seen talking to the wrong people.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Not a bit. He’s even prepared to pay the expenses for my next collection.”

Maria’s expression began to change. “I was not aware of any collection.”

“My love,
its early days. Bear and I are working on something which might be interesting.”

Maria sat on the settee
for a few minutes as he explained the circumstances.

Chapter Six

Early the next morning the telephone rang in Petros’ home.

Maria answered, listened, said thank you and replaced the receiver. “PK, the London Library says it has the book you requested written by an Ulrich Geller.”

He pushed his chair back.
“It has? That’s quick. Looks like I’ll be spending the day reading. Is there anything you want me to get from town?”

“You’re in luck, can’t think of a thing.
”

***

Petros locked his old silver BMW and strolled the short distance to St James’s Square. He walked to reception and waited.

A
dark-haired, pleasant-mannered and eye-catching girl smiled. “Can I help you?”

             
He returned the smile and gave his full name. “I understand you have my book by Ulrich Geller.”

             
In seconds, she placed it in front of him. “Please, Mr Kyriades, sign here and I’m sure that you are aware this book cannot leave these premises.”

             
“No problem. I’ll be in the quiet room reading and making notes.” With the book, he made his way to a quiet area, sat, placed his pad on the desk and started reading.

For the next four hours, he became absorbed in the life of Ulrich Geller. His rescue from the des
ert described in less than a page. The word diamond never appeared in the book although Petros knew they were located in the aircraft when it crashed. Deliberately forgotten or had Geller assumed his rescuers found and gave them to the British general staff for onward dispatch? Baumstein might have mentioned something in his report unless... His mind raced. The spoils of war often disappeared. He had hoped for too much and disappointment did not bode well.

             
Satisfied Geller’s book indicated nothing of importance; he made his way to reception, retuned the book and left. While strolling to his car he decided there remained one man to talk to before he and Bear made their final decision.

***

To his surprise, he found the home of Lieutenant Baumstein’s daughter with ease. The modern, modest three-level block of flats on Clarence Parade, overlooked an expanse of grass before it met the sea.

He parked his car in the
visitor’s space and allowed his gaze to wander. Tidy gardens bordered the parking area and the red brick structure served its purpose. Well, my friend, if you found the diamonds you’d not be living here.

             
He pressed the door entry system for the Littlejohn flat and waited. A woman with a faint northern accent answered. “Mrs Littlejohn.”

             
“Hello, Petros Kyriades. I telephoned earlier.” A buzz, a click, and he pushed the entrance door open and climbed the stairs to the third floor.

             
Mrs Littlejohn, a short, dumpy woman with red hair and round face in part concealed with dark-rimmed glasses waited.

             
“Mr Kyriades.” She held out her hand. “You said you wanted to talk to my father about his time in the desert. Father’s not as sharp as he once was. He needs time to remember. Please follow me.”

             
They entered the hallway and walked into a room to their left. Faded black and white photographs hung in rows on one wall. A thin Mr Baumstein sat in a six-wheeled, powered chair with joystick control. In spite of his appearance, his keen eyes searched as if attempting to recognise his visitor.

             
“Good afternoon. I love my daughter and son-in-law but it’s a pleasant change to talk to someone as young as you.”

             
“My pleasure. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

             
“Time, son, is all I have and not much of it left.” He chuckled. “I intend to hang on until my century.”

             
“Cup of tea, dad?”

             
“Yes please and our guest?”

             
“A black coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.”

             
“No problem, I’ll put kettle on.”

             
“Young man, what exactly do you want to discuss?”

             
“Your time in LRDG. I imagine you’re one of the few survivors.”

             
Baumstein thought for a moment. “Have you served?”

             
Petros grinned. ”A few years, made captain before they forced me to resign.”

             
“May I ask why?”

             
“The general discovered me in bed with his rather attractive but much younger wife and had a sense of humour failure.”

             
“LRDG was great, no rules except get the job done. You relied on your team. One balls-up and you ceased to exist. You could say I enjoyed my war but on the other hand, a great many of my friends never arrived for dinner in the mess.”

             
Petros nodded. “Base 22.50. Where is it?”

             
The old man appeared to grow younger as his back straightened. “No one ever discovered my hideaway, not the desert tribes and thanks to God not the enemy. You could walk straight past. Dark shadows, a trick of the light, concealed the entrance for most of the day. I tell a lie, a Luftwaffe pilot stumbled across it after his Junkers crashed. Poor sod was close to death when we found him. His co-pilot we buried a couple of hundred metres away. I bet his grave’s still there. Haven’t a clue what happened to the pilot after we dumped him at the hospital.”

             
“Was 22.50 large?”

             
“Like an aircraft hanger when you travelled a few hundred metres inside. That place saved our lives a few times. We weren’t the Africa Corps’ favourite people. Camouflage nets covered our wagons and we could rest inside for weeks if we had to. Over time, we concealed emergency provisions, petrol, weapons and ammunition. Snug as bed bugs we were. Much of it will still be there, hidden. When we entered Tripoli no one bothered to go back, wasn’t worth the effort.”

             
The door opened. “Tea, dad, and coffee for our visitor. Another ten minutes, Mr Kyriades. He tires easily these days.”

             
Baumstein shrugged. “She means well. Have you more questions before you’re thrown out?”

             
“Were you aware that the crashed aircraft you saw near 22.50 transported diamonds for Hitler?”

             
“I didn’t, but my task was to cause as much disruption to the enemy as my small group could achieve. Three groups of LRDG operated in this way. The generals knew what we did was not kosher.” He gave a short chuckle before coughing. “Halfway through one patrol, after being strafed by a lone Spitfire, we didn’t have enough fuel to return to 22.50. I had two choices - stop in the middle of hell and die or we ask the enemy for fuel. We were lucky and came across a German supply convoy resting for the night. I drove up to their senior officer’s tent in my German half-track and demanded ten drums of fuel. He obliged but the bastard made me sign a stores supply voucher. Have I answered your questions?”

             
“You lead a charmed life, sir. And yes, you have answered my questions but location 22.50. Was there ever a longitude?”

             
“Seven o’clock, young man. We said that in case any of us became prisoners. Thankfully, it never happened and in any case, my group agreed from the start if it all went wrong we had an envelope in our tunic breast pocket. Inside, the name of the man we must kill before being overrun and captured. As Jews, our life expectancy was zero. My men proved that fact wrong.”

             
His eyes stared into the distance then closed and an unshaven chin met his chest.

Petros went and found his daughter. “I believe he’s fallen asleep.”

              She smiled. “Does that all the time. The sad thing is he won’t remember your visit but from the liveliness in his voice he enjoyed every moment.” She opened the door to the stairwell. “Drive with care, there are a lot of lunatics on the road.”

             
He turned. “Thank your father for me. He’s been a great help in my research.”

             
In silence, he drove back to London, the drum of the tyres on the road hypnotic. In his mind he pictured Baumstein as a young man leading his men into battle. The blast of a horn from an overtaking lorry returned him to reality. “What the...” He drove into the next lay-by and stopped. For a while he reclined the seat, opened the windows and gazed at the sky. Excitement travelled through him. Certain the diamonds had not been retrieved, he had to be involved but Bear might think otherwise. A cold blast hit the side of his face as a juggernaught thundered by.

             
With a strong signal registering on his mobile, he contacted Bear.

             
“Hi Bear, can we meet at Andrea’s Bistro at ten in the morning?”

             
“No probs.”

Chapter Seven

Petros’ gaze drifted across St Katherine’s Dock as he strolled to Andreas’ Bistro. Bear sat at a window table reading The Mirror.

The big man
lowered the paper and proffered his right hand. “Grab a pew, Andreas is out back making a couple of his double-decker egg and bacon sarnies.”

Petros grab
bed the coffee jug from the heater and filled a large mug. “For you or one each?”

He grinned.
“One for you and two for me.”

“Hi
, Petros,” said Andreas as he placed the filled baps on the counter. “Did you receive my invoices for that repair to the flat in St John’s Wood? The bastard did a runner. I checked and his deposit covered the rent.”

“Shit happens. If
all it needs is a paint job we should count ourselves lucky.”

“
I rented the penthouse across the road to two over-paid doctors. The place was a disaster when they left. Had to carry out fumigation.”

“
I helped myself to coffee, I hope you don’t mind?”

“On the house,” said Andreas.

“Have you finished filling your face, Bear?”

“My plate
’s empty.”

“Well fill
the mugs with coffee. I need to discuss Evil Eva and her diamonds.” Petros sat looking out over St Katherine’s Dock, the sun reflecting off the tranquil surface. Memories of the time he lived on
Dream Chaser
distracted his thoughts until Bear placed a full mug of coffee on the table.

“
Start talking, I’m listening.”

Petros gave Bear a razor-sharp look. “I’m positive the diamonds are still there.”

“There’s a but.
.. I can sense it.”

Petros’
face remained unchanged when he said, “Several. The first is the British intelligence service. One of their lesser mortals visited my house the other night. Second, Libya may have ousted Muammar Gaddafi but the factions are fighting each other and the country is a mess. Last, but not least, our Eva is a member of a Neo-Nazi party who claim to be the Fifth Reich.”

             
Bear swore. “Dare I ask? You have a plan to collect the diamonds and you need my approval.”

“That’s right.
From your previous service is there anyone you know who can fly a helicopter, has an in-date licence and can take a week off work?”

Bear stared at the ceiling. “
Do we need a helicopter for this job?”

Petros raised his eyebrows. “
We do. No helicopter, no diamonds.”

“Why not
hire one. Do the job, pay the man and fuck off.”

“Good question. We need a pilot who can fly at ground level for the duration of the trip and can keep his mouth shut. My plan is to enter and leave
Libya by the back door.”

Bear shook his head. “Give me a couple of days
. I might find somebody stupid enough and for the right price to volunteer. If the rest of your plan is that simple, why should I worry?”

Petros waved to Andreas. “Two
more coffees, please.”

“On their way.”

“With luck we find the diamonds and hand them over to the Evil Eva. She pays us up front and the UK government gives us a bonus. What could be easier?”

“
Not to do it. There are too many ifs. You, I trust. The government will drop us like a ton of hot horseshit if it goes tits-up. Evil Eva will cut our balls off and watch us bleed to death.” Bear noticed the confusion in Petros’ eyes. “But it does appeal to my sense of adventure and I need something to make me feel alive. One question, why doesn’t the intelligence service do its own dirty work?”

“I imagine because we are best at what we do
and they don’t want to get their hands dirty. I speculate Evil Eva thinks we’re not the brightest kids on the block. When you find me a pilot, we’ll chat with our client. And before you ask, I’ve identified where the diamonds are.”

“Two coffees,” said Andreas. “Are you staying for lunch?”

“Might as well,” said Bear, checking his watch. “Anything special on the menu?”

“I’ve a couple of fillet steaks that need to be eaten. F
ancy that and the trimmings?”

Petros removed his marked map of
Libya and smoothed it out on the table. “Make mine steak, chips and a couple of runny eggs on top, Andreas. Thank you.”

“You
’re familiar with my needs, Andreas,” said Bear

Petros stood and waited for Bear to concentrate. “We fly from Zouar airport in Chad,” he pressed his finger on the map, “to here, nip over the border into Libya and back in time for tea.”

“Great plan
, PK, but if we ditch, it’s a long walk home and from memory the border is littered with land-mines.”

“
I need you to undertake a recon. Libya as I said is a mess and Chad not much better. There’s desert on one side and mountains on the other. Your advantage is you won’t stand out if you dress as a local.”

“I’m not going on my
own, even though black is beautiful and I can hide in the dark. My mercenary contact lives in London. I’ll have a word. When do you want me to leave?”

“Yesterday
, but in truth when you’re ready.”

“
I need to get a visa and my vaccinations up to date. Malaria is widespread in that dump.”

“I’ll contact E
vil Eva and tell her we are interested but we need time.”

“The but being my
satisfactory reconnoitre in the arsehole of the world.”

He shrugged.
“Your call. We can call it off.”

“PK, I’m bored watching builders mix concrete, build and plaster walls. Jocelyn is at work five days a week. And
anyway, this should be a doddle. In and out three days at the most. Charge this jaunt to madam’s account.”

“I’ll deal with her.”

“Grub’s up,” said Andreas.

“Best news I’ve heard to
day,” said Bear.

***

Sat in his study, Petros telephoned Eva Engel’s number.

             
It rang twice before she answered. “Eva Engel.”

             
“Good afternoon. Ms Engel. Petros Kyriades. You spoke to my partner Bear Morris with reference to a collection. We are interested but do need to meet and discuss it further.”

             
“When might be convenient, Mr Kyriades?”

             
“Name the place and time and I’ll be there.”

             
“Will Mr Morris be with you?”

             
“No. He has other business to attend to.”

             
“We met at the Star Cafe and Grill, Hammersmith. Is that acceptable?”

             
“Food, that’s what the big man thinks about. There’s a wine bar a few doors down. I’ll see you there at noon, tomorrow.”

“Noon it is
, Mr Kyriades. How will I recognise you?”

“No need.
When you enter I’ll wave a white envelope with my right hand.”

“May I ask how
you will recognise me, Mr Kyriades?”

“You may
, and I might tell you tomorrow. Don’t be late. After five minutes I won’t be there.” His right thumb ended the call. He chuckled, left his study and strolled to the kitchen.

.***

In a large wood-panelled room overlooking the Thames, Charles Haskell, a Lebanese-born Syrian national with a jagged scar across his left eye, lit his third cigar of the morning. His one good eye stared at the large man stood in his office. “Long time, my friend.” He shifted in his chair. “It’s good to see you, Bear. What do you need? Air-to-air missiles, two-a-penny these days. World peace, embargoes and the Taliban play hell with my business. You name it, I can get it.”

             
Bear knew Charles, a multimillionaire, was a major arms dealer who could if his mood allowed, help him. In the beginning the hiring of mercenaries to any developing country required arming them. With a little thought, the selling of arms became a more lucrative occupation. These days, he knew who was operational, dead, or retired. Nothing could happen in the world of men hired to fight without Charles knowing. He pulled a chair from in front of the desk and sat. “A name and address.”

             
Charles studied his guest, shrugged and smiled. “How much will it cost me?” His voice gave no indication of his mood.

             
“Nothing. I need a name and address.”

             
“Glad to hear it. Business or pleasure?”

             
“Akeem Babin, is he still alive?”

             
Charles stood and walked to the window overlooking the river. He removed his mobile from his trouser pocket and pressed a few buttons before he handed it to Bear.

             
“Akeem, its Bear Morris.”

             
“Ah, the fucking black sergeant wants something.”

“Your
balls on a plate, par-boiled in a mushroom cream sauce.”

             
“Hey, Night-Fighter, is that you? I heard an Afghan rag-head shot your arse off.”

             
“He missed and I need your assistance.”

             
“One thousand a day plus expenses.”

             
Charles held up four fingers.

             
“Four hundred, you Frenchman’s bastard, plus expenses.”

             
“You insult me but I remember you saved my life, so my life is yours. Five hundred.”

             
“Four hundred or I end this call.”             

“How many days?”

              “Four, but might lead to seven.”

             
“When do we leave?”

             
“When we have had our arses filled with shots and have visas.”

             
“Tell me where we are going?”

             
“Chad.”

             
“It’s a God-forsaken country. North or south?”

             
“North.

             
“There’s fuck all there.”

             
“That’s where you are wrong, my friend. In or out?”

             
“I must consult my schedule for the next few weeks.”

             
“In or out, Akeem, or I hang up.”

             
“In.”

             
“I’ll meet you in London, St Pancras Station, in three days. I’ll have tickets for Paris, Charles De Gaul and onward to N’Djamena. Bring the appropriate clothes and don’t be late.”

             
“Late, effendi, I am but your humble servant.”

             
Bear shut Akeem off.

             
“Chad,” said Charles as he stifled a yawn. “Not a place I’m familiar with and you have chosen my best man. I am told he can cut a man’s throat before the victim realises he’s dead.”

             
“He speaks Arabic and French fluently, skilful with a variety of weapons, but prefers the knife and can pass for an Arab. He can find his way in and out of the most dangerous places in Africa. For me a better friend than an enemy and I trust him.”

             
Charles stubbed out his cigar. “One more thing, bring Akeem back, he’s my trusted lieutenant.”

             
“He works for you?”

             
Charles grinned. “Long time now but he needs a change of scenery.”

             
“The joke is,” said Bear, “he’ll have to work for his money.”

             
“He’ll enjoy being up against it. This sedentary lifestyle was never for him but it keeps him close to my side. You know we are lovers?”

             
“Yes, but who cares. Can’t say it does anything for me.”

             
Charles smirked. “I’m certain you’ve never tried.”

             
“Each to their own. You need him. I prefer a good woman. Any idea where blonde Bob is these days? I need a chopper pilot who asks no questions but can fly like a bird.”

             
“Aberdeen,” said Charles after a moment’s deliberation. “Transferring personnel and equipment to the rigs.” He removed a leather bound folder from the top of his desk. “As a pilot none are better. Give me your mobile number and I’ll see what I can do.”