Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

“Okay.” Mitcheson gently let his breath out, relieved she seemed to have been temporarily diverted from focusing her paranoia on him. “What about the payment?”

“Tomorrow. The usual way — on delivery.”

Mitcheson raised his eyebrows, remembering how adamant the Moroccan had been. Payment today, delivery tomorrow.

“I arranged it with Segassa by phone,” Lottie informed him smugly. “After all, how could I know they wouldn’t just skip with our money?”

No wonder she looked so pleased with herself, he thought. It made sense, but it put more pressure on him and his men. Taking delivery of illegal goods was problem enough; having to exchange them simultaneously for large amounts of money was compounding the risk or discovery — or treachery.

Her next statement came like a cold shower. “There won’t, of course, be any money.”

“Come again?”

“We take the drugs and keep the money. Simple.”

He stared at her. “You can’t be serious. Those people can’t be messed with, for God’s sake. They’re killers — we’ve already seen that.”

Lottie seemed unconcerned. “The others don’t agree. It’s manageable.”

So she’d already run it by the others. Well, now he finally knew where he stood. It looked like Palmer was right: his hold over the men had been severed. Or maybe it had never really been there in the first place

“But what you’re doing will kill off the whole supply-line. What about the illegals? How the hell do you think Segassa’s boss will deal with you for people when you’ve screwed him over drugs? We’ll be lucky to leave Spain in one piece.” He stared at her, trying to figure out whether she had gone completely insane or if she knew something he didn’t. Then it hit him. “You’ve come to a separate deal with Segassa.”

“I can’t afford to lose another man, Mr Mitcheson.” Lottie didn’t bother denying it. “If McManus comes back, all well and good. Somehow I don’t think he will. And while the men are good at what they do, I need you to organise them.” She stubbed out the cigarette. “Andre Segassa has been waiting to establish his own operation and will deal with his own contacts on the other side. I need to cover things here. I’ll double your contracted amount and pay another seventy-five thousand on completion.”

As she was speaking, Gary entered the room and stood by the door. At the same time Howie drifted across the patio to stand directly outside the glass doors. Doug was nowhere to be seen, but Mitcheson knew he wouldn’t be far away. It was a clear and chilling indication of what would unfold if he told Grossman he didn’t want any part of her plan.

They were preparing to ditch him.

“All right.” He nodded and, because it was probably expected, added, “but make it a hundred thousand… There’s more risk involved.”

Lottie Grossman smiled, her painted lips gathering into a small, obscene rosebud of victory. He was speaking a language she understood. “Agreed. Let’s have dinner and go over the plans, shall we?”

While Palmer sat smoking by the window, Riley finished her next batch of notes and emailed them to Brask. The fat man had been effusive when Riley phoned him earlier, saying the first batch she sent had already aroused a lot of interest. The editor was pushing for more.

Encouraged by Palmer to focus on work while she still could, Riley had sunk herself in the detailed task of collating the facts and adding her own commentary. It had turned out to be an excellent therapy, preventing her being overtaken by thoughts about the near miss with McManus at the building site.

As the laptop beeped obediently, Riley looked at Palmer. “You think Mitcheson will come through?”

“I think so.” He’d shown Riley the details Charlie had sent from London concerning the extent of Mitcheson’s involvement in the Bosnia business. Her relief had been palpable. “But time will tell.”

When he’d gone, Riley closed the laptop and lay down on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The image of Mitcheson’s face became that of McManus’s, leering down at her with blood streaming from his smashed nose, eyes glinting with hate and frustration. She shivered and wrapped her arms across her chest, and wondered if Mitcheson would have nightmares about the gunman’s death down the shaft.

The following morning Riley’s mobile bleeped with a message from Mitcheson. His voice was low and hurried, and she guessed he was calling from the garden of the villa. She listened intently, then rang Palmer and arranged to meet him downstairs for breakfast.

By the time he joined her she was demolishing a plate of bacon and eggs.

He sat down and poured a cup of coffee before lighting his first cigarette of the day.

“For Christ’s sake, Palmer,” Riley protested, waving the smoke away, “at least let me get some food down before you smoke us both to death. God, you’re so unhealthy.”

He doused the cigarette. “So what’s the news from our man on the inside?”

“According to John, Lottie Grossman’s got it into her head she can cheat the Moroccans and take the drugs and the money. She sweet-talked the one called Segassa into dealing direct with her instead of through his boss, and got Mitcheson’s men seeing things her way. He thinks he’d have joined McManus by now if he’d showed signs of backing out.”

Palmer whistled silently. “So much for army buddies. And Lottie must be off her trolley. Segassa will bide his time then skin her alive.”

“We should try again to get Mitcheson to bale out.”

Palmer shook his head. “It won’t change anything. And he’s not stupid; he’ll know when to jump. When and where’s the deal going through?”

“There’s a stretch of coast just before Motril where the government’s doing some underwater survey work. Boats come and go all the time; another one won’t be noticed. The Moroccans have tested it out twice recently and reckon it’s safe. They’re going for an exchange at midday today.”

“Did he say how?”

“The Moroccans are using a flotation device to drop the drugs off from a small fishing boat. The device keeps the package just below the surface. The Grossman boat dumps a small buoy over the side with the money, and each boat picks up its package as it goes by.”

“Neat,” Palmer commented. “With two ex-Royal Marines working the pick-up, it’ll be easy money.”

“Right. And the boats go their separate ways with nobody the wiser.”

“Until the Moroccans find they’ve been cheated. If Segassa doesn’t do his part it could get messy.”

Riley looked sombre at the idea. “I know. John doesn’t like it, either.”

“So what’s he going to do?”

Riley frowned. “He didn’t say.”

Had anyone stopped the Soukia as it ploughed a course off the island of Alboran, they would have found an ordinary fishing boat that had been making the same run for years. A cursory inspection would have uncovered nothing more interesting than nets, ice-boxes and wet-weather gear, with a crew of three tanned, grizzled men in their fifties.

The only unusual piece of equipment would have been a set of scuba gear with some minor modifications which one of the men was sitting on while he mended a stretch of damaged netting. Attached to the equipment by strong plastic strapping was a large rubber-cased box that no fishing vessel normally carries, and which the man was ready to dump over the side should any naval or coastguard vessels come too close.

In the tiny wheelhouse the skipper cocked his head to one side and answered his mobile phone. He listened for a while, then glanced at a map and gave their position before switching off the phone.