Temple of the Gods

Mozambique




The bar was dimly lit at best, and the haze of smoke made it more murky still. Most of the miasma was from cigarettes, but it was bolstered by the tang of cigars and even whiffs of hashish from the darkest corners.

Eddie shot a disapproving glance towards one of the shadowed users as he stubbed out his cigarette. Second-hand smoke was one thing; second-hand narcotics another entirely. He flicked another Marlboro out of its pack and was about to light it when he paused, gazing at his reflection in his Zippo. He had quit smoking years ago, during his first, short-lived marriage, but the strain of being on the run, perpetually alert for the approaching hand of the authorities, had seen him take up the habit once more.

He shook his head and lit the cigarette. Nina would be furious if she knew, he thought, a sudden gloom settling over him. There was a cellular phone on the scratched table before him, and he could talk to her with a couple of key presses . . . but he knew it wasn’t possible. For one thing, any contact – on a line that was almost certainly being monitored – could see Interpol eyeing Nina as an accomplice rather than a witness.

For another, from what she had said the last time he saw her, in Peru . . . she thought he was guilty. She might not even want to speak to him.

So he had to prove his innocence first. Which meant finding Stikes. And doing whatever was necessary to force the truth from him – before his much-deserved death.

He looked at his watch. Strutter was, as expected, late. Tracking down contacts and wheedling information out of them, especially on a subject as risky as Stikes, wasn’t something that could be done to a timetable. But the Kenyan had said earlier that he had a promising lead, so Eddie was willing to wait.

The phone rang. Strutter? No – the number on the screen was British. There was only one person in his home country who knew how to contact him. Nevertheless, he was still cautious and terse when he answered, putting a finger to his other ear to block out the tinny music coming from a tape deck behind the bar. ‘Yeah?’

‘It’s me.’ He knew the voice. Peter Alderley, an officer of MI6, the United Kingdom’s foreign intelligence service. Not a friend, exactly – in fact, Eddie rather disliked him – but for now an uneasy ally. The murder of Mac had instilled them both with the need to uncover the truth. Alderley had given Eddie a sporting head start to escape the law in London following their comrade’s funeral, and since then had provided surreptitious updates on Interpol’s search for him during their intermittent contacts.

In return Eddie had provided Alderley with what information he had uncovered on his travels, and was hoping he had managed to do something useful with it. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘First thing: Interpol is getting closer to you. They know you were just in Botswana.’

‘Do they know where I am now?’

‘No, but if I were you I’d move on. Sharpish.’

‘That’s the plan anyway – I’m just waiting to find out where to go. What else?’

‘That paper you found in Jindal’s flat, the one with a number and some Hindi text. I’ve had it checked out – on the quiet, obviously, which is why it took so long. The number could mean anything, of course, but my best guess is the international code for a Greek phone number.’

‘Greek?’ Eddie was surprised. He couldn’t imagine any possible link between Kit and Greece.

‘Yeah. I tried ringing it, but it’s a dead number. The thing is, though, the text with it translates as “and the best of the greatest”. I think what we’ve got here is a fairly simple code. The “best of the greatest” is probably another number, so if you add that to the one you already have, you get the real result.’

‘So what’s the other number?’

‘Damned if I know. Something significant to Jindal, at a guess. You knew him far better than I did – any idea what it might be?’

Eddie thought about Kit. Youthful, handsome, an idealistic Indian cop who had specialised in the investigation of art thefts before transferring to Interpol to do the same thing in a worldwide jurisdiction. Cheery and good-natured but with steely determination behind his smile, a cricket fan, a Hindu, not as stylish a dresser as he thought he was. A friend.

A friend who had killed another friend in cold blood. Eddie hadn’t witnessed it personally, but when he pieced together everything seen by others there was only one possible conclusion.

Kit had murdered Mac in order to let Stikes escape from El Dorado. He had shot the elderly Scot twice in the back and left him to die.

What Eddie couldn’t fathom was why. Why had the Interpol officer suddenly turned against his friends and the law he had pledged to uphold? Why had he struck a deal with Stikes, a man who just days earlier had tortured him? Blackmail? Brainwashing? Eddie didn’t know.

And Stikes wasn’t the only one of Eddie’s enemies with whom Kit was involved. When Eddie confronted him at the pumping station, he had found not only Kit making a deal with Stikes, but also someone he thought was dead. His ex-wife, Sophia Blackwood. Aristocrat, murderer, terrorist . . . and seemingly in charge, negotiating with the mercenary and giving Kit orders.

Eddie couldn’t reconcile the friend he thought he knew with the man who had tried to kill him. The contradictions made it impossible for him to get a handle on Kit’s thought processes. ‘I dunno,’ he told Alderley at last. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘Well, keep thinking about it. Maybe you’ll come up with something. I’ll have another poke through Interpol’s file on him to see if anything suggests itself.’

‘Just don’t attract any attention. If you get busted, it’ll make it a real pain in the arse for me to stay ahead of the cops.’

‘Glad you’ve got my best interests at heart,’ Alderley snarked. ‘But I want to know what happened as much as you do. If I find out something new, I’ll be in touch – and you do the same if you hear anything.’

‘Will do. And . . . thanks.’

‘I can’t exactly say it’s my pleasure, for all sorts of reasons, but I appreciate hearing that. Don’t get caught, okay?’

Alderley disconnected. Eddie put down the phone, then tapped the growing length of ash from the end of his cigarette and took a drag. The best of the greatest. But who or what was the greatest in Kit’s mind?

He thought back three months. One of his first ports of call after fleeing Peru, and then England after paying his last respects to both his late grandmother and Mac, had been India. Eddie had broken into the young cop’s apartment to find it had already been searched by Interpol officers trying to learn more about the circumstances of his death. Suspecting that Kit would have kept his secrets hidden in a way his colleagues wouldn’t expect, he had eventually discovered something concealed in plain sight. Interpol had taken Kit’s laptop and printer, but left the latter’s paper . . . and written on the bottom sheet, Eddie found words in Hindi and a number.

Alderley had to be right. It was a code, one that could give him the answers he wanted. But without the clue he needed to crack it, it was worthless . . .

The music changed: the opening bars of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Free Bird’. One of Eddie’s favourite records, but on this occasion it filled him with an unexpected melancholy. At one time, it had been a symbol of his wanderlust and desire for action when he felt stifled by the demands of his relationship with Nina and an office job at the IHA. Now, though, a life of everyday domesticity with her was the thing he wanted most in the world. Longing pulled at his heart . . .

‘Eddie, my friend!’ Strutter’s voice jerked him back to grim reality. He looked round to see the middleman approaching, wearing an electric blue suit and a purple silk shirt beneath it.

‘You found some new threads, then,’ said Eddie as Strutter sat opposite him.

‘I have an image to maintain.’ He regarded Eddie’s beard. ‘You should consider yours too.’

Eddie shrugged. ‘I dunno, I like it. Makes me look distinguished.’

‘More like disreputable. But as for myself, I wouldn’t attract many clients in prison rags, would I?’

‘Lose much business while you were away?’

‘In Africa, there is always business for mercenaries. I’m already getting back into the heart of the storm. It takes more than Zimbabwean thugs to keep down Johnny Strutter!’ Registering Eddie’s thoroughly unimpressed expression, he became more muted. ‘But you no longer want to be part of that world, do you, my friend? A shame – you always were a very good fighter. Still, there will be plenty of work for Maximov.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Not too smart, but the man is like a walking tank!’

‘I’m only interested in Stikes,’ Eddie said impatiently. ‘Do you know where he is or not?’

Strutter leaned closer. ‘No. But,’ he added quickly, ‘I know someone who does. I put the word out to my contacts, and I heard back from a man in Yemen, who had spoken to another man in Pakistan—’

‘I don’t care who talked to who. I just want to know what they said.’

The sharpness in Eddie’s voice warned Strutter to stick to the facts. ‘Okay, okay. There is an American called Scarber, Madeline Scarber, in Hong Kong. She knows where Stikes is.’

‘So where is he?’

Strutter shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, the thing is, my friend . . . she would not tell me. She will tell you – but only in person.’

Eddie had never heard of Madeline Scarber, and didn’t like that the reverse was apparently not the case. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. But that’s what she told me.’

‘How do you know she’s not working for Interpol? Or Stikes, for that matter?’

Strutter shook his head. ‘People I trust have vouched for her.’

‘The only people you trust are on banknotes, Strutter,’ Eddie said scathingly. ‘You’ve spoken to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Recently? Like, just now?’

‘Before I came here, yes.’

‘Call her. I want to talk to her.’

The Kenyan wasn’t happy at the prospect. ‘I don’t know if that is a good idea.’

‘Flying all the way to Hong Kong to meet someone I don’t even know on your say-so isn’t a good f*cking idea either. Make the call.’

Strutter reluctantly acquiesced. After a brief exchange, he held his phone out to Eddie. ‘She’ll talk to you.’

‘Good.’ He took it. ‘Madeline Scarber?’

‘Speaking,’ came a dry, rasping voice. Scarber was clearly a chain-smoker; she sounded quite old.

‘I’m told you’ve got some information for me. About Alexander Stikes.’

‘You betcha. I know where he is now, and where he’ll be for the next couple of days.’

The silence that followed became long enough for Eddie to think that the connection had been lost, until he heard Scarber cough faintly. ‘So . . . you going to tell me, or what?’

‘Or what, I’m afraid. For now. I’ll tell you how to find Stikes, but I want you to do something for me in return.’

‘My rates are two hundred quid an hour, and you provide the condoms,’ Eddie said irritably. ‘Kissing costs extra.’ Scarber made a sound that could have been a laugh. ‘Whatever you want me to do, I’m sure you could find someone to do it in Hong Kong. All I want is information.’

‘And you’ll get it. But only face to face. And I’d get here pronto, if I were you. When Stikes leaves, I don’t know where he’ll go. Call me on this number when you arrive. See you soon, kiddo.’

‘Arse,’ Eddie muttered as the phone went silent. He noted down the number, then returned it to Strutter. ‘Was she the only lead you had on Stikes?’ The other man nodded. ‘I might have f*cking guessed.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She wants me to do some job for her before she’ll tell me anything.’

‘What job?’

‘I don’t know. And I doubt it’ll be anything good, either.’ He blew out a frustrated breath. ‘Looks like I’m going to Hong Kong. Phooey.’