Risky Mission Read online

  Risky Mission

  Dan Latus

  © Dan Latus 2011

  Dan Latus has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2011 by Robert Hale Ltd.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter One

  I don't always give him enough credit for it but sometimes Jimmy Mack is spot on with his forecasts. Like the time he said, 'I don't want to upset you, son, but this looks like trouble.' I should have listened.

  As it was, I broke off from what I was telling him and turned to see what he was staring at. It was a big 4-wheel-drive vehicle inching its way along the track from the main road.

  'It looks more like money to me,' I told him.

  He shook his head. 'Whenever a woman appears on the scene, there's terrible trouble close behind.'

  I peered harder and realised he was right about the gender of the driver at least.

  'You shouldn't be saying things like that, Jimmy, not in this day and age.'

  He stared at me.

  'It's sexist,' I explained. 'Politically incorrect. You can get done for it.'

  He shook his head and gave me a pitying look. 'I don't know how you manage to stay in business,' he said mysteriously.

  By then, the Isuzu Trooper had almost reached the parking area in front of my cottage.

  'I'd better see what she wants,' I said.

  Jimmy chortled and got back to mending his lobster pots. 'Go on, then,' he said, dismissing me. 'But don't make the mistake of asking her in, like you did the last one.'

  'Sometimes,' I said carefully, 'I don't know what I've done to deserve a neighbour like you.'

  'You must have gone to church when you were a young lad.'

  'I don't think that's it,' I said, walking away.

  I wasn't really complaining. Certainly not. There were just the two of us living at Risky Point, our glorious but isolated and retreating cliff-top on the Cleveland coast, and I couldn't have hoped for a better neighbour than Jimmy Mack.

  My cottage, the first one you came to along the track, was fifty yards or so from his. By the time I was halfway there, the newly arrived driver had opened the door and climbed out. She was young-ish, and tall and slim. She had long, dark hair, and she was wearing blue jeans and a white tee-shirt. As soon as she felt the breeze coming off the sea, she reached back inside and brought out a leather jacket.

  'Can I help you?' I called.

  She shrugged into the jacket and turned to wait for me to reach her.

  'Good morning,' she said. 'I am looking for Mr. Doy, Mr. Frank Doy. Do you know him?'

  'That's me.'

  She held out her hand, which I shook, but she didn't tell me her name.

  'I would like to know if you can help me,' she said in careful, accented English. Obviously foreign. East European, I judged.

  'I'll do my best,' I assured her. 'What is it you want?'

  She didn't say anything more for a moment. She just stood there, unsmiling and considering. I wondered if I wasn't quite what she'd had in mind when she set off looking for help.

  'I understand you run a private security service?' she said at last.

  'That's right. I also do enquiries. Missing persons, crimes the police have given up on, insurance jobs.' I shrugged, smiled to reassure her and added, 'I do all sorts of things.'

  'I understand.'

  I wasn't sure she did. In fact, I thought she was probably wishing already that she had gone elsewhere.

  'How many employees do you have?'

  'Is that important?'

  'Possibly.'

  Oh, well. I knew then I wasn't going to get her business, whatever it was.

  'There's just me,' I told her.

  She had the cheek to look surprised. 'Just you?' she said. 'But I thought ….'

  'I bring in help, if it's needed.'

  She stopped and looked around, fairly pointedly.

  'But I'm usually enough,' I assured her gently.

  'Yes?' She frowned. 'I thought you were president of a company.'

  'Now who's been giving you that idea?'

  She didn't answer. Looking worried, as well as cold, she wrapped her arms around herself and gazed out to sea.

  I judged she was in her early thirties. But if she didn't stop worrying so much, she would soon look a lot older than that. Already I longed to see her smile.

  'It's not very nice here,' she said, glancing at the cottage and managing not to shudder.

  I don't mind admitting I was irritated by her comment. Affronted even. My cottage may be old and simple, but it means a lot to me. It had to, the work I'd put into it. Also, the views are stupendous. And you do get used to the wind.

  So I found myself at a crossroads. Either I could disagree and wave her goodbye, or I could try to see it from her point of view.

  'Would you like to come inside and tell me what you want over a cup of coffee?' I asked, hedging my bets. She thought about it, sighed and nodded. 'Thank you,' she said.

  At least she seemed to like the inside of the cottage. Her eyes darted everywhere, taking in the bare-board floor and the wooden ceiling, my rugs, and the stone fireplace and chimney piece. Some of the solemnity left her face. I sensed a smile not too far away. Progress.

  'It's very simple,' I pointed out.

  'Yes,' she said. 'It is.'

  My hopes sank again. Perhaps she didn't like it so much, after all.

  'I know this type of house,' she added. 'It is a weekend cottage.'

  'Not for me,' I told her. 'I live here all the time.'

  'Oh?'

  She seemed astonished. I didn't think the place was that bad.

  'It's an old, miner's cottage,' I added. 'I've worked hard to improve it.'

  'I can see that.'

  She frowned, as if she was thinking the workmanship wasn't up to much. Then, surprisingly, she said, 'You have done well, I think.'

  No doubt about it now. Definitely East European. I still didn't know what variety, though.

  I got her sat down at the table in front of the window, and then I worked hard for a few minutes at heating water and making coffee.

  'Normally,' I called from the other side of the big room that serves as both kitchen and living room, 'I would get the maid or the chef to do this, but it's their day off.'

  'I don't like those people,' she muttered. 'Maids and chefs. I like to do such things myself.'

  A rather odd comment. Not much sense of humour either. Not like mine anyway. I decided I would have to go easy on her.

  'So,' I said, setting down tw
o mugs of coffee at last, 'What's this all about? How can I help you?'

  'No milk, thank you,' she said, moving the jug aside.

  She poured in plenty of sugar, though, making me wonder if it was still rationed where she came from.

  'You can drive a car?' she asked.

  'Of course.'

  'You have a driving licence and a passport?'

  I nodded.

  'Then I would like you to drive me somewhere.'

  'Oh?'

  'I will drive, too, but not so much, I think.'

  I nodded again. She was a slow starter and I didn't want to interrupt her flow with questions.

  'Yes?' she said.

  'Yes. Sounds all right so far. Where do you want to go?'

  'Somewhere far.'

  'How far?'

  'I can't tell you.'

  Ah! That might be a problem.

  'You don't know,' I said carefully, 'or you don't want to say?'

  'Yes.'

  It must be the language problem, I decided. So I sipped my coffee and stared out of the window. You couldn't see much of the sea from the living room – upstairs gave the best view – but I could see well enough to know there was a heavy fog hanging over the water still. There often is early in the day, but it was late morning now. The fog should have lifted.

  There was fog on my brain, too.

  'What do you think?' she asked.

  'I think I need more information.'

  'You want to know where we will go, yes?'

  'That would be a good start.'

  'I can't tell you,' she said again.

  'No?' She shook her head firmly.

  'Well, tell me what you can tell me.' she looked a little happier with that.

  'This project will last two or three days for you. Maximum one week. Then you will return, alone, however you wish. For this, I will pay you ten thousand pounds. That is all. Thank you.

  'What are you thinking?' She added in the silence that followed.

  What I was thinking was it was a lot of money for a simple driving job. But I didn't say so. She might have lowered her offer.

  'Is it somewhere in Europe?'

  She hesitated and then nodded.

  You could get a long way on European roads in a week. Macedonia? Northern Norway? The Urals? Further even.

  'Is there anything else you can tell me?'

  'What do you want to know?'

  'When do you want to leave, for instance?'

  'Tomorrow.'

  That was a bit soon for me, but still …. Ten grand could alter my timetable.

  'Where from?'

  'I will tell you when we start, if you come with me.'

  Fair enough, I supposed.

  'Anything else?' she asked.

  'Why are you travelling? Why do you need someone like me? What's this about?'

  She shook her head firmly. She wasn't going to say.

  'OK. Here's the final question. Why me?'

  'Because I heard you are a good man – poor, but good,' she added, glancing around my humble home-cum-business headquarters.

  'You certainly know how to deliver a double-edged compliment,' I told her.

  'Excuse me?'

  I shook my head. 'It doesn't matter.'

  But it did. Poor but good, eh? I was warming to her. Definitely. All the same, I wasn't sure I could sign up to driving somewhere I didn't know, somewhere quite possibly in a war zone. I was beginning to think Chechnya, Ingushetia, North Caucasus – good places like that.

  So I asked her to let me think about it. I would call her and let her know.

  'Today?'

  'Today.'

  She gave me her mobile number, but not her name. I think she was disappointed I hadn't said yes on the spot. But that, I could have told her, is what you get when you proposition a good man, even one who's poor. You get lots of questions and prevarication.

  Chapter Two

  I would have liked to help her, and the money was certainly good, but I didn't think I was going to do it. There were too many unknowns – and they were the ones I knew about.

  Besides, so much money for such a small service was too good to be true. It smacked of something illegal or dangerous. Drugs or guns, for example. Perhaps both. Organised crime might come into it too. I wasn't prepared to take part in illegal trade, and I wasn't going to put myself in harm's way in a turf war either. Not just to help a pretty young woman who had started to intrigue me.

  So I should have said no on the spot, just given her a straight answer, instead of saying I needed to think about it. But I didn't. No surprises there. One of my many failings is an inability to be crystal clear in my thinking and snappy in my decision taking. One or two people had told me that over the years. Especially women.

  So I had told my visitor I would get back to her. After she left, I washed up and then went outside, where I sat at the picnic table I had long ago fashioned out of big lumps of driftwood and I listened to the sea eating the base of the cliffs. Once again, I wondered how long Jimmy Mack and I had got left here at Risky Point. Ours were the last two cottages remaining of the hamlet that once had adorned this cliff top, the rest taken by the sea. We were defying Nature.

  That's where I was, and what I was doing, when Harry George rolled up in his flash car, an electric-blue Maserati. You don't see many of them at Risky Point.

  Two visitors in one day? Three, if you counted his passenger. Jimmy Mack would be complaining about wear and tear on our jointly maintained access track.

  A smart little guy climbed out from behind the wheel. It was a long time since my cottage had seen a suit as expensive as his, if ever, or an open-necked shirt as white. The wearer had glossy black hair and a tan that made you wonder where he'd been for his holiday. A big friendly smile, too. And he radiated energy.

  His companion got out on the far side of the car and just stood there. I couldn't see much of him, but I could see enough to know that he wasn't smiling. He wasn't dressed as well either. A sallow-faced, mean-looking guy.

  'Hi, there!' the little man called as he strolled towards me, hands in trouser pockets, jacket pushed back behind out of the way. 'How're you doing?'

  'Pretty good,' I told him. 'Nice car,' I added.

  'What, this?' He stopped, turned and gazed back at his machine fondly. 'I've never had better,' he admitted, turning back to me with a big grin.

  'What does it do?'

  'Top speed or fuel consumption?' He laughed and added, 'I don't think I want to tell you. You wouldn't believe me.'

  'I might.'

  'No.' He shook his head firmly. 'You wouldn't.'

  'I'm Frank Doy,' I told him. 'Are you looking for me or for my neighbour, Jimmy Mack, over there in the other cottage?'

  'You, I guess, Frank. Harry George, by the way.'

  I nodded. He perched on a big rock nearby.

  'Nice place you got here,' he offered, gazing at the cottage with apparent admiration. 'Isn't it, Leroy?' he added, turning to his side-kick.

  Leroy nodded without looking. He stayed behind the car, staring at me.

  'It suits me,' I said.

  'That's what counts.'

  So, Harry George. With that surname and those looks, he had to be Greek. Some way back, though. A generation or two, perhaps. He had a Teesside accent. But his style was more Miami Beach than Middlesbrough, still less Thessalonika.

  Nice and easy did it, I decided. It's hard to dislike someone working so hard at being friends. I was trying, though. He was too familiar for my taste.

  As for Leroy, well …. I'd seen his like before. A nasty bastard. The greying hair didn't fool me. Slight of build, whipcord tough, eyes like a weasel. He wasn't muscle. He was a knife man, and he looked as mean and sharp as they come.

  That placed Happy Harry for me, too. Time they were both on their way.

  'What can I do for you, Harry?'

  'You do interesting work for a living, Frank. I've been asking around,' he added when I raised my eyebrows.
br />   'Interesting?' I mused. 'Not particularly. Not often, anyway. Usually it's pretty boring.'

  'Security work, investigations …? Sounds interesting to me.'

  'I only do it for the money,' I told him. 'It's not a vocation.'

  'So if you won the Lottery tomorrow, you would ….'

  'Sail off into the sunset. Damn right, I would.'

  Actually, I wouldn't. I would stop right here and fix my cottage up properly. Try to stop it falling into the sea. Sort the garden out. Get a decent car. Pursue Lydia more earnestly maybe. Do some serious fishing. But I wasn't going to admit any of that to Harry George.

  'I could use some extra security,' he said.

  'Oh?'

  He pulled out a couple of small cigars, cheroots, from his inside jacket pocket and offered me one. I shook my head. He lit his. A dense grey cloud lifted up into the sunshine. The stench was nauseating.

  'I'm in business, Frank, and one or two of my places get broken into pretty regularly.'

  'What sort of places?'

  'Industrial units. And clubs, night spots. I could do with hiring someone to take over-all charge of security.'

  Even if I'd liked him, it wasn't a job for me. I could go in and structure it for him but I didn't need an employer. That wasn't how I worked.

  I didn't say so at the outset, though. Caution inhibited me. I felt he still had more to say. And I'm good at letting people take their time, and tell me in their own way.

  'Frank, I understand my wife came to see you this morning.'

  'Oh?'

  'Can you confirm that?'

  'I can't, no.'

  'Can't or won't?' he asked with a little chuckle.

  A warning bell began to jingle softly.

  'Harry, what is it you want? Did you come here to offer me a job, or what?'

  'I came to find out what my wife said to you this morning, Frank. But there might be a job in it for you, as well, if you play your cards right.'

  'Thanks very much. I'll think about it and let you know.'

  'Let me know what?'

  'If I want the job.'

  He smiled. Then he laughed. 'And my wife?' he said.

  'Never heard of her. What did you say her name was again? Mrs. …George, was it?'

  He stopped laughing. He didn't even smile any more. 'Frank,' he said, 'this isn't funny.'