‘No. That’s not it,’ said Falana. ‘Apparently they want to talk to him about the murder of Maria Galanos.’
‘They think Mo knows something about that?’
‘They think he did it.’
‘Mother of God! No wonder he’s disappeared. I wonder where he’s gone.’
‘Pakistan,’ said a voice, and the girls looked up to see Alex Limonides in the doorway. ‘That’s where he’ll be. And they’ll never find him there.’
‘Coke and a slice of lemon,’ said the CIA Station Head, London, Andy Bokus. ‘Lots of ice.’
The Athenaeum Club wine waiter allowed the merest flicker of surprise to cross his face. But when Fane ordered a glass of Chablis, he smiled.
Bokus leaned forward and said, ‘I hear one of your former colleagues has gotten the push.’
‘Who might that be?’ asked Fane mildly, though he knew full well who Bokus was talking about. David Blakey had resigned as Director of UCSO three days before. Word must have travelled fast if Bokus already knew about it.
‘You know who I mean. What exactly did he do? Get caught with his pants down? I hear it’s not the first time.’
‘Something like that,’ said Fane mildly.
‘He got taken for a ride by that Ball woman. Some piece of work she is. I hope she gets all the payback that’s coming to her.’
‘Evidence, Andy. Evidence. We’ll have to see what we can prove. Her partner in crime, that Pakistani shipping agent Miandad, has disappeared.’
‘Yeah, I heard that. He’ll be in the tribal region by now. The only thing that’ll get him is a drone.’
Their drinks came, and Fane decided on a charm offensive. ‘Cheers, Andy,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Nice to see you in more peaceful surroundings. Last time we met, the fur was flying off the Horn.’
Bokus grunted and studied the menu. He had been furious that the British Special Forces had gone into Somalia without even informing the American warship that had been especially despatched to provide firepower.
Fane couldn’t resist rubbing it in. ‘Sorry you couldn’t take part in the show, but I think you’d agree our chaps handled the whole thing rather successfully. We managed to pull MI5’s irons out of the fire and get their chap out safely. Can’t think what he was doing there in the first place. Anyway, it all worked out in the end. I hope it was useful for your lot to see how we do things.’
Bokus’ face turned red.
‘Well, we should order,’ said Fane, taking up the little pad to write the order down. ‘What will you have, Andy?’
‘I’ll have the lobster. A whole one,’ Bokus said angrily, ignoring Fane’s raised eyebrow. ‘And I’ll start with the caviar.’
God knows what they’d make of his expense account this month, thought Fane, but he’d happily have paid for dinner himself just to see Bokus’ reaction to being… what did the Americans say? Ribbed? Yes, that was it. Ribbed.
For a luxury cruise ship, the SS Tiara was small, but its amenities were second to none. An indoor pool, an outdoor pool, three restaurants (including a sumptuous seafood buffet), a bar that literally never closed, a casino and a live entertainment show each evening (admittedly pretty dire), and enough boutiques to keep the most shopaholic matron satisfied.
After Dave Armstrong had been freed from the pirate compound on the Somalian coast, he’d spent three days on board a French corvette sailing back to the Mediterranean, from where he’d been choppered to the French naval base in Toulon. There he’d been debriefed by a pleasant man from the French DGSE, Martin Seurat, whom he’d met the previous year when an operation had ended in France. Seurat had kept in touch with Liz Carlyle and, from what Dave had heard, they were now an item. Then an MI6 officer from Paris had turned up to question him; he’d assumed Dave would want to fly back to England straight away and had offered to arrange it.
But Dave knew exactly what he wanted, and it wasn’t a flight back to England. He needed a break. He wanted to go somewhere comfortable but not over the top; somewhere where he could do nothing and be alone when he wanted to, but with people around if he felt like socialising. In short, somewhere where he could completely relax.
So, instead of flying to London, he had joined the Tiara, which was sailing from Toulon, down the coast of Italy and up the Adriatic to Venice. The shipping agents for the Tiara were contacts of the DGSE, and after Martin Seurat had spoken to their CEO, it turned out that there was a vacant berth in first class and that Dave would be welcome on board as an honoured guest of the company.
Now as the ship cruised gently through the Ligurian Sea, he looked out from the deck at the coast of Italy in the evening sunshine and saw the island of Elba rising from the deep blue water. He found himself beginning to feel very fortunate to be alive.
