Chapter 1

Tarifa, Spain Saturday September 29th 2001

It wasn’t stealing that made him feel so bad, it was stealing from her. He had only known her a few days and she foolishly was falling for him. The last few weeks had been about surviving and running. Running away from an insolvable situation.

He knew that this couldn’t continue and he had to move on. He had to lose any trace of his previous self. Disappear into thin air and to become a dead man. Beyond a missing person or a man on the run. A body never found. Certainly not a criminal at large. A dead man, his killing witnessed. He needed this to be public enough to be true. To be dramatic. Dramatic enough to end this chapter and begin a new life. He had the plan carefully worked out. In his head that was. There was no chance of a practice run. The appropriate people were briefed and prepared. Could he trust them? No way of knowing. Would it all come to plan? It was a huge risk. If any of the players in this did anything other than what he had predicted it would all go wrong.

He looked over the room towards her.

She sighed as she slept. Three short breaths punctuating the rhythm of her sleep. A sigh, a mumble and a small movement. Was she waking? He thought not but he had to get going before she did. He didn’t have time to explain.

She was truly beautiful lying there. The rising moon was bright and glowed on her blond hair which fanned across the pillow. Her naked shoulders tanned with a dusting of freckles peeping from the ruffled white sheets. Only a fool would leave a girl like that.

She would be devastated. He knew that and it hurt. In other circumstances he would have tried to make something of this. He had lied about everything to her.

Would she get over it? He hoped so. He wouldn’t even be able to explain after it was over. He had no choice. The situation demanded it.

He would be dead by the time morning light broke. Thats what he hoped for. That was the plan.

Chapter 2

September 1st 2001. London.

Boredom is a strange state. It stems not from the absence of activity but from the absence of excitement. For most activities the challenge, the danger, the adrenaline boost all usually fade with time.

Five years of playing with others money had reaped personal rewards for him but even these things had lost their buzz. The first bubble of Dom Perignon felt good, but after countless bottles it tasted flat. Parties with multiple bottles of premier fizz – crystal, DP, Krug – even the more exclusive vintages became monotonous.

Getting pissed on cheap beer or grand cru was still getting pissed. The hangovers were slightly different but essentially alcohol is alcohol however you package it. It was about the first hit. The wash of relaxation, relief and the ensuing feeling of excitement and stimulation. Of growing self confidence and letting go of inhibitions. 

As  Charlie “Stash” Easton finished the remains from the green bottle, his mind was not on getting pissed although he was half way there. If he had been in company he would probably be slurring his words a little. Probably acting inappropriately with somebodies girlfriend or wife, but at home by his laptop, he was on a solo mission.

His banking career was just about holding together. He had moments of apparent genius but had made a few careless errors recently.  Acting on the wrong chart, the wrong ticker, buy more at 250 when he should have offloaded at 249. Normally these were easy to cover up. Vagaries of the system. But in the last few months he knew they were getting more vigilant. He knew they liked him. They liked his history. He had pulled in some very lucrative trades. At one time people were asking him what his system was. What skills he used to perform like this. He worked on gut instinct and contacts. In this business the earlier you knew the gossip the sooner you could act and the sooner you could get out with a profit. Late in and late out was for the amateurs.

Problem with Stash was that he really could not be arsed any more. It had become a bit of a daily grind now. Did he care if some Belgian mining company had hinted it had potentially hit a seam of whatever?

He didn’t care about his clients either. On the whole he didn’t have much respect for them. In the early days he was awe struck. Hospitality that can only be dreamed of. He had sat in the best boxes at sporting events, attended big parties on super yachts, fucked celebrity hangers-on. He had done it all. Some of his contemporaries still loved all that. He had seen it as what it was. It was all show. It was all false. It ate away at your identity. It sapped your confidence. However rich or successful or beautiful you were, you always knew there was someone more successful, richer or more beautiful who could walk through the door at anytime. And they would tell you they were richer and more successful. Or someone else would. In this world there was a natural propensity to sink to the bottom of the pile. You wanted friends because of what they were, not who they were.  It changed people. It’s why most the people in this world needed a line or two to perk them up. 

He had slipped into that practice but had quickly got bored. He didn’t lack confidence, so it either made him into a total cock or a paranoid freak. In the circles he mixed in it was as normal as having a coffee. He remembered a recent headline. Apparently the water in the Thames after a weekend is concentrated with cocaine. No wonder the eels are jellied he thought.

He laughed to himself.

As he opened the fridge door he looked at the stainless steel oversized clock on the microwave. 23:52. He pulled a bottle of Stella from the cardboard packaging and prised the cap off with a Phillipe Starck bottle opener.

He went over to the laptop, gulped his beer and sat down in the original brown leather Eames recliner. Of all the things that his interior decorator had put into the apartment this was actually the best. Most of it, especially the Philipe Starck bottle opener, annoyed the hell out of him.

He sat at his laptop. The screen saver was a picture of him, his mates and group of supermodels. A client had taken them to a charity fashion shoot and it had been a fantastic day. It was back when this stuff was fun. Most of the fun had been with the lads. The models in the flesh were either really dull or so hyper they were to be avoided. Coke, alcohol, starvation and a supermodel ego is not a good combination.

He had ended up in a hotel room of one of the the uber models on a comedown. It wasn’t good. Naked she looked like an ill emaciated old woman. Her breasts pretty non existent and flappy. Her pelvis so skeletalised that the only feeling it generated in him was pity. She gave him a blow job. He felt charitable. It was probably the most nutritious thing she had had for a long time.

He swigged the icy beer and then sucked in his cheeks for no apparent reason.

He tapped the mousepad and the screen opened on a page of a tanned eastern European girl, legs wide open, grabbing her enhanced breasts.

He had even got bored of sex.

The chase was still occasionally fun, although less and less. Waving cash and a bit of chirpy banter. There were tricks but on the whole it was too easy. It always had been. It was just another deal. Everything in the city was a transaction. Convincing people to trust you with their money, to allow you to make decisions for them. To charm them. Make them your friend and confidante. It was all part of his day to day job. Beneath this there was also the cocky natural edge he had.  Nothing like a bit of cheekiness, a sharp suit and a fat wallet.  Throw in a bit of NLP, mirroring, leading conversation, a lingering handshake all tricks of the game that he was a natural at anyway.

The girls didn’t stand a chance of saying no. He knew this. He would walk in a bar and know he could have her (and her girlfriend if he wanted). He had no fear of rejection and the confidence and money added to the attraction.

His main problem was managing their expectations. They were easy to get yet difficult to get rid of. Penetration was the trigger. Sex took many forms but once penetration had occurred there was always a sense of awkwardness. A sense of a bond which was going to have to be broken.

He hated those long conversations that resulted in angry exchanges and tears. So much so that he had stopped doing one nighters. The aftermath didn’t justify the short lived gratification.

He clicked on the cross to close the page feeling a hint of shame.

A new screen kicked in with a dashboard of graphs and numbers. They were changing constantly. He knew them and didn’t need to think what they were. He knew if the price was up or down, knew if the graph was days, weeks, months or minutes. It was his normal everyday view. He had made some schoolboy errors recently but on form, he was sharp.  Like his natural people skills, he had an innate sense of numbers. In school he had always excelled at maths. His mother encouraged it. She saw him as a genius. She wanted him to do medicine, or business but he decided on maths. He didn’t need to work at it. It was just common sense to him.

His father on the other hand would have preferred young Charlie to use his mathematical prowess down the track or touring the card rooms. It ran in the blood. His father could work out the odds of a six horse accumulator in seconds but couldn’t work out how to make a pay check last a week. He knew the odds of Ace jack off-suit against a pair of tens pre flop. His influence was always there.

Resentfully.

Stash hated the memory of his father. The only good thing that he remembered him for was his nickname. Stash. It came from the days in the card rooms. The poker tables. The joke was based around the stack. When Charlie Easton Snr when he was winning he was always proud of being the the big stack. It was a running joke. “Am I the big stack yet”  he would ask dealers until it stuck. When Charlie junior would pitch up, either with more money from the special box in the wardrobe, or to tell Charlie Snr that his wife was leaving, he would be called short stack as a joke. As most the tables were an eclectic mix of Greeks, Eastern Europeans and Arabs the pronunciation became stash rather than stack. It stuck and as he hit teenage years and big Stash had died he respectfully became just Stash rather than little Stash.

Why the hate?

He had seen his mother tormented to a life of misery. She expected little and got nothing. She was driven to the bottle by boredom and rejection. She got a few beatings, not as many as some but more than she ever deserved. Stash senior was often drunk and usually skint. In retrospect he was probably ashamed. Ashamed he had let down the pretty young bride he had promised so much too. The promises of the next big bet coming in. The promise of a life of riches which were always frittered away to other people.

Most of her money to survive came from the Young Stash nicking the odd ten and twenty when the old man was up. He would forget until he was down again but the boy would come up with something. Most of it went on bottles of cheap booze. Vodka under the sink, sherry in the wardrobe. Maybe Southern comfort behind the sofa if times were flush.

He watched her fill the boredom and smother the disappointment with a combination of daytime tv and inebriation. Saw it till the day she died.

The addiction really took over after Stash Snr was gone. That night the young Stash could see in her eyes the love she had had for the idiot father who had just killed himself in the crappy broken car he had just won at poker. That night he also saw a release of the pain, a secret smile of freedom, a glimmer of hope.

Like her sobriety the hope was short lived. She drank more and withdrew. He tried to get her help but like most addicts she relapsed. The comfort of being lost in a hazy world of fantasy tv and sleep was all she could do. Stash was bitter. He hated all the memories of his father. He refused to talk about it. He used to make up stories. Saying his father was a bank manager who died early of an MI. His mother a housewife. He described them like Margo and Jerry from the good life. Aspirations of grandeur yet middle class, middle of the Road facsimiles. His mother would have made an interesting episode of the good life. Dying of an variceal haemorrhage. Her entire blood volume redecorating the sitting room of the small terraced house in which she spent nearly all her adult life. He joked with her that the sofa was becoming part of her. In the end she become part of the sofa, 4 litres of her blood soaking into the foam seats. The rest of it splattered around the room in a final violent scream.

He buried of the memory and the tragedy had driven his success. He had snapped the elastic holding him back. He had flown. Literally.

He did a few years in the banks of south east Asia. He made good. He was back in London and back in the city, the centre of it all.

He had it all to enjoy but still he was bored.

Chapter 3.

Clerkenwell. London. September 3rd 2001

Farringdon tube. Smithfield Market. He used to love it round here. Close to work, close to the action. Edgy and arty yet with class and money. He could sink pints in local boozers or large it in Clubs like Fabric. Eat in Smiths or in St Johns. Go into the city or stay local. The area had a credible feel, it wasn’t pretentious. He hated that whole scene of being somewhere because it was the done thing. He liked side alleys and little roads,  the market and it’s nocturnal life.

He had been in his apartment for about five years now but it was sparse. The whole block, a converted factory had been converted to ultra high spec. He could afford more but he had bought it outright with a bonus and a bit of his savings. He knew he should move or buy elsewhere but he really couldn’t be bothered.

The mezzanine bed, the uber chic White and stainless kitchen. The B&B furniture with the sculptures and the art, originally it all made him feel very excited but now barely noticed. Apart from the Eames recliner. That was his best purchase. Pure comfort and utilitarian design. He lent back in the iconic chair and emptied the beer in one, looked to the ceiling and stretched and yawned.

Chapter 4

September 4th 2001. Clerkenwell. London.

He was woken by the sound of activity outside. He checked his position. Still in the chair. It was 5:30 am. The Market was getting into full swing. He would normally be getting up at this time to go to work but today, he really couldn’t be arsed.

Call in sick. Shit. Downward spiral. Booze. Sleep in chair.

Call in sick. Get sacked. Already under a close eye. He was pushing it.

He had a good sickness record. He had dragged himself in after sleeping in the doorways of London. He had come straight from a variety of girls flats straight to work still smelling musky from the previous night.

He flicked the laptop on and pulled up one of his favourite sites. As he did he saw the charts, spotted the moving averages, spotted a golden cross on the way. He would deal with it later. If he wasn’t going to work, he had to work out what he would do with the pressing issue of Svetlana who had popped up on his screen in a variety of athletic poses. He seemed to have a strategy.

He went in late to the firm.

Why?

He wasn’t sure.

Possibly through boredom, probably because he had a call from Mo to meet up after work.

On arriving at the office he rubbed his abdomen and kept popping into the gents. He was fine but an act had to be maintained.

He was tired but fine.

Bored but well.

Keeping up appearances was important.

He made a few deals. Phoned a few clients with reassurances. Most of his clients were rich and stupid having either family money or made it big in one field or another.

That sort was the worst.

At least family money felt that they knew nothing. On the whole they quite expected to lose it all. The aristocracy in his opinion was incredibly pessimistic. He supposed it was all down to crumbling stately homes and badly managed shoots. The older ones always had wacky money-making schemes; the young ones a propensity to spend and dine out on their heritage until they realised their responsibilities.

Not the new rich the sort that had made money from scrap metal, or selling car door handles or kitchen gadgets. For them an air of superiority was ever present.

He had had taken so much bad investment advice from characters who thought they knew it all. No one in this business knew it all.

Perhaps how to sell toilet fittings to B&Q but not how to buy and sell shares, and options and futures and all the derivatives that Stash understood.

It wasn’t anything to do with analysing underlying value. Checking out p/e ratios or anything else, it was about hearing what was going up and what was going down. Both bits of information were good because you could go short or long. It was not based on anything other than what the traders thought. Ok an earthquake could throw things. Leeson got himself fucked that way. Why anyone would put themselves on the line like that Stash wondered. Good bloke though. He had worked with him briefly. Had him on the squawk in Singapore. He had done it to save others, nothing else. In essence he was a bit naive but he had tried to be human. He knew people depended on him and he had tried to repay those loyalties. Difficult in the fucked up work of money and a shame he got stung.

It was getting late and Stash had an appointment with Mo. He had arranged to meet at the Market Porter in Borough.

Stash liked his food and thought he could pick up something from the Market. Of course it had all pretty much closed by mid afternoon but Stash stuck with it. All that was left was some artisan sausages with wild boar and chestnuts. They would have to do.

Mohammed Iqbal was not the archetypal trader. Bearded traditional moslem boy. He started at the firm a few years ago. Typically the city boys were shits to him. Not just racist but simple old fashioned prep school bullying. Stash had taken him under his wing. He remembered when he had been on the outside as well. He never liked the silver spoon crowd. Bunch of cunts.

Maybe it wasn’t in the strict Islamic tradition to go lap dancing and hit the bars, but Mo took to it and was eternally grateful. The city was cruel and Stash was a friend. He owed him.

Mo was already in a corner on the faux leather chair and he waved, rather camply, when Stash arrived.

The bar had the standard characters. The sort of locals who were omnipresent in London pubs. A couple of Market lads, strong accents and an abundance of tattoos.

“You ok” Stash gestured an invisible shaking pint to Mo from the bar, Mo declined pointing to his soft drink.

“Pint of pride please” he flirted with the barmaid unconsciously.

The froth of the beer held onto his upper lip until he licked it off , his hand thrusting forward to his old friend.

“Alright matey. What’s up?”

Mo half stood, returned the platitude and continued the small talk. “ehh geezer. How’s it hanging” he put on a mockney accent. Mo was from Leeds, Northern born and bred. Pakistan was less familiar to him than Blackpool. At least he had been there on school trips. But recently he had become a full on Muslim. Drinking coke rather than snorting it. Good, honest and a bit square.

When he first came to the firm he had the high street shiny suit. Ill fitting, his style more reminiscent of a contrived cheap wedding outfit than a trader. In amongst the uniform of crisp Thomas Pink shirts and Paul Smith suits it all looked very obvious.

The city was not particularly welcoming to anything different. Not many dark faces in this firm. But Stash looked out for him. The mumblings. The bullies. Stash watched his back, boosted his confidence and sheltered him. He never made him feel bad.

Of course Mo did well. Not only a talented trader but also able to pull in orders from some big eastern players. He flew, grew beyond the firm and was headhunted. He had a big draw and the city knew that it was a difficult market. He was a real niche player especially after Kuwait and the oil markets.

” what do you know, owt or nowt?” it was the usual banter. Stash slapped him on the knee. “nowt” the answer was always the same.

They exchanged irrelevant stories about irrelevant people. They bantered about nothing. It was standard boys talk. Then it changed.

“I might have something for you. I owe you one” Mo proffered .

“I could do with a winner” Stash came back to him.

Mo waved him in close and looked shifty.  He was so close that Stash could smell his lunch.

Mo whispered “I have it on pretty good knowledge that there will be some big events that will shake the markets soon. I cannot tell you what will happen but there will be an international incident. The markets will go into free fall. It will be in the next few days.” Mo sounded excited “I will text you the date. Soon as I do close out anything that you are long on and short the lot. Before then there are a few tips that will be pushed up.”

Stash listened intently.

Mo continued cautiously “this is a certainty mate. You can retire on this if you play it well. Put in all you can afford to these companies. They will climb. Once I tell you the date get out of those and short everything. The markets, big companies, derivatives everything. Gold and metals will probably be safe if you want to keep hold and have something for later.”

“Whoa. Mo!” Stash whispered and looked around the room to ensure no one was listening. “Are you telling me that the world markets are gonna crash and you know about it up front?”

Mo made a tiny nod staring Stash straight in the eye and smiling.

“Whats gonna happen. You going to start world war three or something?”

“I don’t know man. I honestly don’t know. No one. No fucking one knows a thing about this. Stash. You have to be discreet. I only know because I have had word from some important players in Pakistan. These guys right, these guys are major league. They are not even the big players. They won’t tell me what it is. They just want me to make some trades for them.  These trades make no sense. They are piling into a few big companies, banks etc for millions. Enough to push the price up. They are using me and some other firms to do it. Then just like I have said to you, they want me to short everything. They want me to hit everything. Particularly forex. Dollar will drop out overnight.”

Stash looked shocked “I can’t believe it. It is too good to be true. Mo you are telling me that the entire world Market is going to drop and you have the tip from some blokes in Pakistan? They might be jokers. It’s not exactly Wall St mate.”

Mo’ was both nodding and shaking his head. “I promise you mate.  These guys are no jokers. Dead serious. I have said too much already” he started to look a little anxious “behind these guys are the real movers and shakers of the middle east. How do you think they fund these organisations. Terrorists aren’t charities. Al Quaeda. You have ever heard of them?” Stash shook his head. He could see he had wound up Mo. He knew that Mo thought highly of him. Wanted to impress him. He listened interestedly.

“There is a group of hardcore ex mujahideen jihadists” Mo explained “these guys have a real gripe about the US. They have a real gripe about many things. They are made up of some hardline Muslims who believe that jihad – holy war –

has been called and they are the warriors, the martyrs to establish the right and proper law in the world. To correct the previous wrongs inflicted on Muslims since the beginning of time. On Jews, on Americans, on the West.”

Stash looked puzzled “yeh yeh but a few crazies in Pakistan are not gonna crash the markets. Even a bomb somewhere big isn’t going to do that. Invading Israel won’t even do that. The markets might shudder. Ok you can make a bit. A predictable 20 or 30 points on the Dow and the FTSE would be a nice earner. But devalue the dollar. No chance”

Mo’ was again nodding, this time vigorously. One of the middle aged fat bellied England shirt wearing characters walked past to the cigarette machine. Tattoos of a bulldog on his arm.

Mo watched him go and continued “seriously man. I know it sounds crazy. It really does. But these guys are shovelling money in.

I need you to do some trades for me. I can’t shift this much without the authorities smelling a rat. Problem is that Islamic law forbids gambling. Some of us can be a bit flexible with it. Not exactly down the dog track but trading in the city is seen as buying and selling by some. To these guys it is gambling. Especially derivative trading. There is none of this in the Middle East. It took an age to allow the oil exchanges to operate in Dubai. They needed special intervention from the Saudi royals. Problem is money speaks out there. Some of the al Qaeda big guys are from wealthy stock but not enough to run it. They run it all through unregulated Pakistani banks.” Mo sucked up his coke through a straw before continuing “That is where most my work comes from. It is massive. They are called hawalders. They used to be small money lenders. But it has developed into big finance. Its all unregulated and with historic rules. These guys have millions put through them. It’s a bit crazy but the hawala system which prohibits the obvious trading puts millions through me. It makes it quite easy till you get something like this.”

Stash was listening intently. He was being educated and was intrigued.

“I still don’t get it. Why will this be so big?”

“Stash mate I really don’t know. Some of it is just gut feeling. Some of it tip off. If these guys are putting it through to this extent this is serious. It is going to something big.

Will you buy in to these over the next few days if I feed you the info? Put your own clients in. They will do ok. When I text you short everything though cos it’s about to go down.”

Stash gulped down the remaining half of his pint whilst Mo busily scribbled a list of ticker codes onto a paper napkin.

They hugged and slapped each other on the back and left through separate doors.

Chapter 4

Sept 9th 2001. London. Clerkenwell.

Yet again Stash found himself with a drained bottle of Stella in his hand and staring at the laptop screen. He had been half watching Scarface on the Bang and Olufsen tv, Tony Montana losing it and shooting the place up. Classic scene he thought to himself.

His phone lit up fluorescent and buzzed overly loud on the glass coffee table.

Have all deals sorted by close of trade on Sept 11th.

Stash replied with a simple ok and went to the laptop. He had set up the orders through work. Simple no brainers. American Airlines, United Airlines. Put options. Derivative deals allowing a buy back at a lower price and realising the difference between the agreed price and the price at buy back. It was standard city business. It was a bit odd for someone to be doing it just to two airlines but no one would be twitchy. News about fuel prices would be enough to make it plausible or a story that made US tourists stay home. He had kind of believed in Mo’s little overview but was suspicious. He probably had over a hundred contacts who would come up with so called dead certs. Some were solid, others flaky. Mo didn’t give much away very often, so should be taken seriously but this was too big.

If he ran too much through work, he would get an eye cast on him.

Especially within the current climate. Do bad you are watched. Do good you are noticed. Best to stay under the radar.

He had sorted the work issues. Would sell by the end of the day. Nice little profit. His clients would be happy. Bosses happy. All round a good tip. Cheers Mo.

He raised his bottle symbolically.

As he did he looked at his laptop. His personal account. This was different. He didn’t usually trade much with his own money. He knew how easily it could be lost. On occasions for fun he used tips. Insider info was the real term but he was subtle. Nothing crazy. Why not? He had done well previously. Swiss account. Pretty much untraceable. Not enough to retire on but enough to live an extravagant life. This one he had a gut feeling on. He was bored and he was a bit pissed. His spread accounts had good credit. He opened them all in separate windows and started to put bets in per point of the Market dropping from Sept 11th. He predicted from Mo that they would drop by 30 points max. Play it safe. It might go a bit more. Happy days if it did. Five hundred… no one thousand per point. That would make a nice champagne fund?

He started to trade. Pretty big bets in spread betting terms but his account margins would allow it. He had no credit issues with these firms. On the Dow. On the FTSE. On the dollar, the euro, the yen. On big companies, on the airlines. Why? Why not? He was back in the frame at work. Mo had done him proud. This would turn a tidy profit. Worse case scenario was that the monumental Market change Mo predicted wouldn’t happen. He might lose £10 or £20k if the markets went up. £50k max. It was unlikely that they would jump much. The indices he was trading were not volatile upwards like that. He knew the day to day markets. Did he want a stop loss?  In itself the inside tip was a stop loss. Heads he wins. Tails nothing happens. He had a bonus due at Christmas – even if this all went tits up he would be ok. The last few days would ensure he still had a job and a bonus.  He had personally turned about £15k just on Mo’s tips today. That and the bonus would take care of it. As he put-on more bets he felt the excitement rise. A thousand a point on the FTSE. £500 a point on the Dow. He was like a player on roulette, busily laying down chips around the table. The difference with him being he planned on all the numbers coming up on single spin. What about other trades? He thought about it for a moment. Contracts for difference would be a nice safe bet. Dollar against the Euro or the yen. Gold against the markets. CFDs worked well if you were pretty sure of an event happening. He used them as a hedge sometimes. If bad news on the Dollar was due he would place the cfd on the euro. The difference being the dollar going down and the euro stable or even going up. They were good if you had a high probability of predicting something. If you had a good tip. They were not allowed in the States for some reason. It was one of the many reasons that London was becoming the centre of the world for banking. Experimental virtual banking. It was essential turning into the financial casino for the world.

He could take a CFD on gold against the dollar. It depended on gold going up and the dollar going down. It was likely to cost him if the market didn’t shift but it would only be margins, but if Mo was right it would accentuate his advantage. In times of worry the markets went back to the old fashioned precious metal, it basically hoarded gold. He could do the same in this virtual world. Not buy any of it but simply bet on the fact that others will panic and follow age old behaviour. That should be a decent amount. Greed was kicking in. By the close of trade on sept 11th he would automatically cash this lot in. It would be credited to Switzerland. Each bet coming in a small instalment into his secret fund.

The chips were placed and he just needed to wait for the wheel to spin. He was feeling awake and alive again. It was his money. His risk. His gamble.

Was it genetic, was he just a gambler like his father? He shut it out if his head. He was a slick modern intelligent trader. It was different. It was a no brainer.

Chapter 5

September 11 2001. The City. London

He sat and watched the screens. He was first in the office. He had planned a few days away after all this. Go away on a success. The bosses had not wanted him to go. They wanted to ride out his run of good luck. He had closed out most of the firms deals except a few small option contracts that he would let expire and pay out in the next few days. He had placed them through a few of his guys on the floor. They would complete while he was away. Sort themselves out. Client happy. Firm happy. Stash out of the shite.

He flicked on the monitor on his desk and pushed aside the papers to make space for his oversized latte cup, he was going to watch the day unfold. What was Mo’s prediction going to do? What news or what event would provoke this? These guys were terrorists. The tip had come from a jihadist, holy war against the West and The Jews. What was going to happen. Stash was definitely intrigued. Was there going to be a war declared on Israel? That would kick the ass of America and it would certainly provoke a response. The markets would react although it would be a sniffle not a sneeze. The market would catch a cold not get flu. Mo had basically predicted the Markets would get the equivalent of Ebola virus.

Whatever was going to happen he needed to get away. He started to look at flights on the Internet. A bit of sun would be good. He had mates around the world who would be a laugh and available. He looked at his desktop. The answer was there. A large mop of blond hair on top of a stocky frame. Perfect. He had not seen his old mate Hogan for a while. Too long in fact. He smiled at the thought. So many crazy things had happened in the past.

Stash fired off a text message

“where are U? U free?“

He sucked coffee trough the small hole in the lid of the cup. It irritated him and he was about to take the lid off when his phone buzzed

“always free. Get to Malaga airport. Txt ur flight number + time”

The office was starting to fill. A few people joked with Stash, passed the days greetings, taking the piss. They weren’t used to him being in the action so early.

The secretaries were arriving, the bosses, the admin staff. Most carrying a Starbucks or a Costa. There was free coffee in the small kitchenette. A top quality Nespresso machine. Instead everyone started the day on a bucketful of milky froth through a sippy cup. He went back to the screen. An array of flights popped up on the site but the times didn’t really work. There were connecting fights but why take a flight to Malaga via Zurich? And at inflated prices. He still had that about him. A childhood of watching the pennies still left him looking for value. He liked luxury but when someone else was paying. He had previously chartered private jets to get places especially if trying to impress but always on company funds. Travelling alone he would go as simple as possible. London city to Malaga. Direct. Could even do Heathrow by cab or gatwick express.

After about 10 mins he got bored and just booked one. Queasy jet. It could get him there by lunchtime tomorrow. He would have to pretend he was out the office for a day or two. Pretend he was doing admin. If he sorted most of it today he could make it look like he was busy for the next few days, work out of the office,  and incorporate the weekend in as well.

He texted Hogan the time, date and flight number and there was an immediate reply.

“cool. Cu there. Bring a spare dick – u will need it!”

Stash laughed out loud. Typical Hoges. Bullshit all round.

Stash decided to hammer the paperwork of the last few days. It needed doing. He double checked his positions and the screens to ensure he wasn’t sitting on a bomb about to go off. All was quiet. He was anxious in anticipation of the days events. His money was on this. His own money. If he had to sit through the day and nothing happened he would be bouncing off the walls by the close of trading.

He didn’t have to wait long. His paperwork completed he sat watching the news and unwrapping a tuna sandwich that the secretary had got for him.

The screens around the room showed it as it evolved. The first plane. Confusion. Shock. Disbelief. It wasn’t until the next plane that most people understood what was happening whereas Stash knew exactly what was happening within first second of the first report. He shook. He was pale. He violently vomited into the waste bin. The remnants of the morning coffee going up his nose.

As he saw it unfold he knew that this was going to happen. Not the specifics but even so he was part of it. Everyone assembled was stunned. His abdomen cramped. His head spun. He had to hold onto the desk to stop himself going down. The office was oddly quiet. They were all programmed to trade, they knew that they should be looking to the prices, the trading screens, but most who realised what was going on were on the phones. They knew people in those buildings. They had friends and even family burning or being trapped. Crushed. Stash himself knew people who would be in there. Just like all those around him. Working in their offices at the start of the day. Starbucks lattes, clicking the computer on. 08:46 and 09:03 busy times. Evil. Planned to catch the buildings at their fullest. The people at their most vulnerable. The city at its busiest. Giving the world a dramatic wake up.

Mo had been totally right. This would fuck things up. This would crash the world. It was a direct attack on the financial West. Most people watching would take hours or days to realise this. They will have just thought of it as a big building as a target. Stash knew the symbolism.

The world trade centre.

World trade – the arrogant western concept of it – attacked and paralysed. Stash couldn’t quite believe what he was witnessing.

Further reports came in of other attacks – the pentagon. Not only financial but political attack. Panic struck in those around. If they were attacking New York why not London. Offices were closing. The city emptying. A numb feeling in the masses in the street.

Stash left the office to get some air and think it through. How could he have done anything about it. It was like a premonition. A bad feeling but he had no real idea. Invade Israel was the closest he had got. He wondered if Mo’ knew more. He called him. The phone was dead. Not even an answer phone. If Mo knew, or he didn’t, he would be in the shit. Stash might have some explaining to do but Mo would be up to his neck. The markets had closed. Wall street was under an ash cloud. There was not going to be any action for a while. Who knows when. The only certainty would be the markets would tumble. The deals he had put in would be exactly as Mo said. He wouldn’t know how much or when but it was likely that he would be significantly richer when all this blew over.

He was almost home before he realised. He went into a pub to try to get some reality. The place was stunned. The same footage of that second plane hitting the tower. Multiple angles. More footage from the street. Horror. Sheer terror in Manhattan. Stash was rationalising it. He hadn’t done this. He had no part in it. The trades didn’t cause this. It would have happened anyway. This wasn’t his fault. He might profit from it but he profited from earthquakes and all kind of disasters. That was how it worked. It wouldn’t have been the first time he had made money from misfortune. In fact companies going bust, wars and disasters was mostly what the Market did well in. Good news was never as lucrative as bad. Making money from failing firms was not difficult. It was like throwing a concrete block to a drowning man. You knew he would sink but all you did was make it certain. He looked up at the tv screen. Commentators were speculating. The same footage repeated. CNN, BBC, ITN – all indistinguishable for the day. What else could happen. He knew nothing else would happen. This was it. Exactly what was supposed to happen did. The next few days would be shock and aftermath. The world would be in mourning. Nothing would happen at work. He would be surprised if anything even opened this week. He had a flight to catch tomorrow. He could get away from all this and forget about it.

There would be some explaining to do. The FSA would be looking at the trades. He should be able to explain it as flukes. As a lucky trade. His own trades should just automatically take care of themselves. No tax. Straight into a Swiss account. Hogan would be able to advise him. After all it was his stock and trade. He dealt with more fraudsters and crooks than anyone he knew.

A few days in the sun might be exactly what Stash needed. Life had taught him not to dwell on the bad but turn it to your advantage. Play your hand as strong as you could.

Chapter 6. Malaga Airport Sept 12th.

The airport had been tense. Strange really. Probably the safest time ever to fly. Many flights were cancelled. Security was high. Stash only had a small bag of hand luggage. He travelled light, he would buy stuff out there. An afternoon in Puerto Banus should do. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it now.

He had slept on what had happened and thought about it. It was an atrocity. He would hear of people he knew or knew of, who had died. But he knew it wasn’t his fault. If you knew a storm was going to hit a city could you stop it? He had sorted it in his mind. He would do very well out of it. Frighteningly well. He would set up a charity and donate it to the victims families. Do something good with the money. That could wait until after the weekend though. For now he was about to catch up with his old mate.

As he exited  the sliding doors of arrivals he felt like he was walking onto the stage of a game show.

Initially he couldn’t see Hogan. He assumed he wasn’t there as a 6 ft 5, larger than life Aussie lawyer was usually easy to spot. Often difficult to miss. As Stash proceeded to the doors he heard the familiar accent and spotted the back of Hogan exchanging numbers with a couple of not particularly attractive girls at the bar. His name wasn’t really Hogan, It was Brett Johnstone. Like most of his mates the nickname came from somewhere stupid. In Hogans case it came from the slight resemblance to the 80s wrestler.

They had met at Oxford. Hogan doing law whilst Stash did maths. Hogan had started off with some pretty lowlife London gangsters and swindlers and from previous contacts from the dreamy spires, particularly the sons and daughters of eastern european crooks. He had built up quite a network before he had graduated. They usually had some money to hide or some crime to suppress. It had developed to a point where he had to run things out of Gibraltar for the tax breaks. It was becoming an outlaw outpost. All the dodgy clients he needed. Internet porn, gambling and anything slightly dodgy. Cheap booze and cheap fags. Military and crooks. The border felt like the wild west. He kept a flat there. Half a million for a one bed which he rarely used. He had enough clients with enough money and was offered so many fringe benefits that he could survive without a salary. It was symbiotic. He kept them out of jail so they looked after him. He had the exclusive use of most things when they weren’t in town, which was most of the time. Flats, boats, cars, villas with pools – he tended to keep an eye on things for them. He kept keys. Made sure things were set up if they were visiting. He had become less a lawyer and more a concierge.

Marbella had become less easy to run since the 90s when Jesus Gil a Gil had become mayor. He had tightened down. Mainly it was the small time crims which had been tackled. The big players from the emerging eastern Europe were untouchable. They also brought in big money. Not only thousands in the bars but international trades. These guys ran things through multiple sites. They were vastly rich, vastly corrupt and covered in Teflon. That’s mainly why Hogan had mainly become a concierge. The legals for these guys was complex and international. He could set up Swiss accounts, transfer illegal money, avoid tax, get them out of scrapes and misdemeanours but on the whole these guys could just buy people out. He brokered things like that but the old fashioned handcuffs and bail type law was in the past.

Stash slapped him on the back and looked at the girls “I hope you know he is a pimp and trying to get you on his books..!” he winked at the prettier one.

“Wahhhy me old mate” Hogan gave stash a bear-hug and lifted him off the ground “you need some sun my old limey pom. You look ill” he dropped Stash and turned to the girls “I will call you ok” shaking his mobile near his ear. They half waved as hogan grabbed Stashs bag put an arm around him and walked to the exit.

Outside the artificial alveolus of international air travel the sun beat down. It was 30 degrees in contrast the autumnal weather of England. Stash put on his aviators, Hogan a pair of silver mirrored oakleys.

“Good job you only brought a small bag” Hogan laughed as he pointed to a Banana yellow Lamborghini Diablo parked in a taxi space “I would have to put the roof rack on!”.

It was a case of a car with that much attitude didn’t get a parking ticket whereas an average family saloon would be clamped and towed away before the handbrake was on.

Either that or more likely the number plate had been checked, the police notified, the ok given. If you have a a billion then 

€100k to the police chief, to keep the inconveniences away isn’t gonna hurt.

Stash crammed the bag in the footwell. Good job he hadn’t brought a suitcase.

“travelling light? How long you here for?” Hogan enquired.

Stash liked the laid back no nonsense way.

“was going to go back on sunday but after what has happened I might see how it goes if that’s ok”

“fuck yeah. Stay till Christmas if you wanna” the big Aussie offered only just squeezing into the Diablo. He had a genuine joy on his face at seeing his mate rather than the uptight british reserve. There was no question of it being an irritation or an inconvenience. No apologies. Just a straight up answer.

“I have a few commitments but you will be alright on your own. What do you need to get? Some clobber?  A few bits?” the engine roared. It sounded slick and lubricated. Not necessary mechanical. It was organic. A animal roar. A guttural grunt. He had driven some great cars. He had done track days and had rented super cars for the weekend. He had owned a 911 for a while. Sold it for a ferrari. He only kept it a month. No point in London. He was using the tube but worrying about dickheads keying his car. All hassle for sitting at 5mph on knightsbridge. No thanks.

This was different, this was in a completely different league. Hogan floored it, laughing. The airport drop off lane was like a pit lane and he drove in the same style. His head was pinned back to the racing seat, his guts onto his spine.

“Fancy a beer in Banus? Hold on tight” Hogan shouted.

Stash not hearing a thing above the engine noise and the turbulent air nodded frantically and grabbed the seat.

They did the obligatory super slow drive by along the quayside. Ogled by the families that had gone for the spectacle that they were providing. Some were taking photos. Young boys mouths agape and pointing. Barely legal teenage girls who had dressed up in their best designer lookalikes were moistly admiring them, trying to attract them. Blokes muttering “tossers” jealously under their breath whilst wishing they had stayed back in their cheap bar drinking lager. Hogan didn’t even notice. He spoke to the bar owners. He knew them well.

He waved to the security guard who lifted the chain allowing them to park in the allotted space, at the moorings of a 75ft navy blue Sun Seeker. Stash was impressed. His ears were ringing. He climbed out of the ridiculously coloured car. A small crowd had gathered photographing them. Stash was embarrassed. He had the unwashed feel of travel about him. He looked ok in his Diesel jeans and White Armani shirt, but he still felt grubby. A couple of hours next to Pauline and Ron on queasy jet hadn’t helped. Pauline coughing a combination of sour cream pringles and B&H as she regaled him with recommendations he never would take. Ron occasionally grunting as he read his copy of The Sun. Smelling of breakfast beer.

Hogan actually carried off the celebrity attitude. He seemed to ignore the crowd yet carry a presence that they wanted. He talked loudly and walked as if he were a celebrity.

The bar was only a few yards away and settled on two stools overlooking the Marina. “two beers” Hogan gestured to the barmaid with his fingers, not asking permission to sit.

“what’s up buddy? you looked strung out like a whores pants”

Stash thought about the analogy. Hogan had a million and one sayings none of which meant very much.

“Can’t tell you here mate. It’s a bit delicate” the beers arrived, ice crystals skating down their sides “good health”

They knocked the bottles together, took a long drink and ordered two more.

After three beers more Hogan had taken Stashs bag and put it in the yacht. He had a couple of loose ends to deal with. Minor business. He had suggested that Stash do a bit of shopping, get some gear and he would see him on the strip in a couple of hours. They had agreed to talk properly tomorrow. Somewhere out of the way. The plan for later was to go for it. Forget things and enjoy the moment. Stash needed some clothes. The strip ahead of him was a like a catwalk of boutiques. Hugo boss, Gucci, Armani, that would do. He couldn’t carry off the real Italian med look. D&G maybe. Versace no way. He was fit. He ran. He hit the gym and he ate well. He was stocky and average height. 5’9 maybe 5’10. He wasn’t tall, but he had wide shoulders and decent arms. It didn’t work with some designers. They were designed for tall skinny blokes. He had more of a boxers frame. He could carry suits but never double breasted. He managed fitted shirts but the top buttons strained. T shirts were good if they were fitted. He wasn’t the sort to wear those motif T shirts. Unfitted with pictures on them. Too teenage. Too comedy. He kept his hair short and neat. He had a few small scars on his head which were obvious when it was clipped short. They were from childhood. One from a hiding his father had given him another from a playground fight. They were subtle. Adding to his character rather than looking nasty. All in he was good looking. Not a head turner, he didn’t have model looks. He wasn’t a pretty boy. He was more real man than that. He had the look of a fighter or a rugby player. His real asset was his eyes. His mother always said he had pretty eyes. He had not appreciated back then but as he got older he realised they were a feature. He could open them wide, blink his long lashes a few times and drop a one liner. It had worked so many times. He had been told they were puppy dog eyes, honest eyes, cheeky eyes, fuck me eyes. Whatever, he knew they were the physical key to his attractiveness.

He had stocked up. Suede gucci driving shoes, the Hugo boss navy linen suit, the black deep v neck t shirt from Armani – in each store he had been flirted with by both men and women. Effusively camp Italians, smouldering spaniards. He knew they were paid to do it but he could read their eyes too. There was connection beyond the sale. He knew were they would be later. He already had a social circle and he had only been here a few hours. It was all in the eyes.

Chapter  7

Puerto Banus, September 12th.

Stash had almost forgotten the events of the last 48 hours. The marina was so false. It wasn’t interested in reality. Just clothes and sales. They sold “lifestyle” whatever that might be. Did that involve ethical morality. Stash doubted it. He had just spent a few thousand euros on “lifestyle” most of it created in the sweatshops of India, Taiwan and southeast Asia for a few pence. He knew that fashion wasn’t created on a charitable basis. Fuck it. He couldn’t control it but he could afford it. The high street was worse for exploitation. Today it wasn’t his problem. He sat into the same seat at the bar he had been in only 2 hours before.

This time the barmaid was onto him immediately, presumably due to the tip she had received earlier. He ordered an Estrella. In a big glass. He was a Brit. Fuck it. He wanted a pint and he was having one. He asked for the newspaper. Daily mail. Nothing beyond the typical opinionated views. The markets were closed. Apparently in respect, more likely due to NYSE being closed. The world would hammer the markets as soon as they opened. If NY wasn’t in on that it would topple the whole economy over. He phoned a couple of people from work. Made up a story of good friends in New York still missing. Said he would be back next week.

He felt ok. Not good though. He was Anxious. It was all out of his control now and that was unsettling. He knew he was rich but wasn’t sure how rich. When the markets opened the deals he had made would be paid out. It was inevitable he had made money. Rather than the 30 or 40 points he had gambled on it would be 100s of points. There is no way the markets could do anything else.

The roar of the Lambo was heard just before he spotted it. The offensive custard yellow with the red face of Hoges pulling up to the back of the luxury yacht.”

“Finish your beer and get spruced up nob rash” charming as ever Hoges shouted across the quay. Stash threw a €20 note down and carried his purchases to the multimillion pound boat.

“How come you are in this” Stash asked. “I assume it isn’t yours” Hoges poured poured them a glass of crystal and explained about his clients and his role in ensuring that things were in order for them. “reckon it could be bugged” Stash asked .

Hoges spluttered his champagne. The fridge was full and would be re-victualled on his order. Might as well enjoy the benefits. “Doubt it but anything you’ve got to say keep it till tomorrow. I can’t be serious now. I haven’t see you for an age. Lets go wild tonight. We can crash here. This is owned by one of my Moscow clients. Big steel and oil man. That’s the party line anyway. I know he is in a few other things” he winked “he is ok actually. Fairly kosher. Big bucks though. Those seats are made of the skin of circumcised whales.”

” really….?” Stash Realised he was being derided. “fuck you you Ozzie dick head”

“no really. They need four skin divers to get it!”

They had showered and cleaned up. Stash had washed away the last aura of travel from himself. Apart from the tan he was now Marbella man. He looked good and smelt good. He had brought his own aftershave. Creed green tweed. He had worn it for years now. It fitted him. Obscure. Subtle yet with character. Classic. He had always got good feedback.

Hogan was the contrary. White linen suit. Black and gold versace shirt open wide. His chest hair naturally ginger was fortunately sun bleached to blonde. He oozed rich but smelt cheap. A bucket full of the latest generic fragrance. It was too much. It could probably kill a fly at 5 feet. Having said that it would attract a Latvian lap dancer at 20 meters.

They walked the strip. It was their doorstep. The night was the daytime squared. More holidaymaker paparazzi. More high street hopefuls. Stash could see how celebrity culture had taken the world. Some half wit performer with a tv opportunity could command respect and awe here. Forget bankers with millions to play with. Forget the doctors, the lawyers, the scientists. The very essence of civilisation. A welder from Middlesboro could sing in a boy band and within six months do a sermon on the quay here. Biblical. Insane.

But tonight it was them that held court. Hogan had presence. Stash had charm. The big guy knew everyone.

They went up one way back down the other. Generally just drinking, bantering and laughing. It was late and they headed to the nightclub. No resistance getting in, Hogan brought high roller clients here. They knew him well. They got a great table. Discrete in the corner but overlooking everything. In the world of see and be seen this was it.

“lobsters and champagne?” Hogan proposed.

“less bubbles. Let’s go for a nice White, Mersault looks good. Lobster absolutely. And chips I am starving” Stash dropped the menu onto the table. He had caught the eye of a girl a few tables away. He was stunned. There was fashion in this town. There was glamour. But there wasn’t much natural beauty. Except her. Concentrated into one girl. He was utterly fixated.

As the waiter arrived Hogan ordered the crustacea.

Stash interjected and he asked for champagne to be sent to the two girls in the corner. The waiter looked towards Hogan knowingly.

“what? what is it?” Stash asked.

Hogan nodded to the waiter “two glasses of champagne for the girls but please don’t say who it is from.” the waiter nodded still looking uncomfortable.

“you pick em stash buddy. Only here one afternoon and you find trouble. That is real trouble as well”

Stash was giving the eye, he had caught her attention. Slender. Shoulder length brunette hair. Shiny. Beautiful. Her face. Olive like. Perfect proportions. A pair of Jackie O sunglasses perched on her forehead. Silk boldly printed maxi-dress covering what looked like a well proportioned figure. It may have been the booze but he felt he needed to get to know her.

She spoke to her blonde companion and they both looked over. The waiter arrived at the same time with two flutes of rose champagne. A strawberry perched atop each.

She lifted the glass and acknowledged Stash with it. As she did Hogans eye was caught by the black suited gorilla sat in the corner. He was pretty sure that he was their minder and this confirmed it.

“leave it dickhead. Bad move real bad move.” Hogan punched Stashs bicep “they are with a big noise russian. You never see him. He isn’t a client of mine. He is known as Boyar Novikov. Made his money in steel and oil apparently although he never used to have any steel and oil companies and he suddenly seemed to acquire them. Comes from an aristo family with a lot of history. Boyar is a title apparently. Like baron or prince.”

“how do you know this?” Stash was intrigued

“the boat you are staying on tonight is owned by one of his competitors, Yuri. He is scared shitless off Boyar. Yuri used to run the black markets here. Used to import and export anything and everything illegal. But now he is being squeezed. I represent him for a lot of things but he won’t take on Boyar. There are skirmishes between their underlings. Blood has been shed. These are powerful Russian business empires. There also are historical boundaries. Some of these characters truly believe they are Cossack warriors. I don’t really understand it all but a lot of it is just straightforward gangster crap.”

“what girls and drugs?”

“absolutely. Every titty bar on this coast is run by a few competing gangs. Street drugs, booze, money laundering. Protection rackets. All run by these same five or six crooks. Most of them have an understanding and have territory. It developed over time. Boyar is breaking some of those rules and trying to take other peoples business from under their noses. He is doing it quickly as well. Last year some pretty nasty “accidents” happened. All to a few eastern European middle men and minders. Very visual. Very impressive. It didn’t really get out much but those that needed to know got the message.”

“like what?” Stash enquired.

“in one of the ports down the coast. Nice quiet place. Sotogrande. The yacht club woke up to find two sailing boats moored up with a bloke impaled on the top of each mast. Straight up the arse and out of the neck. Their bellies had been split open with a sword. The boats where a total mess. Blood and guts and shit everywhere.”

Stash grimaced “Vlad the impaler, ha” as he said it, it clicked. Of course the symbolism was obvious.

“you got it. A very traditional way. Apparently They were alive when they went up there. Probably happened out at sea. At lot of their business seems to.”

The lobsters arrived ceremoniously and the waiter filled up their glasses with more of the fine White burgundy.

“take it as a warning. You don’t want upset these goons. They are ruthless”

Stash couldn’t help but glance again at the girl and then at the minder in the corner. He had been joined by another who could be his twin. Big, coarse features. Black sunglasses indoors and black suits. Not only was he looking at them. They were watching him.

He looked quickly back at the lobster presented with it’s bulging eyes staring back at him. He wasn’t sure which was the uglier.

The girls left shortly after. Stash was in conversation with Hogan yet he noticed the dark haired one walked unnecessarily close to their table and smiled at him. The two bouncers behind wolfishly eyeing both Stash and Hoges.

“see you around” Stash cheekily said to the bigger of the two minders. No response came back.

Chapter 8

Thursday September 13. Puerto Banus.

His head hurt. His mouth was dry. He was disorientated. Where was he?

It took him a minute to work it out. The cramped room was a cabin on the boat. The small curtain covering the porthole.  He hadn’t remembered coming back to it last night. He was still fully dressed. Shoes kicked off randomly. He prised himself up. A wave of nausea followed by a throb in his head. He pushed the cabin door open. Hogan had left a scribbled note on the galley table instructing Stash to get a bag of stuff together. Back at midday. We will get away for a few days.

He showered in the opulent bathroom, brushed his teeth and threw on a fresh t shirt and a pair of old battered diesel shorts. All that was left in the bag he had brought were a pair of brazil flag havaianias flip-flops which he threw onto the floor and slipped into.

He shuffled off the boat, wincing in the sun even through his aviators. He went into the small supermercado just off to the left of the main quay. He knew the port pretty well. He had been out here many time for a variety of reasons.

First mission was to swallow some paracetamol with cold pepsi. He felt reliefinstantly. The sharp edge of his pain numbing. He walked back to the clothes shops on the front. Purchased a bigger holdall and a few more basic outfits. A pair of trainers, a few pairs of Calvin Kleins,  black linen drawstring trousers, swimming shorts.

As he returned the boat he passed a black convertible Bentley parked on the quayside. The number plate B 07 AR 5. One of the heavies from the previous night was sitting in the drivers seat. He hadn’t seen Stash and was obviously deep in conversation on his cellphone. Stash turned his head towards the shopfront to pass by unnoticed. As he looked through the window he could see her in what looked like a tennis outfit. In her hand a bright green dress adorned with gold chains. The chains made up of interlocking Gucci Gs. Without thinking he entered the store. An assistant on him immediately directing him to menswear. He picked up a pair of slip on loafers and tried them for size. €350. he asked to take them and the assistant passed to the back of the shop to get them for him. He picked a pair of trousers from the rack and walked towards the changing room. When he got there the curtain opened. She stood there, barefoot on tiptoes with the long backless gown on unfastened at the back of her neck. She hadn’t looked round and thought he was the assistant.

“Please can you fasten this.” her accent had a subtle rasp of Russian but it wasn’t strong. Nor was it overtly American. She actually sounded more like an Italian talking English.

“my pleasure” Stash flirtily replied.  It was obvious she had not expected him to be there. She initially froze and looked shocked. She then recognised him from the previous night. She turned back to the mirror and smiled at him through the reflection and pushed her hair up. He fastened the clasp again made out of two interlocking Gs at the back of her neck. 

She tilted to the left and right.

“what do you think?” she asked him turning round to catch his gaze.

He stepped back and admired, nodding his head. “very nice. Beautiful.” he looked her up and down “you might want a bra with it though” he added cheekily. He was staring at her nipples, obvious through the sheer material. He could see their form, the texture of her areolae. He could feel himself becoming aroused.

She giggled. “cheeky!”

The assistant returned with the box, unfazed by their interaction. “These as well?” he asked in an effeminate Spanish voice picking up the trousers that stash had hung on the changing room door. He had not looked at them in detail. They were black snakeskin, with crystals repeating the G motif across the legs.

They were ridiculous. She could see that. She smiled “yes I think they will suit you”

He laughed. “maybe next time. Just the shoes” he walked to the counter still smiling at her.

“May I?” he asked the assistant before picking up the pen from next to the cash register. He scribbled his number on a gift tag and underneath his name.

He tapped in his number on the pin reader and walked back over to her. “Text me when you can”.

He winked at her, picked up his purchase and left the shop carefully ensuring he was in the blind-spot of the bentley.

As soon as he got back on the boat he flicked on the tv. He still felt queasy. But he also felt excited. Excited about the girl he had just seen again. She certainly had a special something that was not just alcohol fuelled the previous night.

The tv screen was still running pictures of New York. Faces of firefighters and the public covered by dust clouds.

He had borrowed a newspaper from the security guard on the quayside.

There were headlines and speculation, stories about heroes and victims. He looked to the business pages. The new York exchange was still closed with suggestions to open it elsewhere. It was not predicted that any trading would occur till Monday at the earliest.

The FTSE had closed at 4,745.98. It was a huge drop. The biggest ever apparently, 5.72% in a day.

Stash calculated it. He had £1000 a point on the close price going down. It had gone down 287 points on the day. He would be at least a quarter of a mill up on each of these bets. He had 4 accounts open on the FTSE. He should be a million better off from this alone. He would have to wait for the NYSE to re-open. It would be at least as big a drop. The gold price might be up and more importantly the dollar down. His CFD would be in his favour big time. The other tips that Mo had given him – American airlines and United Airlines. They would plummet. His put options through work would be significant earners. His spread bets even more so. The Bank of America would be similarly devastated. He had a array of spreads and trades as suggested by Mo. The 20 or 30 points he predicted were in the hundreds. He had only bet £100 a point on some. £500 on others. Irrespective they would all come in at profit. He had no idea how much yet but probably enough to be life changing.

He decided he would watch things from here. He could call the office on Monday. Say he had to go to a funeral in New York. It was very plausible that he probably should be at more than one.

How could he though. He couldn’t face contacting anyone he knew out there. He knew he was complicit in all this. Especially with the money he would make. But he had rationalised it to himself now. He was probably richer than many of his clients. He felt power and he felt rich. He hadn’t known about the planes or the plan. He just took a risk on a tip from a friend. Whoever the fuck that friend was. Just who was Mo?   Did he know? Was he involved? He again tried to call him but the phone was dead. He looked at the screen. It glowed with fluorescence. A text.

He opened it.

“stash? What does that mean. katja”

His heart raced he hadn’t expected a message so soon.

He thought about replying when the door opened behind him. Hoges was early. He was red in the face from rushing around. “get the coffee on mate. Change of plan. You’ll need to wake up.”

They threw the bags into the jeep and headed inland up into the mountains. The road became more winding and the air was slightly cooler. The music was on full blast. A dance cd. Ministry of sound anthems. The wind ruffled Hogans mop of hair as they drove.

After about 30 minutes they turned off onto a private drive. Security gates and a sentry box. Hogan spoke to them in Spanish and showed a plastic credit card. The security took it , keyed a number in to the computer and then made a phone call.

He returned the card. After about two minutes the barrier lifted. The stereo was blaring a dance tune – Johnny corporate – Sunday shouting. Hogan was flicking his fingers in the air to the music. Stash tapping the door, distant. Thinking about this mornings interaction.

They drove a half kilometre down the drive and turned again down a small steep road and up to a arched gateway. Hogan swiped the card and the doors slid sideways.

Inside was a pure brilliant white mansion. Green lawns with sprinklers on. The sun reflecting as small rainbows in the spray. A butler opened the door and welcomed them in Spanish. They alighted the jeep and walked through to the hallway. Stash followed Hogan to the left past the grand sweeping double staircase and via a kitchen, bigger than his entire flat. Then into a vast room with grand wooden beams and a tiled floor. It was ornately decorated with heavy quality drapery and fine antique furniture. It was truly a beautiful room. More attractive though was the patio and pool. The entire side of the house was a glass wall which opened up onto a terracotta terrace which extended out onto a teak decked poolside. An asymmetric infinity pool projected outwards from the steep hillside. Beyond this way down was Marbella and the sea.

“put yer swimmers on mate. This is home for a bit. Pick a room up there” Hogan pointed up to the mezzanine at the far end. A glass stairwell clung to the wall seemingly defying gravity.

“pick any of them except the master bedroom. That’s the only rule the owner insists on. No one sleeps in his bed.”

Stash walked out onto the hot terracotta tiles. He dived into the  blue shimmering water and felt immediate relief. It was cool but not cold. He swan along the bottom. Silent and reflecting the light prismatically from the ripples he had created. He surfaced, slowly blowing out the used air and breathing deeply.  He turned and swam back to his entry point again without taking another breath then lifted himself out admiring the muscles in his arms as he did and stood dripping. He ran a hand over his cropped hair it bristled as he did. A towel and two cold beers had miraculously appeared on the table in front of him. He looked around. The mansion was staffed. Gardeners at work in the distance, a maid in the kitchen. Hogan came bounding out of the main room in a pair of knee length board shorts in shocking pink and white, his sizeable gut hanging over them.

“so what’s this secret news then buddy?”

Stash pointed to the pool and they swam to the distant edge. Overlooking the view Stash explained the details of the last few days.

To Hogan it was all new. He hadn’t seen the news. He had been on a yacht a mile out at sea with two lap dancers when it happened.

He pretty much underplayed the atrocity.

“not your fault mate. Lucky break for you. Bad day for someone else. It’s how it goes. If it had been London city it could have been you. It wasn’t. That’s that. How many kids die a day in Asia and Africa because of trades you do. This one probably has more justice to it if you are thinking ethically. It’s sad. It’s horrible but face it bankers on the whole are hardly ethical or charitable.”

Stash shrugged. He had not even thought about that. Hogan lived in a fairly nasty world of criminals and psychopaths. He was not the sort of bloke who had much of a conscience.

“guilt is a wasted emotion. You’ve done it. You are rich. Happy days. Now how much do you reckon you’ve made?” Hogan enquired bluntly.

“depends on New York opening on Monday. I suspect when everything is settled it will be £4 million plus.” the amounts were starting to sink in with Stash. Actually he was probably underplaying it. It would be over a million on the FTSE. Likely double on the Dow Jones. The points drop was likely to be more. Currencies. Company spreads on the airlines. Could be closer to 7 or 8 million.

“you’re gonna have to find a way to spend it. I could help you” Hogan jested “although to be honest beyond beer what else do we need”

“not many women round here.” Stash enquired. Nothing like riches to heighten the libido.

“We can go back to the port later if you want? Let’s enjoy the afternoon here though. Graciela the cook is knocking up some local specialities. She is an amazing cook. You know I like my food…and this is the best”

Hogan wasn’t wrong. Not fancy but amazing. Ice cold refreshing gazpacho, A roasted leg of baby lamb, a rabbit and partridge casserole with olives and tomatoes. Some of the best wine he had ever tasted.

They sat back in the cane chairs and sighed as a local dessert was brought out. Gorged but afraid to miss out on another sensation.

“so how you going to stay under the radar on this one?” Hogan asked.

“well… it pays into my account which automatically transfers to a Swiss bank. They can’t trace that.”

Hogan nodded approvingly.

“the company account will be open to scrutiny from the FSA. I suspect they will have all sorts of crap going on around this. My tip will be first in line. I could just bounce it back to him.

I kept it subtle. A few million through a hedge fund won’t get noticed.” Stash was trying to convince himself. It would probably look coincidental if they didn’t follow it too far. He hoped so. If they really dug deep he could appear beyond lucky. How would he explain it. Deny anything other than a hunch or find some obscure facts that would support the trades. It shouldn’t be too hard.

“fuck it. Just stay out here. I can get you a new identity if you need. No need to go back at all.” Hoges was serious. Simple solution.

“I might stay a few extra days if that’s ok. Probably mid week. Let the dust settle”

“only if you can afford it..?” Hogan slapped him on the shoulder.

The sun was going down and the two had hardly moved. A jug of sangria almost finished on the table. The phone next to it vibrated. Stash checked it.

“u in the club? k”

Neither of them could move after the heavy meal and the excesses of the previous night.

“not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Stash Xxx”

He thought hard about it. Should he. The green dress. His mind willing, his body not. What could he do in the club. The minders would be obvious. It was a no brainer. Forget it. They would find some easy targets. Safe ones. Tomorrow. The weekend.

Chapter 9

Sept 14th. Ronda Mountains

Hogan was still asleep. Stash had awoken. Feeling rich and energetic. He put on his trainers, swimming shorts and a t shirt and let himself out the front door. He needed some exercise. It was best before the sun got too hot. He took his phone in case he needed to call Hogan to find his way back. He liked to run. It cleared his mind.

Having travelled along the driveway he was intrigued about what lay in the other direction. He didn’t fancy a discussion with the security sentries. He pressed the button on the panel to allow him to exit the mansion and jogged up to the road. Turning left he plodded along, his pace barely more than a quick walk. He felt stiff. No proper warm up. He would take it easy.

After about ten minutes he picked up the pace, sweating out the excesses of the previous nights. He passed a few gateways obviously large mansions behind them similar to the one Hogan had them staying in.

The area was all high walls and security fences. Warnings signs about guard dogs and armed guards.

This was obviously where the money had its hide out. The yachts in the harbour and the mansions in the mountains. The private security of the area just one of many layers of protection for the justifiably paranoid owners.

He had probably run 3 or 4 km and the road was beginning to narrow. On one side a high stone wall. The other dry steep terracing. He looked ahead. The road seemed to stop. The wall creating an end point. He slowed to a walk, reclaiming his breath, now feeling his sweat along his back and on his forehead.

As he neared the end he saw the drive dropped steeply to the left down the hillside. It was paved immaculately. Greenery along both sides, bougainvillaea, azaleas, agapanthus, lilies – surrounded  by beautiful lawns clipped to the millimetre.

He stood at the gate. Security cameras all around. He looked down the drive. The large garage beyond the ornate and tasteless fountain was open. The cars within it had the number plates Boyar 1 trough to 7. Beyond these the large house, probably a historic finca for the region. Now upgraded and pimped to resemble an 11th century castle. The owner trying to buy history without provenance

He moved closer to the gates. He could see the two men come out of the garage. One he had seen before, in the club with Katja. He looked like a baby born with too much black hair. Only massive. His frame 6ft 6 at least. Probably an xxxl jacket. They walked up the drive obviously aware of Stash. He started to jog away, pretending to look lost. Round here it appeared no one went out on the road. Stash had seen no one. Obviously suspicions had been raised. 

After about 300m semi sprint he ducked behind a tree at the roadside and looked back. They appeared satisfied of no threat. They walked back into the complex oblivious of Stashs hiding place He sat down and caught his breath.

He heard the car doors shut. The Bentley engine roared and the car approached. He pushed through some more bushes and squared his back to the wall.

The matt black Bentley with mirror windows, Boyar 1, passed by. Perhaps Boyar was in it? Stash was intrigued.

He figured that he should be curious. After all, his current luck was paying off.

He sprinted back to the Finca. This time turning left to avoid the CCTV. Instead he followed the high wall for about 200m. Down the hillside wide terraced fields stretched out into the distance. This was obviously the site of the original farm. The wall ended and turned perpendicularly left and then stock fencing continued. This meandered down the hill at an angle for as far as he could see.

A short distance down from the house was paddock and stables. In a training ring was a woman taking a horse through a series of dressage moves.

He secretly clambered down the terraced hillside. Occasional spiky bushes and olive trees hiding him. He ducked behind a boulder. He could see her. Atop a majestic black horse. It’s legs looked too long. She trotted around the sandy oval encouraging the horse to manoeuvre regally.

He sat watching on a dusty ledge behind a boulder not wanting to raise any alarm.

He sweatily texted her. Crazy he thought. As he watched she immediately grabbed her left buttock, both her and the horse aware of it buzzing.

“I am close by” he wrote.

She looked around 1st to the left then to the right. Scanning the paddock like a hunted animal.

She tapped the phone “what?????” the horse now head down to the ground.   

He walked into the open and whistled from beyond the fence. She trotted over.

“beautiful form. Very muscular” he remarked.

She nodded, ” yes very strong. Very athletic.”

Although taken aback she see seemed pleased to see him.

“I meant you not the horse” he quipped.

She made the horse turn. “Follow me” she said eyeing him over her shoulder.

He hopped over the the fence quickly and followed her and the trotting horse across the paddock . She cooly pointed him to an empty stable block.

The hay was fresh. The stable had been cleaned that morning and remained unoccupied but still had a distinct animal smell about it.

He saw her dismount and tied the reins to an ornate cast iron hoop on the wall.

The stables were in a quadrangle around a cobbled yard. Very impressive. Bright White and antiquated yet obviously recently renovated.

She entered shaking out her hair which had been tied up. She ran her fingers through it.

“you are following me?” she asked him stone faced.

He was unsettled only because this was all so unplanned.

“Not at all. This is the most unexpected coincidence” Stash could feel his heart beating more rapidly. He kept his voice as cool and calm as he could.

He stared at her face. Naturally tanned. She wore little make up. A thin trace of eye liner was all he could discern. She had a couple of light freckles on both cheeks, he hadn’t noticed that yesterday morning. Her dark hair broke into her shoulders and over the upturned collar of her heavily logo’ed polo shirt. The buttons were open and his eyes noticed the slightly paler tanned skin leading downwards. He stared into her deep dark eyes.

“I am staying down the road with my friend. I was just out running and I saw the car number plate” he felt he needed to explain.

“it is stupid you came here. You are in such danger. You know who Boyar is?” her eyes narrowed. “he is a very bad man, yes” her voice having a downward terminal inflection “very bad. He would kill you if he knew you were here. He might kill me if he found us here.

Stash continued to look at her eyes. There was fear. Not acute anxiety but deep-seated fear.

“well let’s hope he doesn’t find out” his confidence directly related his rising testosterone levels. He put forward his hand and she nervously took it looking confused. He gently welcomed her towards him.

He maintained her eye contact and moved his face towards hers.

“No. No. It is too dangerous.” she said breathily.

He had committed now. He squeezed her hand more tightly and kissed her. Her mouth receptive her muscles and body resisting.

His other hand slid slowly up her back and under her hair until his fanned out fingers reached resistance.

He held her firm as he kissed her more passionately. She reciprocated and her body had loosened and leaned into him.

She was now moving him back to the wall. Her hands on his arms, his chest.

She pulled away from his mouth. Panting and breathless. He breathed in and could smell her. Her exercised body. Her heat. Her arousal. She moved her hand downwards onto his now hard and very obvious cock. She grabbed it though his shorts. Roughing up the material overlying it. He moaned slightly. She swallowed and licked her moist lips and pushed him against the the wall. He pulled off his t shirt as she frantically pulled him free from his shorts.

Her hands gripped him and she moved her mouth towards him. Initially just a kiss. Then more confident. Her head moving rhythmically around on him. He closed his eyes and bit his tongue and let out guttural sigh.

His hands went down to her shoulders. He eased her off him. Stood her up and spun her around against the wall. He pulled off her shirt and massaged her breasts through the White lace bra. He kissed her collar bone, moving round her neck up to her ear. She purred loudly. His hands moved down wards down her flat toned abdomen and inside the waistline of her jodhpurs.

She undid the fastener allowing him access to her. His fingers exploring but not entering her. Her arousal was obvious.

He pushed the jodhpurs down roughly, his left hand hooking the back. They resisted and his right hand moved to assist as she turned to the wall her firm ass pushed back against him. She had reached down between her parted legs and she arched her back. Presenting herself to him. He noticed fresh red welts diagonally across her back and buttocks. He faltered. He was shocked. His hands which were moving towards her lower back stopped. He didn’t want to touch them. He didn’t want to hurt her.

She didn’t explain. Her hand grabbed him and guiding him into her. She pushed back hard taking all of him into her.

They lay on top of the pile of hay and embraced. She unconsciously drew irrelevant shapes on his chest with her finger. Him in a post coital daze.

Reality was coming back to them. “you are beautiful…” he broke the silence “and amazing.” he beamed a smile at her.

She smiled back looking girlishly.

She seemed upset tears welling up.

“was it that bad…” he immediately wished he had not made the joke. She sobbed. He hugged her tightly. She winced. He moved his hand from her back.

“what…what happened?” Stash whispered to her gently.

She looked away.

He stroked her hair.

She sniffled “Boyar. he beats me.” she looked back at him her eyes a pool of tears.

He felt rage building up. “why are you with him then?”

” I have no choice. It is safer to go along. This is nothing. If he is annoyed it is worse. He would kill me. I am sure.” she sobbed. “that would be the best. If he killed me it would be best. I can never escape him. If he knew I had even talked to you he would torture me.”

Her voice increasing in its cadence. Her state becoming more anxious. She had moved sideways and was now on her knees facing him.

“he is a cruel man. He is evil man. He kills people for fun. He tortures people. He is an expert in this.”

Stash raised his eyebrows.

She continued “he has things all over the house. Sticks, canes, swords, whips. He has books about torture. He has a library. A gallery of things to do with torture and pain. It excites him. He is not normal. He doesn’t make love. He inflicts pain. It is what gets him excited.”

She started to get her clothes, the mood changed from love and tenderness to pure fear.

“he hurts me and masturbates. My back. This is anger not sex. Sergei saw you in the club. Apparently he saw you at the quayside. Reported back to Boyar. He wanted to know the details. Wanted to get information out of me. He grabbed a cane. A gold topped White cane.” Breathing in deeply she composed herself. “It won’t scar. It will heal in a few days. He is a master. He can inflict pain without a trace. I have seen him. He brings them here. Enemies. He teaches them a lesson. The room. He takes them in there. Strong men. Crying. Pissing themselves with pain. He just continues. He laughs. He disappears. Pleasures himself with it….”

Stash held up his hand, listening to a new noise. A car and gates squeaking.

He lept to his feet pulling on his shorts and shirt.

“go, go go…” she pushed him out into the yard and pointed to the opposite way they had entered. She grabbed the reins of the horse.

“run that way. Follow the path…” she led the horse into the paddock trying to look normal.

Stash sprinted past the stable. Down the path at the end. He stumbled. Fell, cut by thorn bushes, grazed by the gravel and the stones.

He panted. He had made a good distance. He gasped for breath. Dry spit in his mouth. His throat burning. He lent back against the knarled oak tree.

The sun was now high in the sky. It was hot. As he recovered he noticed the sweat stung as it ran down his legs. The dust mingled with blood from the deep scratches and grazes.

He looked back. He did not want to expose his position. He could hear the foreign voices above on the path. They spoke in a language he didn’t know. Russian he guessed but could be any of the eastern European dialects.

They were some distance away, probably 30 or 40 metres.

He controlled his breathing. Slowed it down. Tried to silence it. He stayed motionless. The voices closer. The men must be following him. Would they come down the hillside off the path he wondered?

Loose stones passed down the hillside from the path, some rolled past his hiding place.

There was a prolonged silence. Followed by a single gunshot. Stash flinched. There was no noise of the bullet hitting a target. No thud of a body falling to the ground. No added noise apart from the echo of the shot in his ears.

The voices resumed. Angrily. The men retreated sounding irritated. Stash hung on. He didn’t move until he could hear the voices disappear in the distance.

Thankfully they didn’t have dogs with them. He would have been sniffed out. He didn’t know if they even had dogs. On a big estate it was likely.  He wasn’t going to stay around to find out.

He could see below the ledge, the hill levelled out into terraces.

He carefully clambered down and scrambled briskly along hugging the wall of the terrace. A half mile above him the finca. He figured if he kept going along this contour he would find himself below the mansion where no doubt Hogan was wondering where the hell he had gone. The undergrowth was sharp and thorny ripping the skin of his legs.

It had taken him 2 hours to clamber round the mountain. He was dirty and savaged. He was dehydrated and sunburned from the unrelenting sun.

He had climbed up to a mansion at about the distance he thought Hogan should be. His estimate was good. He was at the adjacent property. He followed a gully up to the road, the security of the houses prohibiting an easy route. The gulley contained the drainpipes from the houses but were also natural rain run offs from the mountain. Lizards scurried away as he pushed through the bushes onto the road.

He staggered down the drive. The house was empty and the front door open.

He couldn’t shout out. His voice was gone. He stumbled across the tiles to the sink and filled a glass with water from the tap. Gulping it down, spilling it down his shirt and onto the floor leaving a muddy puddle around him. He hurt all over. His feet raw with blisters.

He shouted out. No response.

The pool doors were open. Beyond a towel on the lounger, a drink on the table.

He looked to the pool where something lay submerged in the shallow corner. His eyes stung with the sweat and he winced to try and discern what it could be. A towel in the water? It was too big although it looked like fabric.

He dived into the water. It suddenly struck him. It was heavy and it was two bin liners together. Trying to float but the contents reducing their buoyancy. He pulled one open and a cloud of red surrounded him. Bits of meat and fat floating to the surface.

He couldn’t work it out. A carcass. In the pool. He was disgusted but opened the bag further. As the cloud of red dispersed he could see the blonde hair waving in the water. He could see the injured features on the now sinking disarticulated head of his friend. As it hit the bottom of the pool Stash retched. His body convulsing in violent spasmodic paroxysms.

The police had been called by the maid. She had heard the splash and seen Stash and the blood in the pool. She had seen the body parts come out of the bags from the upstairs windows obvious in the clear water. She had screamed at the sight. Carmen the cook had joined her and sat her down. She insisted on calling the police. Carmen was reluctant. She was older and wiser and knew the ways her employers worked, but the maid was inconsolable. She was crying frantically down the phone for the police to come.

They arrived within twenty minutes. Three cars. Two White cars fully decorated with polizia emblazoned in reflective yellow and red. They contained two armed uniformed officers. The black Seat that arrived a minute later contained two plain clothed characters. More earnest, more official and obviously more important.

Two of the uniforms wandered around the mansion periphery, looking behind bushes and over walls.

Of the other two one stood guard at the entrance whilst the other stood by the car. Stash had been put into the drivers seat unable to speak. A towel over his shoulders. He was shivering and mumbling incoherently. The older of the plain clothes was talking to the maid. They glanced across periodically. The younger plain clothes was taking notes.

The uniform guarding Stash shouted over to the others and they nodded. He got into the drivers seat and set off to the hospital.

Chapter 10

Monday September 17th. New York .

The world waited silently for New York to open. The city was in mourning. Despite this it was ready to come out fighting.

The bell to open trading was sounded by an NYPD fire fighter, the poignancy appreciated worldwide. Many had lost their lives to try to save those in and around the twin towers. Many were heroes and the tribute was clear as was the message to the world that life would go on and the city was not beaten. It was fighting on all levels. On the trading floors and desks there was an air of tension and aggression reminiscent of a boxing tournament. The job today would be to offload and close deals. Try to pull back the losses and limit damage. Everyone knew that the true wound was not the horrific event almost a week ago but the infection that it would inflict on the economies of the world. The septic shock that would evolve.

The prices on the screens tumbled. The Dow jones dropped to 8920.  684 points. This was enormous. It appeared to be in free fall. The dollar plunged against other currencies.

Whilst most people in the financial world were haemorrhaging money Stash was lying recovering in a guarded hospital room.

He had been severely dehydrated and had ongoing heatstroke. His core regulation had gone awry. His protective homeostatic feedback no longer functional. He was recovering. The dressings on his legs covering the gouges were leaking through. Straw coloured exudates looking like ink blots on the crepe bandages holding pads and gauze in place.

He had blistering due to second degree burns to his shoulders and arms the sticky fluid dripping down from those as they spontaneously ruptured.

They had tried to interview him already. He had been delirious for the last two days.  His lucidity was temporary. When questioned he would stare into space ignorant of the two detectives.

They were coming back today. He remembered. He could remember it now. He was sore and ached but his head felt clearer. The girl, the minders. The gunshot. Was she still alive?

He became glassy eyed as he stared at nothing. Hogan. His head freed from his body. A look of agony on his face. Stash imagined the scene. The unexpected entrance. Hogan attempting to negotiate. The scene getting violent. Hogan overpowered.

Stash suspected the injuries occurred while his friend was still aware. To the point of his neck being severed. The blood supply interrupted allowing merciful release.

He was questioned for a full hour. The policemen were the two from the house. Still plain clothed. Stylish fitted suits and open necked white shirts.

The older one spoke, the younger took notes.

A barrage of questions from the history of their friendship to wildcards suggesting that they were drug dealers.

He had been honest. About the girls in the club, Katja in the boutique. Even about seeing her in the stables. He hadn’t gone into details.

They had both raised eyebrows when he mentioned the liaison. Obviously stupid.

The older one asked him “why did you choose Boyars girlfriend?” incredulously. “did you not realise”

He felt like he was the accused.

“you will not be safe here” the notetaker spoke in a fairly soft Spanish accent. He sounded like he had a slight lisp.

“you will be in danger in this area. Boyar has killed people for very little. He is a madman. A psychopath.” he repeated the story about the yachts masts and then added “look at your friend, he was probably killed because of the company he kept”.

The nurse arrived to change the dressings and ushered the police out. He thought for a while. Not of the danger he was in. Nor the pain of the bandages tearing off the skin over the blisters. But of her and her face. Her fear.

Chapter 11

Tuesday 18th Sept. London

The office Walls were uninspiring. The tired carpet covered in spilled coffee, the wall behind the bin a jackson pollock of orange and brown tea stains. The serious fraud office worked closely with the Financial services authority on occasions like this. It was fairly common for the two to work together but unusual for anything to turn up. Most were coincidental episodes. With so many trades per day the chances of a few hitting jackpots was possible. A six horse accumulator would have required investigation if it was made in the city. Despite this the FSA closely monitored all trades going through the city. A paper trail still existed despite the extensive computerisation. Any discrepancies would be picked up by those guys in suits at the FSA. For the traders it was a pain in the ass. It added to the workload. But the threat was there. Leeson had shown the risks of taking shortcuts and covering things up. He had been unlucky. An earthquake shook his world down. No earthquake he might have got away with it. The far east was pretty slack around then. The FSA though was tight. They had got a whole list of trades and names of traders from the records already. This had been faxed across to the SFO. Detective Rob Mumford tore it from the spluttering fax machine.

On the top it read

serious alert into alleged insider dealing, money laundering and funding of terrorist activity.

Mumford raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Pete look at this. Could be a proper job this one” referring to his colleague detective Peter Harrison and passing the paper to him.

“chri-st! It does. This is related to last week I presume” Harrison speaking in his nasal drawn out monotone.

They discussed the atrocity and their views on the fax. An appointment for 11am had been made with the FSA. That would give them some time to check the names of suspects on the list included in the fax. At the top of the list was Mo. Midway down was Stash.

The FSA building was much more modern than the police base. The stainless steel and glass frontage in keeping with the Canary Wharf setting.

The lift whizzed them up to the top floor. Awaiting them was a middle aged officious woman who asked their names and then escorted them to the small office. She always did this. She knew them anyway. The plaque on the door read, Mr Wilton-Courtmance, Head of Internal and International Financial office.

“gentlemen please be seated” said a small gentleman in a thick blue striped shirt, red braces and a regimental striped tie ” coffee?” he gestured to the officious woman and waved her away.

“gentlemen I know you are familiar with cases involved in this office but this one is different” he continued with a plummy yet non geographical accent. “I am sure you read the fax but this is related to the events last week in New York”

He described the circumstances in detail. The preceding sales, put options and other trades relevant to the event.

“interestingly similar patterns have been spotted in the US exchanges” he nodded sagely and continued “the centre of this appears to be Mohammed Iqbal who seems to have made most of the trades. They fit entirely with the other trades elsewhere…”

“Just him?” Mumford interrupted. He was always easily irritated by this pompous fellow.

“…if I may continue detective Mumford…this Mohammed chap seems to be  only one of a few people doing similar trades. It would be difficult to say who or what was behind this but these trades appear to be more than just coincidence….” his pauses made Mumford wanted to interrupt again but he held his hand up and sighed “…we also have these names for you to look into.” he held the paper up to Harrison just to piss Mumford off.

Harrison scanned the list but did not recognise any of the names.

Why would he he thought.

“any other leads or do you just want us to go on this?” he asked.

Wilton-Courtmance responded as a master at school would if giving the answer to his own question “interestingly the third name there, Charles Easton, works for a medium sized firm in the city. Has been flagged up before. I looked into a few of the private firms, spread betting firms and the like. His name comes up on the figures of many of these particular trades. And as a private investor. Very odd. Completely unpredictable trades moving well outside the trend and then the change in sept 11th with a big downshift.”

He showed the graphs on his desktop screen which he twisted to face them.

“that couldn’t be coincidence could it?” asked Mumford

“in a firm with many millions of trades per day a trader with other people’s money might stumble across a combination like this. Unlikely but possible. An individual hitting every one defies statistical probability. He must have known what was going on. A tip off. If this was isolated I would say clear insider dealing. In this circumstance it must have been known that the twin towers was going to happen. ”

Harrison looked on stunned. He was realising the enormity of the case they had picked up. Not a simple slap the wrist of a trader but an inroad into one of the biggest events the world had ever seen.

They left the office and walked to a local cafe to get lunch.

Mumford bit into a ham and cheese toastie which has split and he had hot cheese running down his chin and was blowing into the air to cool it down, his free hand fanning his burning mouth. Harrison explained the plan. He was fired up. This was the one. The career maker. The one that would make him stand above the crowd. They would go and pull in this dealer. Probably a right little shit. Laughing about his winnings. No idea they were on him. Greedy bastard, knowing it would happen and not stopping it. What a fucker. Harrisons mind was racing. Could they keep it quiet and take the glory for finding the lead to the terrorists? He was inpatient waiting and stood up to leave beckoning Mumford with his now molten lunch spreading over his hand.

On arrival at the firms front desk they introduced themselves, waved id and waited for the manager of the office to greet them.

He informed them that Stash had been away since the 9-11 events. He explained he had gone to America. In a hushed voice he said “Funeral. Friend In the 2nd tower”

Harrison looked across at Mumford in surprise. That didn’t fit. Could they have a look at his desk?

Not without a warrant.

Where did he live?

Reluctance. But the manager could see that it would be more hassle for the firm if he didn’t cooperate and the information would be easily found. He relented and scribbled it down on a post-it.

“I suspect we will be back…” explained Harrison “….with a warrant. Please do not touch or move anything belonging to Mr Easton.”

The manager nodded “if you do you may find yourself in jail. This is more serious than you realize”

The manager nodded and looked intimidated. He had no intention of it. This was not his problem. It was Stash’s.

Chapter 12

Wed Sept 19th Police safe house, Marbella

Stash sat watching the small tv. It had a basic satellite link which he had flicked through the channels many times. The Spanish channels with their rapid fire presentation style, the French with a jokey slightly singalong voices. He was bored. He was sick of sitting around the small apartment. It was a holiday let that he police had a retainer on. Most the time it wasn’t in use. Well not its intended use. It was well known that some of the detectives would use the flat to entertain. It was an easy one. Call to the wife to say there was a case going on. Get the keys from the office and head in to meet whoever in a local bar. Free accommodation. No paper trail. Back home tired in the morning. Sell it as a surveillance job. Slept in the car. Shower at the safe house meant the evidence was washed away.

Stash was expecting the detectives. They had introduced themselves but he couldnt remember beyond what sounded like women’s names. Something Maria something and Constantino something he thought. They knocked with two thumps and three raps. Stash looked through the peephole. He recognised them both and unlocked the door.

They had a bag of pastries and lattes.

“how you sleep Charles?” the one he thought was maria something.

“ok. Sore and hot but ok. Call me Stash. Everyone else does”

“Ok Stash it is. We need to talk today. Get some answers from you. Get some…help from you.” Constantino this time.

Stash took a croissant and drank the coffee.

The detectives, Constantino “Tino” Fuentes Garcia and Carlos Angel Maria Arroyo both introduced themselves clearly and gave him their business cards.

Stash was clothed in a hospital scrub suit. His bag was still at the mansion and that was a crime scene. He had asked to be taken there to get his stuff but the detectives had denied it. He had washed the running kit he had been wearing when he was taken to hospital in the apartment sink and dried it over the bath. The credit card and key for the mansion were still in the pocket of his shorts.

Tino proceeded to explain the situation to Stash. Apparently Boyar was public enemy number one in their book. They both wanted to brung him down. They suspected some bent dealings within their colleagues as evidence had disappeared when he was previously brought in. Most of his crimes were done by men down his line of command. They were aware of Katja and his possessiveness of her. Also of the fact he was never with her. Just her minders. His spies. She was a trophy not a wife or girlfriend.

They wanted to know what Stash knew about her. What he knew about the finca and the layout. What he had heard.

Stash explained it all again to them. He described the stables, the cars and all the details he knew. He described her and how he had met her. He also explained what she had told him. About his cruelty and sadistic behaviour. About the welts on her back.

They did not flinch as he expected but coldly wrote it all down. Stash went quiet, his mind racing, wondering whether Boyar had suspected her. Whether he had beaten her. Maybe she had been killed. He snapped out of it

“you have to help her” he shouted without thinking.

Carlos laughed “she is small fry my friend. She might even be bait.”

Stash felt the bile rise “what…What!” he spluttered.

“He is a major target. We are onto him. We think he has a big deal coming in. We could do with a lead on that.” Carlos smiled, his pudgy face revealing a gold canine tooth.

Stash wanted to knock it out. He had seen the tears and felt her pain. He wanted to rescue her. Not because of some romantic heroic but because he had seen the look in her eyes. The desperate cry for help. He could not offload that image. It was reminiscent of an image locked deep in his memory.

“Listen Stash” Tino said sympathetically “really he will kill her as soon as he would you or your friend Hogan”

Stash saddened. He pictured the bin bag in the pool. Her dark hair floating freely in the water.

Tino continued sensing Carlos’rough approach would be counter productive “Stash this girl, you have contact with her, yes?” Stash looked at his phone the screen cracked from the scramble the other day.

“We don’t want you getting into danger but we need you to get some information from her.”

Stash shook his head. She would get killed if they found out.  Even if she was alive. He had a desperate need to text her to find out.

Carlos jumped in “We can protect her. Get her out. You can be with her. All it needs is some times and dates. It would all be by phone. Once we know the details we can go in and get her”

Stash was intrigued. Why would they? They really were using her as bait. But for him.

He thought about it. Staring at his phone his hands spinning it around on the table top.

He looked at the broken screen. New txt msg. The sound must have been damaged or turned off as it hadn’t buzzed as usual.

He opened the text and it read

FSA snooping. Wot u bin up2? Where the F ru?

It was from the London office. From the office manager. He was disappointed. He thought it might be her.

Stashs head moved backwards on his shoulders. That was not what he expected. He had forgotten about the trades and the serious amount of profit he had made. His Swiss bank accounts would be full now.

He smiled. Let them look. What would they do? Sack him. Make him pay it back? He was on the costa del crime with murderers and villains. It was the least of his worries.

If he could sort this situation out he would be safer and not have to stay in the shitty little apartment any longer. In addition he might get to see her again. Take the money and the girl and run with it.

Shit he had been bored but he hadn’t expected this excitement.

He tapped the buttons on his phone “let’s see if she is still alive shall we?”

They sat staring at the phone for over twenty minutes until it glowed

am ok. Stuck in house with guards. You?

Stash sighed with relief. The two police grinned.

A series of texts made a short conversation. In essence she said yes she would help if they would free her and make sure Boyar is arrested.

Everything went dead for a while. A further text. They replied to confirm they would get her out. That she should listen for times and dates of a pickup. She was probably making surreptitious bathroom stops and secret trips to bedrooms and closets to get the texts across.

The texts went silent all afternoon. Tino went out and got some pizza and they all watched a football match on tv. It was a repeat of the previous nights premiership. Stash wasn’t interested. He thought about the FSA. Snooping around his desk, his computer and his files. He wondered what other things they would find. Previous deals. Dodgy photos. Internet searches. He didn’t think there would be anything to go on except for the recent activity. He was away now anyway. The spread bets? They were on personal accounts. Would they flag up with the FSA? Hundred K spread bets weren’t uncommon. Often because people bet on margins the stake would be high. He had split them up through different firms. He should be ok.

He saw the sun going down through the blinds. Carlos was snoozing in an arm chair his fat greasy head tilted across and to the left His mouth slightly open.

Tino was reading the newspaper.

The text went off again

men visiting

It was sooner that they had expected. They waited in anticipation.

collection Sunday 5am Soota

They looked puzzled. Soota? Stash asked out loud “soota what is that?” the penny dropped for Tino.

“Ceuta. It is a port on the coast of north Africa. You English have Gibraltar, in Spain we have Ceuta the other side of the straights. They must mean a handover at sea.”

It was common. Much of the illicit trade of Europe was done across the straights. Be it drugs or humans. Bodies were washed up daily on the beaches and rocks around the coast. Some asylum seeking swimmers and some from skirmishes at sea. Policing these areas was almost impossible beyond the local Coastal waters.

“Good. Good” Carlos smiled “Stash my man you and your lady friend might have just created your escape.

Stash smiled at him sheepishly. Not because he was happy but because he had an unnerving feeling that this was not going to be so simple.

Chapter 13

The Finca. Tuesday 18th September.

She had thought they had worked it out. Boyar had sent Sergei to take her somewhere else. Away from them. He had said to him that she should be watched. Not allow her out of sight. Boyar was irritated.

“what are you doing woman? We are doing business here and you prance up and down like a whore! Get out of here.” he growled at her playing up to the small audience he had before him.

It was not the fact she was listening in. He never questioned that. It was because she was distracting certain of the assembled. They were sat on on the small terrace overlooking the pool. A long cane sofa arrangement in a right angle with cane chairs forming a semi-circle around.

She was walking up and down the pool side directly behind him. Deceptively listening to a turned off ipod. Perched on a pair of wedge heels and wearing a Versace print bikini and an overlying transparent white toga style dress.  The guests were paying more attention to her catwalk type display than to Boyars self important conversation. This had irritated him most.

She had been removed from the scene. Sergei took her to the kitchen. Out of earshot of the group.

The last she heard was the plan to do this on Sunday. She excused herself to the bathroom. Sergei stood guard outside.

That was the last text. She could do little more.

She felt desperate. A urge to run away. To get out now. Once the seed had been planted in her head it was overwhelming. But she also felt positive. Positive that this would work. She had only glimpsed the personality of Stash but felt she had known him forever. He was her hope and in doing so she had built him up in her head. She had created a future for them already. Away from here. She was not naive. She had known men. But trusted him. He had got the police involved. It all seemed so tangible. She had no choice. She just had to hope.

Outside Boyar continued his address. He now stood and was orating to the group that consisted of five men and his own guards, four of them at the periphery of the group.

He was not an unattractive man. He was charismatic. An ex weightlifter he was muscular and imposing. Just over six feet tall he was not a giant but he carried his weight well. He tended to look smaller due to the guards and employees that he kept. Andrei to his left was a full seven inches taller than him and weighted at least 50 kilos more. Many of his employees were former strength athletes or fighters. Martial arts, boxers, power lifters. Strong men. He needed this. He felt that a general needed a strong army around him. His was the brain and theirs the muscle. He didn’t need or want to fight. Fighting involved an element of competition. Competition meant the opponent might want to be active. He didn’t like this. He liked complete passivity. He liked to oppress. To dominate. To inflict pain and to break people to his power. That excited him. That was his driving force. Any fighting that was required was for the hired help.

He turned to the five men sitting in front of him.

“gentlemen the date and time are set. One week on Sunday, the 30th September we will rendezvous at a defined coordinate. This will be texted to you at 23:59 on the 29th. Make sure you can get to this area in that time. You should have no problem from your coast.

I want the cases to be waterproof and contain pure product. If there is anything less than that I will find you and I will hunt you down. You will be tortured and you will die a horrible painful slow death.”

The men all stared directly at him. No longer distracted by anything.

He continued “we will exchange the money there and then. There will not be time to count it. Do not expect it to be anything less than agreed. I have no reason to deceive you gentlemen. Nor you me. This is business. I am man of honour and word. It is in my history and my blood.”

The assembled dared not interrupt this theatrical soliloquy. They looked at each other as Boyar was now preaching to the heavens, his arms outstretched messiah like. His eyes closed.

The men sat there in a symmetrical silence. In the middle the obvious leader, a thin wiry middle aged north african dressed in a djaleba. He was wearing open toed sandals his feet obviously had had a life outside of shoes. Either side of him were young moroccans. Stockier, late thirties and dressed in light weight designer suits with open chested shirts. Flanking them were muscular gladiator types. Nubian warriors. Shaved heads shining in the setting sun. Obvious hired muscle. Very dark skinned with heavily veined muscular forearms emerging from their pastel linen shirts. 

“do we understand this gentlemen?” Boyar had come down from his elevated state.

They nodded.

Good then. Until next Sunday. He waved his hand across them indicating it was time to leave. He had no requirement to hear terms from them. He was the director of this and all he did.

He shook hands and returned to the house, Andrei would escort them out.

She had feared that he would be in one of his states after his behaviour earlier. She was nervous. When he acted irritated he became angry.  Tension and release. Unfortunately she knew how he would relieve this. On her. He was in a very strange mood. Jumpy. Excitable. He had pulled a bottle of rare russian vodka from the freezer and downed two shots rapidly. He waved Sergei away

She tried to make her excuse as he left.

“I am unwell. Ladies problems” she had feigned.

He had sidled up to her. Face to face. His breath still cold from the syrupy alcohol.

“That is too bad…” he ran finger across her fringe and down her face. Too close to her eye for comfort. He passed down to her neck and paused. He pressed in just over her carotid pulse. He rapidly moved his hand away in a slash type movement simulating a cut.

“Tsssshss…” he hissed loudly pretending a gush of blood was pouring from her throat. His hand opening and closing in a pulsatile fashion. Diminishing each time. The imaginary life disappearing. He slumped his shoulders and laughed.

“bleeding, women bleeding. A curse. Shall we make you bleed properly. Shall we.”

He tensed again. Obviously aroused.

He pushed her back and pinned her against the wall. Let see shall we. His hand passed down into the toga and entered her bikini. She tried to pull away but was stuck against the wall. His fingers forced down against her tightly clenched thighs.

He roughly forced his hand into her. She cried out. He then pulled his hand rapidly out into the air in front of him.

“are you lying to me?” He asked examining his fingers. Smelling them. Tasting them. There is no blood. You are lying.”

“it is early. I am about to start” she pleaded.

He turned a quarter turn away and then swung towards her. His foot coming up rapidly into her lower belly. She crumbled. To the floor cluching herself. Crying.

“well lets help it along shall we. You want it to bleed. Then we shall make it bleed” his arousal overcoming him. He was salivating, rubbing himself.  Through his trousers. He grabbed her hair and lifted her onto the kitchen island grabbing her bikini and pulling the bottoms to her ankles.

He opened the kitchen drawer and proceeded to remove cutlery, knives, a rolling pin. He was not sure what he wanted. He looked puzzled. And then an evil grin crossed his face. He seemed satisfied. He held up a shiny metal mallet. Studded on both faces. A steak tenderiser to most people, but to him an implement to fulfil his desire. He pushed her legs apart forcing his way between them.

He then excitedly brought the weapon down hard onto her pubis. She screamed in agony. He smiled. He placed a hand on her belly pushing her down. Keeping her still.

He pummelled her rapidly with the mallet. The strikes that missed the bone and landed in the soft flesh were merciful.

He writhed and bucked as he did so. His face twisted and salivating.

He suddenly stopped. His body tense and stiff. He groaned. A wet stain expanded on his trousers.  He threw the instrument on the floor and stormed out of the room.

She curled into ball. Swollen. Bleeding. Crying.

Chapter 14

Wednesday 19th September. London

They had pretty much turned it over, every drawer emptied. It looked like a brutal robbery that had gone wrong. They hadn’t even got keys they had rammed the door. Mumford and Harrison had taken two squad cars and an armed team with them. This might have just been simple financial fraud or it might be a terrorist cell. They were justifiably twitchy but hadn’t found much though. They secured his laptop and his desktop and any drives, disks and other hardware as well as a series of post-it notes in a desk diary with references to Marbella and flight details. Times, dates and airlines, not anything specific but all to Malaga and all on Sept 12.

There were also notes of trades which fitted with what they already knew. Scribbled spreads and stakes per points. All of it  evidence.

He definitely wasn’t in London though. There was sour milk in the fridge which was a real give away.

The whole story didn’t fit together. He was supposed to be in New York at a friends funeral, a friend killed in a terrorist act that he knew would happen. He had a load of notes regarding flights to Malaga. There was also a reference on a note with Hogan written on it and circled with a few doodles around it. They were unsure about this. A code? A password?

There was a reference to Mo and a phone number. The same one they had for their suspect Mohammed. This was evidence of the link. It was dead, they had tried it. Maybe he was too?

It was obvious they needed more. Hopefully the computer cache would reveal where the next move would be and Mumford had a feeling that it wasn’t going to be New York. As they left he subconsciously whistled to himself the overture from Carmen not even knowing what the piece of music was.

The computer search had been productive. The guys in the lab were able to trace back the sites visited and open pages that really should have been impenetrable. These were the type of geeks that made the whole concept of Internet security invalid. They could almost break any system. They might not get every detail or get through every password straightaway but to them it was a challenge. Stashs system was poorly protected and although they could not initially pin down the exact deals that had been made they had references to the time and names of the spread bets he had put on. The spread companies had a slightly more robust security system that would require more time. Instead they pulled up his e-mail account and through an administrator bypass were able to access this information quickly. Again not the exact details but those confirming the transactions including his e-ticket to Malaga.

Back in his browsing history the geek clicked on the next site and Mumford smiled.

“wow. Dirty boy. Wow” as Svetlana again showed her bits off.

They now had some facts. He had made trades through work and he had made trades personally. He had a very specific remit and it looked suspiciously like he knew that the 9-11 events would happen. They had to assume that. He had set up an escape to Spain and left an alibi with work about being in New York.

It all fitted together. They had him, they just had to find him and get him back to the UK. Then they could arrest him. It might be easy. He might just make his own way back. If they alerted passport control they could pick him up in customs.

Alternatively he might stay there. He had money and could live pretty well as most of London’s lowlife had done a decade earlier.

“We are going to have to go get him” Mumford suggested, secretly thinking that a few days in the sun wouldn’t hurt.

First off they had been in touch with Spanish police. Despite Europe being a union the whole policing of the place was badly linked. It was all red tape and bureaucracy. They went through the official channels and hit barriers. They had to apply appropriately. Needed senior authorisation. Harrison was pissed off. He didn’t need this. Going through seniors would flag up the scale of it all. People would jump on it and take his glory.

“Can you get me Malaga main police station?” he asked the switchboard. He waited a moment and heard an international dial tone. A Spanish voice answered. He replied “Hola. English police here. Can I speak to the detective in charge of the Charles Easton case please”

The Spanish operator responded “pleese ‘old” the English heavily accented but understandable. Electronic Mozart played for a minute and then a connection to a female voice, obviously Spanish but with good English “whom am I speaking?” the pronunciation was impeccable

“Hello, my name is detective Harrison, UK police serious fraud. We are calling with information regarding a suspect. A mister Charles Easton” he had no idea if this would mean anything to her.

“please hold”

He tapped the desk along with the music. Another voice this time male and gruff Spanish “hello. How can I ‘elp?”

Harrison repeated himself.

The Spanish voice replied “serious fraud office…interesting. Why serious fraud office?”.

“we are investigating financial irregularities” Harrison explained enthusiastically aware of the positive response.

“we ‘ave had a victim of crime with that name but no suspects” the Spaniard breaching all codes of confidentiality.

“is the suspect known as Stash?” Harrison asked.

“I think we ‘ave your man. But he is helping us with a problem” replied Carlos to Harrison.

“I think we may be able to help each other then. Harrisons the name…and yours?”

Chapter 15.

Marbella. Safe house. Thursday 20th Sept.

Stash was beside himself with boredom and frustration. There had been no more texts. He awaited Carlos and Tino for no other reason than company. He was aching to do a runner, ready to get moving again. Could he do more for the girl? Probably not until Boyar was arrested. Was he in danger? Probably not. They wouldn’t know he was in Malaga. How could they. He really needed some fresh air. He was a victim not a suspect. He should be able to come and go as he pleased. He put on his running gear noticing the credit card key for the mansion in the pocket. He would have to get back there at some stage to collect his stuff.

He went to the door. There was no guard there. He was probably outside smoking. Stash sneaked to the emergency exit and down the stairs. He pushed the bar on the door and went from the cool dark stairwell to the bright Spanish sunshine. He winced and looked around. No sign of anyone. The fresh air and freedom were intoxicating and he started to jog away from the apartment up the alley way. He continued through the streets. He did not know where he was going or for how long but the run was making him feel free and letting his injured limbs stretch out.

He ran for an hour and returned to the front of the foyer of the safe house apartments. Tino and Carlos were awaiting him angrily.

They manhandled him upstairs trying to be subtle but looking like kidnappers.

Carlos gave him a thorough dressing down, Explaining the danger to him. He seemed to be disproportionately angry. He was not under house arrest. This was a protective measure. He didn’t feel he was at risk.

They explained he needed to stay put for at least another day but he questioned this. Why just one more day? The Boyar deal and arrest was Sunday. Why not keep him till Sunday?

Carlos looked shifty and uncomfortable. Tino joking and friendly. Stash felt uneasy. He didn’t feel to be in a protective environment and he suddenly felt trapped. Something was afoot.

He decided to test it. He demanded that he get his gear from the mansion.

They flatly refused.

He argued that he would leave voluntarily.

Eventually they agreed. They would take him in a car and return immediately.

He was concerned from their actions that something else was going on. He felt like a suspect. The issue of one more day played on his mind. What would happen in one more day? Why only one more day?

He deduced that something was going to happen in the next 24 hours and it wasn’t going to be anything to do with Boyar.

Stash slumped in the back seat of the police car with it’s blacked out windows, Carlos was up front, Tino driving. His mirrored aviators reflecting the sun inside the car roof like a glitter ball.

Stash’s mind was racing. Why would he be a suspect. Why would they hold him against his will? He worked through it. It wasn’t an inside job for Boyar as that could have happened by now. It suddenly clicked. His name had probably been flagged up with Interpol. The Brits would be on it. He was in the shit.

His thought process was in advance of the technology but he was correct. Mumford and Harrison were already making their way through Malaga airport.

On arrival at the mansion Stash went upstairs to get his bags. The maid had washed and ironed everything and laid it out on the bed. He threw it untidily into the holdall whilst formulating his escape.

Stash wondered if the owner knew anything about this. Anything about Hogan and his murder. He looked at the pool from the window. It troubled him as to why Hogan had been killed. Was it because they were after him and a case of mistaken identity? Implausible as they were hardly similar in appearance. During the last few days Tino and Carlos had quizzed him about Hogans involvement with these characters. Stash had pleaded ignorance throughout. Simply said he knew him as a lawyer. The policemen had filled him in on some of the details. Apparently Hogan was heavily involved with most of Boyars rivals. He probably had pissed Boyar off already and it wasn’t going to take much to push him further. A bit of disturbance at the same time as they arrived at the mansion would have been enough.

How did they know they were there? Apparently the security at the gates were linked to Boyars men. Anything comes onto that drive and the Finca is informed.

Stash realised he was thinking the wrong way. He had to get out of this. He had done his bit for Spanish justice. He had spent far too long with the police already. He wasn’t going to hang around to be picked up by the UK police. He slung the holdall onto his shoulders, a strap on each one, unlatched the window and climbed over the small balconette. It was too obvious to just drop onto the patio area outside the main window. They would see him. He stood on top of the railing and climbed up onto the roof, carefully crawling across to the garage roof and dropped down to the side of the house.

He still had the swipe card and opened the garage door. As it started to elevate he rolled under it.

Inside the garage amongst the cars was a motorbike. Orange and dirty. Off road tyres dusty from the local tracks. He suspected it was Hogans rather than the owners. It was old and battered but looked good. The key was in the helmet lying on the seat. Fortunate but why not. Hogan left it parked here and wouldn’t need the key elsewhere.

Stash jumped onto it. He pushed it off the stand and kick started it. It roared into life. He knew he had to be quick. The noise would have them running out. He knocked it into gear and let it go, the front wheel lifting as he raced to the gate. He swiped the security pad and the gate started to open. Looking behind he could see Carlos running. Tino close behind. The gate was slow but he turned back towards them and did a tight circle spinning the back wheel around to exit the barely open gate.

He didn’t look back. He knew they would be jumping in the car. Frenzied. Chasing him. He also knew that the security gate would be a problem. He had a trial bike so it figured to go cross country. He could see an opening in the fence ahead. A side entrance to one of the other mansions leading up the hill. He turned into it, skidding on the dry dust. His back wheel flicked around then got purchase. The track ahead leading off to the house or heading up a small path up the mountainside. He opened the bike up. Bouncing erratically across the rocks and furrows. The path passed around the hillside for a kilometre or so and then down into a valley. He had to slow to walking pace to negotiate the dry river bed. Eventually it opened out into a sandy track leading towards the wider plain below. Stash stopped and reviewed the situation. He was away. He didn’t know where though. He was on the other side of the hills from Marbella and Malaga. He could see no towns or villages but could see a small road.

He headed to it and took the direction inland.

He rode on for about five km before he came across a small village. It was a pretty place. All white houses crowded together and perched on the hillside. He parked his bike away from view around a corner and walked towards the bar. There was nothing happening and no one around. There was the ubiquitous dog asleep under a table in front of the bar but no people.

He walked inside. The place was dark and smelt sweet and vinegary from spilt drinks and off wine. There was a leg of ham on the bar shavings carved from it.

A couple of locals drank from tumblers in the corner.

“Hola. Una cervaca por favour” he requested from the barman.

“Si” a brusque nod in reply.

He sat in the far corner. Thirsty but exhilarated. The barman brought his beer over and before he turned away Stash asked nervously “…err..do you have a map…carta..?”

Chapter 16

Malaga airport. Thursday 20th Sept

Harrison was getting impatient. How long does it take to give some car keys out. He wondered how all these families had got to the rental desk before them. Mumford had a small spanish child running into him recurrently and laughing. He thought it cute at first. It was wearing thin now.

Eventually they got the keys, made their way to the garage and drove out into the Spanish sun.

“why don’t these fuckers answer their phones?” Harrison angrily pressing the redial button.

“you got the right number? You have to put the country code in, you know?” Mumford was trying to be helpful but irritated him more, so he ignored him.

There was no response again on the phone.

“Fuck. Lets head to the hotel.” Mumford conceded. “we can walk from there”

Harrison hit redial again.

They had dumped their stuff and headed straight for Tino’s office.

Neither Tino nor Carlos where in. They were left sitting in the waiting room of the police station. A drinks machine and a bad smell for company.

Tino and Carlos came bounding noisily into the station and hit the key pad to enter. They were talking in frenzied Spanish. As they walked behind the desk the duty officer pointed to the two men in the waiting room. More angry Spanish followed by Tino. He re-entered the waiting area. His hand outstretched with and with a new found apparent professionalism presented himself to them.

” Hello. Hello English police. We ave a little problem. Come to the back and we will discuss it.” Tino was calm and charming “coffee?”

The days situation was explained. Harrison had thumped the desk. Mumford looked to the heavens.

“where will he go?” Harrison asked.

They shrugged.

“is that it. You lose a suspect in the biggest international terrorist and fraud case ever in history and you don’t care”

He was furious.

Carlos spoke quietly “he will come back. Just wait.”

“why? Why the fuck will he come back?”Harrison could see his entire career disappearing.

“he will come back for her. He will come back on Sunday.”

Carlos and Tino explained the history of the case. The texts and the plan. They were convinced he would come back for her. The way he looked when he talked about her. The way he jumped at her texts. He would be back.

“no need to worry gentlemen. Relax.” Tino seemed to be too cool.  ” we can do no more. He could be in Madrid, Cadiz, or any little town or village. No point in looking. Spain is a big country you know? You are here now, you must enjoy it. You look tired. Let’s get some food and drink”

Chapter 17

The Finca. Friday 21st.

She had only got out of bed to use the toilet. She had crawled there initially. She couldn’t go for the first night. She was too swollen. She didn’t know if the sensation was to urinate or not. The rising pain in her lower abdomen was unbearable. She had laid in a warm bath. That had helped it come. It stung. It ached. But it was relief. She crawled back into the bed and curled up into a ball again. She had ceased crying. She had only drunk water and taken pain killers. They were now eroding her empty stomach. She felt sick. Hungry but not wanting to go downstairs. She had locked the room. It was a guest room. She often stayed in this room despite the extravagant matrimonial bedroom that Boyar slept in. He didn’t mind where she slept. The door lock was a simple small brass bolt. It was useless. Still it felt like a hint of security. She felt violated worse than ever. His hits, belts, burns were nothing compared to this. The sheets were bloodied. She must pick herself up. But for what. He had not been near her since. Was he going to do more? He was in a crazy mood.

She would avoid him. Hide out. He would leave at some stage. She could eat then.

She had to get away. She thought of Stash. How tender he had been. How kind he seemed. His texts. But how would he get her out. How would the police. Boyar ran the whole place.

She was panicking in her head. She knew Boyar would go too far one day and kill her. Not by intention but by a cruel violent act of self gratification. She had to escape.

She reached for the phone. She texted Stash.

Chapter 18

Malaga. Police station Fri Sept 21st

Stash had stayed out of the way. He had gone inland and north. Stayed in a small roadside hotel. Eaten well, slept well and got a plan together. He had bought maps of the area from a garage.

The Finca had a carthorse track alongside it about half a km north.

A series of interwoven paths passed around there. He could get close to the finca and meet her at the fence. If she was on the horse they could get to the bike and be off. No one could follow except by the same means and only a truly great horse rider could keep up with the bike.

They could be away. Disappear completely. Once Boyar was arrested and convicted they would be safe. They could travel and change their appearance.

He had the plan worked out. He wasn’t sure he needed it.

If they delivered on Sunday it wouldn’t be necessary unless the Brits were here for him. He wasn’t even sure they were here. It was all a hunch.

He watched the police station. That’s why he was here. To see why Tino and Carlos had been so uptight. He sat on the bike way up the street. His helmet still on. He was behind a small car. They wouldn’t see the bike. Wouldn’t recognise it. All they would see is the full face helmet. Visor down. He waited.

The two Brits walked out followed by the spaniards. They were laughing and joking. Not serious as he would have expected . They walked towards him away from the garage. He had not expected that. Why would they be walking anywhere? He could hear the muffled conversation. They sounded and acted as though they were going out socially. For lunch perhaps.

It didn’t matter. They were talking English. They were cops. They were there for a reason.

It confirmed his fears. They didn’t look like average street police. They were investigative. Office types. Fraud officers. He had seen them before in the city. Checking every last receipt. He always guessed they were failed bankers as they had such a chip on their shoulders. He looked the other way and they walked straight past, the spaniards not even noticing him. Harrison looked straight at him. He couldn’t know, thought Stash unnerved. He had never seen him and he had a helmet on. Despite this he felt that Harrison suspected him. He obviously didn’t know who was behind the helmet but he had a gut feeling.

Stash slowly set off down the hill away from the police station. He had what he had come for. Information and confirmation. Now he had it he would lie low and plan for Sunday.

Chapter 19.

The Finca. North Malaga. Sunday 23rd September.

Boyar was in good spirits. He loved to hunt. He had traced his ancestral tree. They had had hunting lodges. He had artworks showing descendants with hawk and hounds. He was a huge collector of ancient crossbows which were specific to the region he was from.

He didn’t mind what he hunted as long as he was out there.

He enjoyed big days. Things to brag about. Get photographs. His aim was to break Sir Joseph Nickersons record for partridge. He had taken 462 one day last year. He was way off. Nickerson was a hero of his having set up the best partridge shoot in Spain. Unlike Nickerson he had little respect for the quarry He would not shoot with his accuracy or idiom. Boyar just wanted them hit. If he didn’t have a clean shot he would just try and bring it down. Wounded for the dogs. He actually preferred the runners. Same with large game. He particularly liked shooting boar. It felt medieval to him. He would happily take anything. He wouldn’t just take a single beast to cull. He would take younglings, heavily pregnant females, anything he saw. It offended the keepers. Not only did they hate the lack of respect for their craft but they also despised his poor judgement. A badly placed shot in the wrong beast could destroy a seasons hunting.

It turned a well managed ecosystem into a shooting safari park. The partridge days often had van loads of birds driven in and released from behind rocks just to satisfy his urges.

That was not the case today though. This was not a formal shoot. Boyar occasionally went off with just a stalker and a loader. A real rough shoot. Seeing what he could hunt and kill.

They had a range rover fully set up with kit. Food and champagne. The back of the car was perfectly fitted. The fine burr walnut drawers opened out to reveal sections for champagne and glasses. A chiller with ice for caviar or foie gras. Under this was two leather rifle cases and leather ammunition magazines.

He had spent the early hours in the gun room. Dry mounting the rifles and shotguns. He had chosen his favourite guns. He didn’t like the Purdeys that Nickerson liked. Nor did he like the Boss as so may others favoured. He had a full set of Spanish Grullas. Not pairs or trios but sets of fours. Elaborately hand etched with cossack scenes for him. Each gun with a number. He had only shot a quartet once with two loaders. Too messy. He liked pairs with a single loader. Rarely he tried triple gunning but again saw no point if you had a pair and a great loader.

These were unique guns made by master craftsman. Nineteen men for each gun normally. His had been made and signed by the main gunsmith. They had taken nearly a year to produce. He smiled as he held them. Perfectly balanced. He looked down to the bead between the side by side barrels. Hand crafted perfection. The turkish walnut stocks shining and almost transparent with the swirling grain looking like ink dissipating in water. The Purdeys, the H&Hs, Churchills. The pairs of Boss side locks, they were all there in the racks of his gun room but he never used them. The guests could play with them. They were nothing compared with his guns.

Although he usually shot only a short distance from the finca he had the range rover driven to a rendezvous point. First they would stalk. A deer or a boar would be good. It was early, before sunrise and the air was chilled. They took the quadbike up the mountain side beyond the cultivated gardens and into the open wilderness. They then walked. Slowly advancing between boulders, olive trees, knurled oaks and scrub bushes.

Despite his insanity Boyar was a patient stalker. Silent and stealthy. His keeper Paco carried the rifle and a brass telescope. Although traditional this was useless in dim light and Boyar led the way with a state of the art night vision scope revealing much more. Rabbits were plentiful. He ignored them. Good game in their own right. He liked to shoot them but more as fun than hunting.

They followed the contour of the hill. Down in the valley he could see a small wood. He knew it was a natural spring. They had shot here before. He scoped it. There was movement behind the trees but he could not define what it was. They communicated through sign language, pointing to the trees. They crouched and headed downwards. The mountain breeze had not started as the suns rays were not heating up the air but it would not be long. Boyar could see the dawn light starting to rise.

They descended 50 metres and tucked in behind an oak tree. Boyar re-scoped the wood. He could see legs through the magnification. Cloven hoofs. They were about 250 metres according to the range finder. He indicated to Paco to pass him the gun. The keeper knew it was well beyond his range. Despite his stalking skills Boyar was not a great marksman. The keeper had no choice.

Boyar shuffled forward on his stomach. Focussed on the animal. He advanced to a small ridge. From here he could see the head through the leaves. A good trophy. Probably a 12 pointer. A sturdy red stag. He set up the gun. He aimed carefully. The sights magnifying the poorly lit creature. He fired. The shot echoed through the valley breaking the dawn silence. Birds flew from the trees around.

The stag didn’t fall. It reared up and then bolted into the woods. He had hit it. The keeper could tell that. He was unsure about the fatality though. They would have to track it. Find a blood trail. They re-slipped the gun and headed down to the wood.

They quickly found the site of the hit. The blood was slight. Hopefully a chest wound thought Paco. It would get a few hundred metres on adrenaline alone. He had seen animals with their hearts and lungs blown to pieces run on for a great distance. More than the injury should allow.

Paco could easily see the route the injured stag had taken. The unnatural way the leaves were pushed, the soft dirt pushed aside on the floor. They were obvious to a trained eye. He tracked the beast through the woods and followed the valley. The sun was now coming over the horizon and it was light enough to see a decent distance ahead. The stag was in a small valley 100 metres away. Panting and starting to stagger. Even without the scope he could see the wound. Boyar had hit the abdomen a few inches below the ribcage. It was not a good shot. At best the liver would be hit. The abdomen filling with blood. If the intestine or stomach was hit the meat would be tainted. A waste of good meat. Paco raised the gun. He aimed on the chest just above the the front leg. It would rip through the heart. In this weakened state the animal would die immediately. It was obviously in some distress and Paco wanted to end this.

Boyar stopped him. He was smiling. He watched as the beast swayed from side to side. Looking drunk. He made a small cheer as it fell forward it’s front legs buckling beneath it. They approached it. Paco was disgusted at the lack of respect afforded to the magnificent beast.

It was still breathing. It had fear in it’s eyes.

Boyar laughed. He pulled out a long knife. He started to talk in Russian. As he almost chanted, Paco watched him slit the throat of the stag. Finally the eyes switched off. The life gone.

He looked back at Boyar. He was on his knees. His eyes closed and his lip quivering. He appeared to shudder and shiver slightly and let out a small groan.

Paco didn’t understand. He didn’t think about it. He couldn’t. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be in this position again with the mad Russian. He felt uncomfortable. Soiled by the experience. He returned to what he knew, took the rope from his bag, threw it around the tree branch and proceeded to hoist the carcass upwards ready to gralloch it.

In this heat the meat would spoil quickly. That was if it wasn’t already from the ineptly placed shot.

Once gralloched Paco had removed the carcass on the quadbike. Boyar had radio’d ahead and hiked over the hill to meet the range rover and the others. He needed refreshment. A table had been set up. A glass of chilled champagne waiting for him. A breakfast of cold meats and cheese.

After breakfast they would go on to shoot some partridge. Spanish partridge was considered some of the finest shooting in Europe. This shoot was exceptional. He had invested heavily in it. It was actually a profit maker for him. Some of Europe’s finest and richest had shot here. It had a good reputation and that pleased him.

Today they would walk up a few of the drives. Not classical shooting but he enjoyed it. Low going away partridges. You had to be quick. He had arranged to radio ahead to Paco who had a team of three beaters set up for some of his favorite drives. Paco knew the land. He could flush out birds up wherever he wanted. He was the main reason the shoot was gaining a reputation so quickly. When he was an under-keeper he had previously worked on an estate for an English owner who had insisted it was run like a traditional English shoot. It hadn’t worked particularly well due to the terrain and the nature of Spanish partridge although he had learned some good practices. He used spaniels rather than pointers, he felt they were more thorough. He used Labradors to retrieve. Today was not a grand day though. He would put enough up to satisfy Boyars lust but not disturb the family coveys. He had pride and if he put his best birds up he wanted them shot well. With grace and style. Not slow low birds being blasted to bits.

Boyar had consumed a bottle of champagne and a platter of fine jabugo ham. He had a montecristo number 1 and blew the smoke into the air.

He nodded to the loader who prepared the guns.

They would walk up with a single gun. The loader following alongside with a single liver and white spaniel to flush. A yellow Labrador walking to heel and sent to retrieve if necessary.

Most of the pegs could be driven to, so the other man would take the second gun to his next peg in the range rover.

Boyar stubbed out his cigar. Spat into the dust and rose to accept the gun. He pocketed a box of 12 bore cartridges into his lightweight vest.

They walked out onto the plain in front of them. Quietly and slowly. Watching the spaniel hunt ahead. Quartering and pushing out tufts of grass and circling rocks.

By the time they had reached the peg they had put a couple of birds up, Boyar missing both.

As he entered the butt he was obviously in a bad mood. He dry mounted the number 2 gun, looking back at the number 1 as if it was faulty.

The loader blew a whistle to start the drive. The beaters were over the ridge, the butt being in the bottom of the valley. This peg was challenging. When managed well flurries of redlegs would rocket over the ridge 30 metres above. They would break left and right as they saw and heard the guns. Good shots would hit one bird to every three shots at best. Boyar would be lucky to hit one to ten shots. Despite this Paco wanted to keep him happy.

As the first birds came over Boyar managed to get six shots off bringing two birds down. His affect lifted. He grabbed the loaded gun and waited for more birds. Over the next half hour Paco managed to get about 30 easy birds over him. Boyar brought down nine. Not all clean. Some runners. Some helicoptering down with a broken wing.

As the whistle ended the drive Boyar was in good spirits. He wanted more. He had seen the drives put hundreds of birds over. He was unsure why this one had been so quiet. He didn’t question it though. He bragged to the loaders. One to three. Even the best in Europe didn’t shoot that ratio here. They nodded politely.

The plan was to walk to the next butt along the ridge. Hoping to pick off some of the birds driven laterally.

They set off as before the spaniels frenziedly hunting.

Again only a handful of birds lifted. Boyar took one at about 5 yards a flurry of feathers and a blasted carcass. He didn’t care. On most shoots he would be asked to leave. It wasn’t most shoots. It was his shoot.

They reached the next butt. It lay in the bottom of a dry valley. Birds driven over the ridge again in a similar way as before. Boyar wanted more. He was thirsty and demanded vodka. He wanted this drive to be better than the last. He would do it in style. From the range rover a bottle of ice frosted Stolichnaya cristal. He poured it into a small shot glass and threw it back.

His loader was ready on the whistle ready to start the beaters off again. In the distance they could hear a motorbike. It was getting louder. Boyar looked towards the loader who was concentrating on the noise. There were no roads near here only cart tracks and paths. He wasn’t aware of any of the other keepers out today.

The beaters were the other side of the valley so it couldn’t be them on the quad. The loader held onto the whistle. Not wanting to start the drive. The noise got closer. It must be someone coming towards them. He sent the driver up the valley side to see. As he passed over the ridge a covey of twenty birds exploded over the top of the butt. The shot was unsafe but Boyar was loaded on vodka and adrenaline. He fired off two shots both on target. He grabbed the other gun

“Load you idiot” he shouted out.

Under normal circumstances the loader would have refused but he could see Boyars state. If he disobeyed he suspected he would be in line next.

The nearing motor bike was pushing birds over the ridge in clouds. The sky was black with partridges. Boyar could hardly miss. He was double gunning as quickly as he could. Birds landing around him.

Paco had been avoiding this side of the drive. Nurturing it. This was reserved for royal shooting in Paco’s minds. It was the secret he had. Fit for a king or nobility no less. This was why he had put the beaters over the other side of the valley. To avoid disturbing this. He would be furious. Boyar on the other hand was high.

The motorbike had stopped. The birds thinned out until they also stopped.

Boyars eyes were wide and dilated. He grabbed the vodka bottle and took a long gulp.

“see that? Did you see that?” he shouted to the loader. He had never seen so many birds at one time. The loader was silent. Open mouthed. Stunned. There must be around a hundred partridges dead on the floor around them. How many had flown he had no idea. Perhaps five hundred. Maybe more. He had seen it but not quite believed it. Normally that number of birds would be pushed over in a day. He had just seen it in less than half an hour.

Paco had raced up to them. He was furious. He demanded to know what had happened. Nobody spoke. Boyar slapped him on the back and offered him the vodka. He declined and ran up the valley side. Both Boyar and the loader followed.

They saw the driver stood across the track blocking the man on a motorbike. His helmet removed.

They were arguing. Paco sprinted down ready to attack him. Boyar shouted out.

“The best beater we have…Ha!” he was laughing elated, drunk “Paco you put up 30 birds for me all day. He puts up the best drive of my life!”

Paco looked back at him furious but unable to challenge him.

“Who are you and what is your business here?” Boyar asked of him pushing out a hand to shake.

Stash had really not expected this. His plan was to get close to the mansion. He had laid low for the last few days. Kept out of sight. He had not planned to bump into Boyar. He wanted to watch proceedings from a safe distance. To observe the police effort later in the day. He had hoped to watch the spectacle of Boyar being arrested. In fact at this time he had not expected Boyar to even be around. He had assumed that he would be tied up with the deal. He was confused. Why was Boyar here?

Close up the man instilled fear in him.

He was very aware of where this might lead. A mad Russian and men with guns in the middle of nowhere

“I am touring off road. I think I have got a bit lost” he bluffed “Sorry if I disturbed you”

Boyar slapped him on the back and handed him the vodka.

“Drink…drink! You have done better than all of these idiots” Boyar waved his hand in a circle “you must join us at the house” I want to repay you for your good work’ he pointed to the Range Rover. “Come follow us. I feel like celebrating” He wandered back to the car. Guzzling the vodka from the bottle and whistling a Russian folk tune.

Chapter 20.

Mansion. Marbella Sun Sept 23rd

The police had kept the mansion as a crime scene. The main reason being they could see the comings and goings of Boyar. Only one road in and one road out.

They could monitor the operation from there. So far today, there had been no real movement from the finca. A couple of cars arriving in the early morning. Nothing since. Tino was excitable. He was armed with a handgun in a shoulder holster. Carlos had a pump action shotgun in the car. They knew what Boyar was capable of. They had seen it first hand. The Brits were not really interested, all they wanted was to question Stash. As they were out of british jurisdiction they could either convince him to come home or use the situation to their advantage. They could rough him up and extract some answers that they probably wouldn’t be able to do  safety in the UK.

The Brits watched tv. It was a Spanish football program. Goals of the week. The commentators exploded in excitement.

The plan had been to wait until nightfall. They knew the deal was planned for the early hours and it was anticipated that Boyar would leave at some time. He probably wouldn’t do the deal but he would receive the goods or at least have a presence. It sounded too big not to take some glory. Then on his return to the finca the assembled police would arrest him red handed.

It was simple but it was all contained. If it flared up the public were well away. Similarly if anyone did a runner there was only one way out. They could block any escape.

Chapter 21

The Finca. Sunday 23rd Sept

Stash had unexpectedly been shown to a room by the butler. The bed was made and toiletries were spread out in the en suite bathroom.

He was dirty and dusty and showered down. Changing into a White linen shirt and black trousers.

He looked in the mirror and stared at himself.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck!” he whispered “fuck, fuck…fuck, fuck!”

He held his head in his hands.

What had he got into? He took a long deep breath in. There was only one way to do this. To play along. Boyar didn’t know who he was and if he found out he would kill him. Best bet was to accept the hospitality, make his excuses and leave as soon as possible.

What about her? If she was here she might give the game away.

He texted her.

I am in the house with Boyar. Do not act shocked. Will explain.X

He walked down the curved double staircase and into the hall. He could hear Boyar bragging outside to some of his cronies. Stash walked out to them.

“Ahh. The finest beater in history! Come my friend” Boyar waved him across. He was worse for wear. Now drinking champagne again but a new bottle of vodka lying in a bucket of ice before him.

“Come here. Celebrate” Boyar passed him a glass of champagne. “Tell us your story….tell us your name.” Boyar laughed out loud.

“Charlie. My name is Charlie. I am just on a biking holiday. Come down from Madrid. I am going to go down to Morocco. High atlas. But…” Stash paused for thought “but I seem to have got lost on your land. Terribly sorry” a exaggerated English accent had taken over his speech.

“you have done me a great service. I must repay you. But first have some food and drink” Boyar waved him towards the table. Roasted meats and platters of tapas were laid out in a medieval style tableau. Stash grabbed a plate and filled ,it returning to the sofas.

Boyar lectured him about the days shooting, the history of the finca and his own history. Getting louder as the night wore on. He bragged about his Russian history. Sang songs and generally took the stage. Stash was a good audience. He nodded and asked appropriate questions. Boyar was warming to him.

As the night wore on Stash realised that the deal was not tonight. Boyar could not stand up let alone conduct business.

Had she fed them lies? Why would it not be happening. Why was she wrong? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to check his phone it would be obvious.

Stash asked for a tour of the house but Boyar refused. Slapped him on the thigh “tomorrow, tomorrow I will show you my friend” Boyar was in high spirits but tiring. He was yawning. Stash looked around. He surveyed the house. It was a grand castle like building. A central turret with symmetrical wings each side. As he did so he spotted a woman at the upstairs window. The light was off but he could see enough. It was her. It was Katja.

Boyar had fallen asleep in his chair. His minders had taken him upstairs as they usually did in this situation. He wouldn’t remember. Stash had made his excuses and gone to his room.

He read his phone.

What r u doing here?

He replied

no idea! I can explain. Why is the job not on?

She replied.

???next Sunday??? Which room r u in?

He was reluctant to say. That explained it though. She had only said Sunday. Not which Sunday. The deal must be the Sunday afterwards. This threw Stash. The police might storm the place tonight. Tino and Carlos seemed pretty intent on doing something. If they thought that it was tonight they were probably waiting to arrest him. It would blow the lot. They would have nothing on Boyar. It would tip him off.

The risks were high but he texted her his room number.

The door opened quietly. She knew the house well, where the guards slept and the surveillance cameras were. No one had seen her. Boyar was snoring loudly.

She closed the door, locked it and threw herself into Stashs arms. He put his hands around her lower back and pulled her to him. She winced and pulled away sobbing then sat carefully on the bed pulling her legs up to relieve the pressure. Stash looked on concerned. She explained the events to him. At first she left out the details. He quizzed her and she told him it all. He was silent. Angry and upset. She put a hand on his tense forearm.

“it will be over soon…” she said mainly trying to reassure herself.

Stash explained the police plan and the confusion. How they might action things tonight. She could see the possible outcome. The suspicion. She also realised the danger they were both in.

They agreed that whatever happened tonight Stash must leave as soon as he could. The minders might recognise him. Boyars mood might change. He was undoubtably in danger.

She kissed him and crept out of the room. He sat and pondered the situation. A knot in his stomach. He was angry. He wanted to kill Boyar. He wanted to protect her. To get her away. He also wanted to make love to her. He wanted her. He knew she was only metres away yet he couldn’t have her. He felt aroused yet frustrated. He also felt afraid. He knew the consequences of playing it wrong could be nasty. This was not a game yet somehow he felt it was. It was a scary exhilarating game with the highest stakes. He was in it now and there was no way out.

  

He awoke early. Early enough to anticipate any action. Up to now it had been calm. He had slept surprisingly well and he jumped out of bed. He realised that he needed to be more alert than ever.

He pulled on his jeans and his trainers. If he had to get away he would be ready. He peered outside. Opened the window to listen. Nothing. He would wait and watch from the room until sunrise. If they were going to come it should be by then.

Chapter 22.

The mansion. Monday 24th Sept

They had kept a rotating watch. Out in the car by the road. All linked by radios ready to shift on the alert. Nothing. No cars in or out. Carlos was on the early watch. He had seen the sunrise whilst drinking coffee from a large insulated mug.

He swore. The tip off had been a hoax. She was probably in on it, part of Boyars plan. They had been duped. Now they had no chance. Stash had tipped off Boyar right in front of them. They had been stupid. It had seemed to good to be true. These fucking Brits would be pissing themselves on this. They would go back and have a story about these stupid spaniards. He hated it. He swore again and thumped the dashboard.

He wondered whether they were missing something. Was there another way in or out? They had checked the maps and arial photos. He thought not. Had they really been so stupid? He could not just sit and ask the questions. He started the car and drove to the Finca.

Chapter 23

The Finca Monday 24th

The sound of the car broke the morning silence. It was getting louder. Nothing else stirred. He could see the driveway from the room but otherwise it was obscured by trees. He continued to observe from the window. The car was getting close but then just stopped. Not outside the Finca. A short distance away. He had run along the drive previously and knew there were no other properties. Was this it? Was this the dawn raid he had anticipated? He scanned the perimeter of the grounds. At the gates he could see Carlos. He recognised him immediately. He expected to see more but had only heard one car. Not even they were so stupid to do it on only one carload.

He leant out of the window to get a better view. He had lost sight of Carlos.

Suddenly he spotted him. Back from the gates staring through binoculars. Staring straight at him.

At breakfast Stash had acted like a perfect guest. Thanking the maid, offering to wash up. He had eaten in the kitchen. A simple omelette and coffee.

Boyar surprisingly seemed full of vigour. He didn’t act hungover. He wore sunglasses when he went outside but otherwise seemed fit.

Stash made excuses to leave but Boyar refused insisting instead that he show him his armoury. His historic weapons. They would use them later. Boyar challenged him to a tournament.

In the long vaulted room stash was afforded a lecture on the history of each weapon. The plight of the Russian tribes and stories of bravery. He was led around the house. Pictures explained, their relevance to Boyar always expressed vigourously.

The tour had taken most of the morning. Stash was anxious they might come across her in the house and had surreptitiously asked Boyar about whether he had family. A wife. He had just laughed. Said she was unwell. He was more excited at having a new captive to impress.

They returned to the lawn outside the kitchen.

A long table had been set with a white table cloth. On it were a number of the weapons that he had seen in the armoury. Large crossbows, small single hand crossbows. Throwing knives. Spiked clubs. On the lawn in front two targets had been set up.

Stash realised that he was not going to politely escape. Boyar seemed to be treating him like a friend. Someone to show off to. He had to go along with it.

They competed with all the weapons. Stash surprised himself. He was accurate with the crossbows. Equalling Boyars score. He excused it as luck seeing that Boyar probably didn’t like losing.

Before they attempted the long bows one of the guards passed into the garden and handed a phone to Boyar.

An angry exchange followed by a smile to Stash.

“I hope you do not mind but I will have some business to attend to this evening.”

Stash nodded in approval.

“I have some people coming here. You can stay around. They have caused me some trouble. I need to deal with them.”

Stash laughed nervously.

The car arrived and the three men got out. The two bigger men Stash recognised. They were the minders that had been with Katja in the club. The smaller man in the middle was young and dressed in scruffy sailing clothes. He looked scared.

Stash made his excuses to leave but Boyar insisted he stayed. Stash explained he needed the bathroom and walked with his back to the minders trying to remain inconspicuous.

Moments later the door to the bathroom was being hammered on. Stash politely opened it. The big minder Sergei grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the garage. He did not resist.

Here he saw in the bright fluorescent glow of the strip-lights the visitor on his knees. Boyar had his sleeves rolled up and was whipping him with a length of hose pipe.

Boyar looked towards Stash “you are not who you say you are?” he said cooly. “Sergei tells me you tried to befriend Katja previously. That seems a bit of a coincidence doesn’t it?”

The man on the floor spluttered blood.

“well whether it is, or it isn’t you probably need to see this” he pointed to the man “this piece if shit has tried to betray me. He had a job to do but he was indiscrete.”

The man pleaded. Boyar swung the hose across his face. “he spoke to too many people. He could have spoilt my operation” Boyars voice was rising.

“no one fucks around with me” he shouted. “not without consequences” Boyar was looking around the garage. He went over to a box in the corner. In it were aerosol canisters. Expanding foam filler was written on them in English.

Boyar cracked the lid off and threw it to the floor. The trigger nozzle was screwed into place. Boyar grabbed the mans head and pushed it back. He pushed the nozzle into his mouth and smiled. The mans eyes welled up with tears. Boyar pushed it back down his throat. The man gagged. Boyar simply laughed and pressed the trigger. A gush of resin shot into the mans mouth. He fought against it but it had already filled his throat. The liquid spewing out of his mouth now expanding. Filling with bubbles. A thick ectoplasm filling the mans nose and sinuses. It was gushing from his nostrils and mouth. He was trying to cough but it was expanding inwards also. Into his larynx and lungs.He was suffocating. His face going increasingly purple and then blue. He contorted and thrashed around until the oxygen ran out. He fell to the ground and made tiny jerks the last of his body trying to survive. His face obscured by thick beige foam now solidifying.

Boyar turned to Stash.

“that is what happens to people who betray me. You are not going to betray me, are you my friend..?” he smiled at Stash “In fact you are going to help me.” Boyar laughed and looked at the prostrate body. “you can do what we wanted him to do. You will do nicely”

Chapter 24

Police station Marbella. Tuesday Sept 25th

They all stared at the whiteboard. It was covered in scribbles and arrows from different coloured pens in different handwriting. Non of them could make any sense of it.

Why would Stash be at the Finca? What was his link with Boyar? Was he the killer of Hogan? Was Boyar linked with terrorism? The questions were flying think and fast. Harrison was convinced that this international funding of terrorism was the link. He had blown the case to huge proportions. It made sense. Russian gangster with drug links. Greedy and power crazed. Why wouldn’t they be involved. Morals weren’t exactly a strong point for these people. No one had claimed responsibility yet for the atrocity. It had been speculated by experts it was a radical Islamist group but who says it wasn’t Russian driven. They had history.

But why would Stash be closely involved? What use would he be? Why would he kill his friend Hogan? What motive? Tino suggested it might all be simple. That Stash had gone to get the girl and simply had been caught. Even with this explanation they questioned why he wouldn’t have just been disposed of. It was not Boyars style to treat enemies as guests.

They were at a loss to explain anything. Tempers were raised. Arguments. The only thing they could agree on was that the information Stash had given them was wrong. The deal had not gone down. They were back to square one . They actually were no closer to either Stash or Boyar.

Chapter 25

The Finca. Tuesday Sept 25th

The minders stood either side of Stash preventing him going anywhere. He looked across the lawn. The pool glowing turquoise in the evening light.

They had locked him in the garage most of the day. The foaming corpse his only company. He had contemplated escape but decided it would be useless. The guards and security around the Finca being so high. He figured Boyar would have killed him earlier if he had wanted to. The foam would have done it. He couldn’t think of a more unpleasant way to go. Suffocating and feeling like your head was going to explode.

The girl was led out and over to Boyar who was staring on the lawn facing away from them.

“Mr charlie. You come here and you pretend to be my friend. Why?” Boyar had turned to him “is it for this?” he pointed at her and walked toward her raising his arm above his shoulder. He swung across her with a long backhand swing connecting with her and following through. Her head swung backwards.

“you come here and you try to steal from me. She is mine to do with as I want. She is beautiful, no?” he looked to Stash for a response. None was forthcoming. “I know you want her. Everybody does. That makes her a trophy for me.” Boyar moved closer to Stash “she is not available mr charlie. You have disrespected me. You have lied to me. Do you know what happens to people who mess with me…?” he had small bits of spit at the edges of his mouth “they pay. They pay mr charlie. With their lives” he gestured in the direction of the garage.

Stash remained silent.

Boyar started to walk away “with you though I will spare you for now. Why you might ask? A good question. Well I have a job for you. You will accept and you will do it. There will be no thinking on your part. It will be done the way I tell you.” Boyar had become monotonous and business like.

“this weekend I have a …delivery… that needs collecting. It is at sea. I need someone to collect it. That is all. Very simple. If you do this properly I might spare you. If not you will be tortured. Not killed. Well not immediately. Maybe when I get bored.”

Stash unconsciously stared at the crying girl. “oh and her. Why not? You mess this up and she will also get it. You can watch if you like” Boyar laughed sordidly.

The girl was taken back inside. Stash was left standing whilst Boyar sat on the sofa and lit a Havana.

He went through the details, the timelines, writing them down.

Stash would rent a boat. Boyar liked this. He was unknown in the area. He would bring the boat to the rendezvous. Why would anyone suspect him. Why would this englishman on holiday raise any alarm with the police. Boyar felt clever. He had no idea about the four detectives. About the fact that Stash was more of a suspect than himself at the present time.

Stash had no choice. He would have to go through with it. He couldn’t escape. He was being followed by Boyars men, they had a close reign on him. They had sent him on the bike at dawn, out of the back route the way he had come. Boyar had suggested he get away from here until they met at the defined time and place. A small Marina. Stash would not even stop the boats engine. Simply come along sideways. Two ropes. Load up and off. They would be there ready. It had been made clear that if he didn’t make regular check ins the girl would be tortured. He would be found and the consequences would be unpleasant. He rode down the main coast road. He headed south. Past Estepona, past Sotogrande and towards the looming mountain rock of Gibraltar. He toyed with the idea of crossing the border.

Going to the authorities but it was too risky.

They would only be interested in his financial issues. The rest would be Spanish matters.

The girl would be the victim.

He couldn’t do that.

Instead he passed onwards to the new port at La Linea. It was a strange place as many border towns are.

A mix of vagrants and hawkers. Crooks and opportunists. Dispossessed and lost. The street corners had all sorts of dodgy characters around.

He had breakfast at a small bar by the port and then arranged a boat rental. He had sailed before and was proficient. The firm had had a yacht and he had been on various outings on it. He had enjoyed it and had taken courses to get him able to skipper. He had planned on buying a boat but back in London the impetus had drifted.

He wandered around the charter companies.

Many were closed down. It was off season. Winter was not a good time for business.

After a couple of visits he viewed a 48ft cruiser. Modern good motor. 8to 10 knots. It would be subtle but not really fast enough.

A power yacht was what he needed. He doubted if Boyar would want to do it under sail. It would be cool. Night sail across the straights. They would look like a school boat. He doubted that his intelligence would matter. The remit was to get a boat and he felt a power boat would satisfy Boyar.

He sold the story to the agent that this was for a private party for clients. Needed it for a few days. Cost not really an issue. He was shown to a 50ft plus sun seeker. Blue and White. Lots of chrome and space. It was perfect. He laid down the deposit and sorted the details for the pick up. It would be fully fuelled and stocked.

With that arranged, he planned his next move. He needed to go underground. If the police picked him up everything would be lost. He needed to time this correctly.

He checked in with Boyar as planned. He didn’t want to hang out here for days. He needed to get away. He jumped on the bike and headed up the coast westward to Tarifa. A world mecca for wind surfers. He thought it an ideal hideaway. In a pair of boardies and a t-shirt he would blend in. The cops would not think of it. Why would they? It was off the beaten track.

He could hole up there and get his plan of action together.

He checked in to a travellers hostel. It had a dorm but he selected a double room. He needed space.

Boyar would not let this one go surely. When it was over Stash would know too much. He would be disposed of. Probably as soon as the job was done.

He couldn’t go to the police until afterwards. It would simply not work.

He would have to think it through carefully. There would be a solution somewhere in this. There had to be.

She had been taken to her room. It was still painful to walk. Sergei was impatient. He had seen this coming. Although he felt protective he was not stupid. She was the bosses girl. If the boss said do it. He did it. She might be able to fuck with his head. Turn him around. He found her attractive no doubt. He worked stupid hours. No relationships. No time for it. He got the odd fuck from the strippers and whores he ended up minding for Boyar but Katja was so far out of bounds he couldnt even think about it. She was flirting with him. Touching his muscular forearm. He stayed strong. Polite but strong.

He sighed when she locked her door. He had more self control than he had imagined.

Chapter 26

The police station.Malaga.Wednesday 26th Sept

They were not sure why they had met up again. Mumford and Harrison had found no leads for Boyar and terrorism. No links for Boyar and Stash.

Tino and Carlos likewise. What link was there?

None.

They were beyond frustrated.

A text came through on Tino’s phone.

Sorry about false inf. It’s this Sunday. Details to follow.

It could only be Stash. This changed things considerably.

Tino kept it quiet. He wasn’t sure whether to call him. He wanted to. To ask what was going on instead he sent a msg back

Ok. Where are you?

He made and excuse and left the seminar room. He headed to a local cafe. This was good news. He needed to get his head together. It was all on again. Why had Stash got back to him? He didn’t care. All he knew was that in the last minute the whole thing had turned around.

He sat at the cafe waiting for a single shot espresso. He thought it through. Was this a wind up. Was Stash simply playing them? Why would he? What would he gain? Did he know about the British police being onto him? Was this looking for protection?

The coffee arrived and he added two sugars, stirred and drank it in one. He looked at his phone. No message. He pressed the number and waited for an answer.

To his surprise Stash picked up. They exchanged pleasantries and Tino automatically started to interrogate him.

“Easy tiger. Now listen” Stash was back in control “I will not be able to tell you much because you will just fuck it up. This is what you must do.” Tino had gone quiet.

“the deal with this is you get the girl to safety. Nothing more. Next Sunday night I will send you texts. When the deal is done I will text you when Boyar is not at the Finca. You will get a warrant and at that point you will get in and take the girl, arrest her for something and take her to the police station. The safe house. Wherever” Tino could hear Stash take a drink and then continue slowly “you will then ensure Boyar is arrested. I will tell you where you will be able to find him. And at what time.”

Tino hmmm’d in approval “Si, Si. My friend. Where are you..?”

Stash didn’t answer the question “Tino. I know the British police are here. What for?”

“they are here for you” Tino was hesitant. He could have lied. Taken the glory of getting Boyar and dropping Stash on them. He didn’t like them much though and Stash was helping him out here. He filled Stash in on the story. The links with the twin towers, the financial fraud, the name Mo, the Swiss accounts and now the connection with Boyar.

Stash sighed and thanked Tino. He told him to keep it all quiet. If not there would be no more information. He would be in touch more in the next few days. He hung up.

Tino returned to the room. More scribbling. Head scratching and arguing. He would have to play along for a bit. He would be the hero of all this by next week. It would be worth it.

Chapter 27.

Tarifa Thursday 27th Sept

Stash was paranoid. He walked quickly down the narrow alleys. He had hid in his room but was getting more anxious by the minute.

He didn’t know if they could trace his call and he didn’t know if he could trust Tino,but he had no other options. He had left him without any details. If they followed him what would be their goal. At best they would catch and arrest him. But then they would lose their lead on the Boyar case. He would deny all knowledge.

Even so he was still wary.

He had bought a baseball cap and wore it with his aviator glasses. He had not shaved for days and had a thick stubble. His outfit was that of a surfer not a fugitive on the run.

He entered the small bar overlooking the sea and sat in a quiet corner.

The girl serving coffees to two beach bums caught his eye. She was pretty. Very pretty. Sun bleached blond hair. Tanned shoulders. A few scattered freckles.

She came across.

“hi what can I do for you” she asked in a accented voice.

Stash removed his glasses and hat and smiled “Well…” he paused and smiled at her. Despite his worries his entire world focussed on flirting with her at this moment “we can start with a beer…but I need to ask you something when you come back”

She smiled in approval “No problem. I will be back in a minute”

Stash had made the link. If he were going to be stuck here for a few days he might as well enjoy it. If only for a bit of conversation and flirting.

She returned and sat down opposite him. The bar was practically empty. “what did you want to talk about then?” she asked playing with her hair. Making circles with her fingers and releasing them. “well mainly who you are, what are you doing here and what time do you finish?” Stash used a cheap chat up line but delivered it with such confidence it made her laugh.

They talked generically. Her name was Astrid. She was Dutch. Travelling around. Stopped off in Tarifa to learn how to windsurf and ended up working in the bar for free accommodation and a bit of money. She had been there three months but was keen to move on. Wanted to travel down to Marrakech.

Stash saw the opportunity. Even if they were following him they wouldn’t be looking for a couple. Not a couple of travellers on their way to Marrakesh. There were stations full of them. The ferry had a daily army of young people with rucksacs. He could just could just blend in with them

He was getting ahead of himself.

“so shall we..?” she flirted back.

He shook his head. Back into the now.

“sorry. What was that” he asked, pretending to be distracted by the lads who had just rowdily entered.

“get some food later. I finish at 7 tonight?” she was sounding less confident than the first time she asked.

“perfect. I would love that” Stash put his hand on hers and smiled.

She took him to a small restaurant by the beach. Kids were still playing out, kicking a ball around and laughing.

They talked again. In more depth. Stash had to watch himself. Much of what he said was an embellished lie. He apparently had his own computer business. Made good. Had sold it. Was now travelling. Standard family history. Nothing exciting. He shifted it to her. Her travel tales. Family. Ex boyfriends.

Stash was enjoying it. She wasn’t particularly exciting but he had had enough excitement for a few days. He was distracted though still working on a plan to get away.

She had got irritated at one point, asking if he was bored.

He made some joke about her English being difficult.

She laughed but was obviously insecure and lacked confidence. But she was young. Early twenties. She was still finding herself.

They walked back along the beach. Her holding his hand.

It made him feel awkward. In his head he could see Katja and he could imagine Boyar hitting her. He tried to shut the image out. He had arranged her safety. What else could he do?

She stopped and turned to face him. Petite, she stood on tip toes and moved to kiss him. He reciprocated. Brief at first he then pulled her to him and they kissed more passionately.

They walked back in silence to the bar. She invited him in to her  small room at the back.

He lay down on the bed and she lay on top of him.

“you can stay if you like. No sex though” she said frankly.

This suited him. He didn’t feel very sexual. Too much going on in his head. He smiled at her and kissed her on the forehead. She dropped her head onto his chest and they embraced until they both fell asleep fully clothed.

The next day she had gone down to the bar at 7am. Stash slept till mid morning and when he awoke he lay for over an hour staring at the ceiling thinking. Thinking of the best way out.

He sat in the same seat at the bar drinking his fourth coffee and looking up to her and smiling. She was very pretty he thought to himself. He could just travel with her. Disappear in Morocco for a bit. But surely Boyar would be onto him fairly soon. He might not even get out. The police might have the border covered. It was not an option. He would have to go through with it. He shouted across to her. Ordered a beer and smiled. He had another forty eight hours to come up with something. He had a pretty girl, a safe place to hide and time to think.

Chapter 28

The Finca. Saturday 29th Sept

Boyar was high again. Jumping around and briefing the assembled crowd. The plan for the night. For the set up, the deal, the rendezvous. He had got Sergei to text Stash the previous day. They needed the meeting point. Stash had suggested La Linea. It would be the shortest distance to get to Ceuta apart from crossing the border into Gibraltar. He couldn’t risk it, the border police might be onto him.

The waters around the rock were in constant battle. The British police having jurisdiction only so far. As soon as they strayed the Spaniards would be onto them. A boat with a Spanish flag in Spanish waters was immune to the advances of the Gibraltar police. So much so that it was more likely a skirmish would arise between the two patrolling vessels whilst a boat smuggling a cargo of anything illicit would simply sail past.

Boyar approved. He texted Stash the time to meet.

He lifted the gun and cocked it. Heckler and Kock mp5 submachine gun. It was old and battered but a classic. He also had a UMP the successor. It didn’t feel as comfortable to him as the MP5. he had used this gun many times before. It was essentially a machine gun based on a pistol. Light and usable with one or two hands. He didn’t like gun fights. He didn’t like any fights where he might lose. That’s why this gun was so good. He could just shower bullets and run. No aiming or accuracy. Just pull the trigger and wave it around.

The others were checking their arms. A classic Israeli UZI. A more modern South African version of the CZ27, a couple of Russian AK74s and an AK107.

In addition there were three handguns all MP446 Vikings, Russian made civilian issue.

They loaded the guns and ammo into individual sports bags. They didn’t want to look like they were going to war if they were spotted.

They loaded the cars. Nothing conspicuous today. There was a rented silver grey people carrier with smoked windows and the Range Rover he used for hunting. It was quick and had the hidden gun locker in the boot. In amongst the sports bags and extra clothing was a cardboard box. In it there were five bottles of Stoli crystal. The other was in Boyars hand.

Chapter 29

La Linea Harbour. Saturday Sept 29th

Stash was out in the harbour. The lights of the boats visible as they moved up and down the shipping lane. He had motored the boat out of the Marina and was making small gentle turns. The engine was idling. He was waiting for the txt. To say they were in position. He would simply move to the harbour wall. Come alongside and throw over the rope. Three minutes max and they would be off. At this time of night it would be unlikely the harbour master would bother coming around. He might VHF them but Stash would ignore it. Pretend to be some stupid holiday maker.

He had tipped off Tino earlier. Explained the plan. He had not sent him any details about the rendevous at sea. Only the planned return. He would text him in the morning so they could meet the boat as it came back in. Stash predicted it would be about six am but suggested that they were waiting there before then. He reenforced the conditions about the girl. After leaving Astrid asleep he felt guilty both about her and about Katja. Astrid would be devastated. He knew she was falling or him. He had stolen her money. He felt terrible. But he needed gas for the bike. He couldn’t go to a cash point or use a card at this stage. It would leave a trace. His plan was to become untraceable. She would have concluded he was just a thief who had conned her. He felt bad. But he had to do this. The was no turning back now.

His phone glowed and buzzed. He saw the cars on the quayside pulling up. He manoeuvred the boat and headed in.

It had been slick. The minders rapidly securing the ropes and loading up. The VHF had gone off and they could see the harbour masters car whizzing along the quay towards them as they motored away. Outside the harbour wall Stash opened up the power. They would head straight across the shipping lane and directly towards the lights of Ceuta. The GPS was set for the rendezvous point, the coordinates keyed in by Boyar personally. He climbed up towards Stash and handed him the vodka. Stash declined.

“drink you bastard. Do not turn away my offer” Boyar bellowed.

Stash took a small swig and handed it back. He didn’t want to be anything other than totally alert.

They neared the African coast and slowed. Cruising gently along parallel to the mountains. The GPS showed they were on track with an ETA of fourteen minutes. They would be slightly early. Stash pulled back on the power.

As they neared the coordinates they could make out the fishing boat. Unlit and drifting.

Everyone on the sun seeker was prepared. Guns had been placed within reach. Stash didn’t like all this firepower. He suspected if one bullet was fired it would be an all out war.

Sergei went forward. He shined a bright searchlight on the fishing boat and shouted out “Sputnik”. It was a code word that Boyar had come up with.

The cabin lights came on in from the fishing boat. Two men exited the cabin. They were the two suited Moroccans that had been at the finca.

Ropes were thrown and the boats secured alongside each other. Watertight boxes were passed up to the minders. Sports bags passed back. Stash had no idea what was in them. He suspected it was drugs for money but he wasn’t interested. He just wanted to get out of here before someone became trigger happy.

Boyar stepped into the fishing boat and went down below. The boxes and bags continued to be exchanged. Loud laughter and then conversation came from the other cabin. It got louder and sounded more heated. Stash became nervous. He could swim to shore from here probably. If it kicked off that’s what he would do. The men continued unloading the last few boxes and proceeded to store them down below. He suspected they were also grabbing their firearms.

Stash looked around. Looked to the other boats cabin.

It seemed an age until Boyar emerged slapping the old Moroccan on the back and laughing. All seemed more relaxed.

They reboarded the boat, slipped the lines and disappeared into the darkness.

Stash was instructed to return to Spain. He turned the boat around and pushed the power up to full. The bow lifted and the spray flew over them. He could see the lights of Gibraltar, of the small ports on the coast. He motored towards them.

The light was just moving from moonlight to dawn and they could make out Europa point ahead. The were on target for La Linea. Probable ETA of thirty minutes. Stash looked at his phone. They would get in at around 05:24. The police would be waiting for them.

Boyar emerged from the cabin. Waving his second bottle of vodka and singing.

He shouted to Stash “Duchesa.”

Stash didn’t know what he meant.

“Duchesa. Go to Duchesa.” Boyar was waving a chart around. Stash could see the name of the port up the coast.

He could not really question this. Boyar was not that stupid. He knew if he had been double crossed a last minute switch would leave them waiting at la Linea.

Stash had no choice. He altered position and headed for Duchesa.

He couldn’t text Tino it would be obvious. Boyar stood right next to him. How could he let Tino know?

He watched Boyar closely. He was drunk. Staggering. Stash eased off on the power then surged it forward. The boat reared up and knocked Boyar off balance. Stash grabbed his phone and pressed the call button. His last message was to Tino. He hoped the screen was still on the number.

Boyar lept up in a rage.

“what are you doing you fucking idiot” he lunged at Stash.

“Sorry. Just getting on course for Duchesa. We should get there in about an hour” stash shouted. Hoping that his phone had connected with Tino. He pocketed it and got the boat under control.

Boyar retched and grabbing the side threw up into the sea. He groaned and hung on. Alcohol and the sea didn’t mix well thought Stash briefly relieved for a moment.

They approached Duchesa as the sun began to rise. The pretty harbour had the usual White yachts and motor boats moored up. There were a lot of cars parked around but no sign of the police. Stash was anxious. They should be here. Maybe his message had not got through. He would have to play it cool whatever. He radio’d in. No answer on the VHF. It was not manned all night and with them arriving unexpected the harbourmaster was probably asleep.

Stash slowly approached looking for a suitable mooring where cars could come along. He headed to the far wall, well within the Marina. The men had set everything up for a quick unload. Stash had no idea what vehicles would be waiting.

A row of taxis seemed to be the only cars with men in them.

They silently sided up and moored. The men unloaded the boxes into the arranged taxis. Stash admired the plan. Boyar obviously had all the coasts taxi firms under his control. He could have drugs distributed far and wide by lunchtime. A clever operation indeed.

As he moved from the wheel Stash felt a sense of urgency. Something was about to happen. He scanned the quayside. The doors of a white van thrust open. An armed police squad running in formation. Carlos and Tino came running out from behind the parked cars. Boyar saw them and grabbed the MP5. He started to fire towards them. Missing totally but shattering windscreens and shop windows. His bodyguards dived down behind the taxis. Unarmed apart from the hand guns, their other weapons were still on board. Only Boyar was properly armed. He shouted at Stash to move and ran to release the ropes. Stash ducked and pushed the boat into full speed. It lurched forward into a moored sailing boat. He then pulled it into reverse trying to turn in the tight marina.

As he did Boyar fired relentlessly picking up the other guns as they ran out of ammo. The squad were nearing. None threatened by his inept aim.

Tino shouted out “Stop. Stop that boat” he aimed at Stash.

Stash turned to face him. He could see the squad taking position to take out Boyar. He could see Carlos watching Tino. He could even see the British policemen hiding in the corner.

Tino fired a shot and Stash lept backwards. He stumbled back off the boat. Boyar looked up towards him, his body falling into the Marina.

Boyar ran forwards, an Uzi in one hand and an empty HK in the other. A single bullet knocked both guns out of his hands. It hit him just below the shoulder in his upper chest. He spun around and then fell to the deck of the boat.

The squad were on him. They had all three minders pinned down. Caronto clambered onto the unsecured boat from the quayside and held a gun to Boyars head. Tino followed but peered over the side aiming to see Stash in the water below.

He could see nothing. He assumed Stash must have gone down.

They would have to search the Marina later.

Chapter 30

Cote d’Azure. April 2002

She smiled to herself. The cool breeze and bright sunshine on the sunflowers made their small petals flutter. The florist was one of her treats. She loved to choose a luxurious bouquet at least once a week. She was still alive. She had scars, both physical and mental but flowers for some reason helped her cope. Helped her smile inside. She carried them down the narrow street towards the sea. She still looked around and behind her. Still anxious that she might be followed.

The basket she carried had salad and vegetables, bread and fruit. She had made it a habit of visiting the Market early to get the best.

She would make a fresh lunch. Simple. Perhaps a risotto with the new spring vegetables. Served with a chilled bottle of Chablis already in the fridge. A long lazy lunch followed by an afternoon making love. She had only dreamed of this before. Passionate but tender. She had never felt this. The combination of love and intimacy.

When he had abused her she thought she would never feel it. She had been violated. Ashamed. It had taken time for her to trust again. To allow herself to let go. To enjoy the experiences.

She turned the key in the latch and let herself in. She placed the basket on the table and looked towards the balcony. The small secluded bay had four apartment blocks all facing out to sea. The view to the edges of the bay were stunning. Yachts sailed in the distance.

She looked at him, his back towards her concentrating on whatever was in front of him. She had been told he was dead. Had been killed in the marina. His body had never been recovered. The Spanish policeman, constantino  who had interviewed her said he had probably been pushed out to sea by the current. She had questioned this as she thought the Mediterranean didn’t have any tide but he smiled at her knowingly. She had not worked it then.

It wasn’t until a month later that the text came through on her phone.

Se remembered it like it was today. She was staying with an friend in her apartment. She had not believed it. She had mourned him. He was dead.

Can I buy you a glass of champagne? S

It couldn’t be. It must be a joke. She had replied nervously.

Is that you?

They met in a quiet corner of a luxury hotel. He had a room booked under a false name. They stayed the night and made plans to leave. His car was waiting. They could get clothes on the way. He had explained it all to her. The deals, the money, his life, his history.

He told her he was still officially a fraudster and fugitive albeit a dead one. They laughed.

He had managed to extract the Swiss accounts from his name into an offshore trust fund. He had retained access to this via a lawyer he knew from the city. Dodgy but good. He had thought of Hogan a lot since. He would be loving this.

She went over to him and put her arms around him. He lent backwards to kiss her.

On the screen in front of him was a series of graphs and numbers. Red ones and black ones. Arrows up and down. He had scribbled on a pad of paper beside his laptop lots of numbers and crossed them out. In the middle of the sheet a random doodle encircled a word. The word had been decorated with serifs and shading but was still obvious.

“Bored?” she asked him insulted.

He smiled back at her and stood up and led her to the bedroom

“Waiting for you my darling. I was bored waiting for you.”