Crash Course by Derek Fee (pdf to ebook reader .txt) 📕

coke is the ‘in’ drug again. It oscillates between heroin and cocaine for the ‘drug of the month’ prize. I’ve had Europol and the Met looking over your reports. Nothing startling. Tardelli is small time. The usual recreational user. Passes the cocaine around with the canapés at his cocktail parties. That kind of shit. He’s not Mister Big. On the other hand, your friend Sheikh Safardi looks promising. He’s appeared in a couple of dispatches but there’s nothing concrete against him. We’re still digging.”

“What about Barrett?”

“So far nothing,” Davenport said. “Barrett is a possible but not a probable.”

“Some operation,” Kane said. “Two months down the road and we’re no further on.”

“Patience is a virtue.” Davenport frowned. “It may take months for our friends to reveal themselves and then again it might not happen at all. That’s the chance we’re taking.” Davenport reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. “That’s your ticket to Cannes. Your flight leaves this evening.”

“I’d better get a move on with my grieving then.” Kane took the envelope and put it in his inside pocket. “See you soon. I want to go somewhere and get quietly pissed.”

“If you need company…” Davenport said hesitantly.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Kane walked off in the direction his father had taken.

As Davenport walked to his car his phone rang.

“You think he’ll make the flight?” Bell asked when Davenport responded.

“Yes,” Davenport replied curtly.

“You ride him pretty hard,” Bell said.

“I ride all my men hard. That what keeps them on their toes and alive.”

“He’s pretty special.”

“They’re all pretty special. Some of them are so special that they go to the toilet, put their gun in their mouth, and see whether they’re able to pull the trigger. A few I’ve known have succeeded. The burnout rate is high. It’s my job to see that it doesn’t go that far.”

“I’m glad I don’t have your job.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

By early Wednesday afternoon, the powerboat circus which had broken up on Monday morning in Sorrento had been completely reconstituted around the Carlton and Majestic Hotels located behind the Promenade de la Croisette in Cannes.

The Penhalion team had arranged to assemble in the bar of the Majestic Hotel which had not gone to the bother of stringing banners to announce the residence of ninety per cent of the competitors in the second race of the European Offshore Championship. The likes of Tadeka, Hakonen, Tardelli, and even Doug Jackson were flat beer when compared to the real stars such as Cruise and Kidman who had graced the hotel during the film festival.

As soon as he entered the bar, Kane noticed the members of other teams located at tables around the large room. He received nods of recognition as he passed on his way to where David sat with his daughter and the three mechanics. Maybe it was his ego in overdrive but he felt that there was an air of respect in the nods that hadn’t been there before the first race. None of them fancied racing into the final buoy in the company of the crazy driver. He was recovering from the ‘mother of all hangovers’. He’d missed the flight that Davenport had booked for him but had managed to pile himself onto a flight to Nice the following day. On his arrival, he had holed up for the day in a small hotel in Nice and tried to sleep off the booze. A day later and his throat still felt like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.

“The wanderer returns,” Morweena said sarcastically as he took his place at the table beside the other members of the team.

“Mark.” David sipped his drink. “Glad you made it. Care for a drink?”

“Beer, please.” Kane plonking himself down beside Doc Watson. “Have you already sussed out this place for us, mate?”

“I have no doubt that you’ll be able to find your way to the seamier parts of town under your own steam,” Morweena interjected before Doc could reply. “After all, you managed pretty well in Sorrento and you’d never been there either.”

Despite the handfuls of painkillers he had been pushing down his gullet over the past twenty-four hours, Kane’s head still pounded. I don’t need the passive-aggressive reaction he was thinking as he engaged Morweena’s stare. Strange old world, he thought. This business was getting too heavy. But she was beautiful when she was angry. He assumed it was the Celtic touch in the Cornish which raised passions the English managed to suppress. A red blush of ire was visible beneath her tanned cheeks.

“I’d like to say that I’m sorry for making Mark disappear for a couple of days,” Tom said. “I needed him to help me with business in Yorkshire.”

“I didn’t think that Mark was part of your business,” Morweena said. “I don’t see the two of you going over the accounts together. Or maybe, he’s a specialist in human relations.” She laughed.

‘He does what he does.’

‘I think that we’ve shown that we’re committed to the Penhalion team.’

“That’s why we’re all here, Tom,” David said as he passed a beer to Mark and a Scotch and soda to Tom. “We’ve got two days to get the boat ready to go again. Reg, any news on the damage?”

“There’s no real problem there, boss.” Reg’s smooth Welsh accent poured out like nectar. “There are some cuts on the hull but we’re having those patched up with fibreglass today. She’ll be repainted overnight and we’ll go through the dry engine checks tomorrow morning. All being well, we should be ready to put her in the water on schedule tomorrow evening.”

“Then we’ll be clear for a few practice runs on Friday morning and a qualifying session in the afternoon. Then it’s the race on Saturday.” David sipped his whisky.

The chief mechanic nodded in assent.

“What’s our programme?” Kane asked, sinking most of his beer. It tasted like the finest nectar produced by the Gods of Olympus. His throat purred with pleasure as the ice-cold liquid travelled down it.

“You’re free to enjoy the