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

of this disappearance business. In the meantime, I could murder a glass of cold white wine.”

“Make that a bottle and I’ll join you.” Morweena linked her mother’s arm.

“Done.”

Chapter Forty-One

Kane entered the large living room of the villa at seven o’clock exactly. He felt completely refreshed. The booze had worked its way out of his system and he was his old self. Except he wasn’t quite sure whether his old self would be standing in the living room of a villa in Marbella, a virtual prisoner and weaponless. He had a complete memory of the events of the day from the moment he had woken up but he still could not explain fully to himself why he had rushed to accept Safardi’s offer. He was miles away from Tom and Doc and any assistance they might offer. Davenport would be fit to be tied when he heard that he had gone with Safardi without checking with the hierarchy. Going rogue wasn’t appreciated at the Met. Doc was right, there were established protocols and he had broken them all. Where did that leave him? He was alone. He had no weapon and was surrounded by armed guards including two Colombians who looked like they ate human remains for breakfast. He had dealt himself a shitty hand and now he would have to ante up and play the cards as they fell.

“Ah, Mark.” Safardi looked up from a desk in the corner of the room. He was dressed in a white dishdasha and could have stepped straight out of reel one of the ‘Sheik of Araby’. “Please come in.”

“All work and no play.” Kane nodded towards the papers on the desk.

“Something like that.” Safardi moved to the coffee table in the centre of the room and poured two generous whisky and sodas. “And I owe it all to the British.” He handed one of the drinks to Mark. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Kane tipped the Arab’s glass. “How come?”

“The British came to my poor country after the Second World War.” Safardi motioned him towards the sofa and both men sat down. “You see they did not know that Allah played a cruel joke on my country. They were sure that if there was oil to the north and oil to the south there had to be an enormous pool in the middle. My father was a nomad. He prized camels, money, and women, in that order. The British oil company bought the rights to drill on our soil for a pittance. In order to cement this ‘special relationship’ with my country, they agreed to educate the second son, myself. I was packed off to Eton and then Winchester and finally Oxford. They made a perfect English gentleman of me. And all the time the holes they drilled hit nothing but dust. Then they sent me to the London Business School to study British management techniques. While I was there, the oil companies finally gave up on Hawat. When I graduated at the top of my MBA class, I had to seek employment. Returning to Hawat to start a rent-a-camel business didn’t appear inviting, so I set to making money in the way my ancestors had. I became a trader. And like so many before me I am an enthusiast for the trading game.”

“You seem to have done well out of it.” Kane looked around the living room.

“Yes, but at what price. I live a very enclosed life. I do deals with people who would cut my throat as easily as they would shake my hand. I’m not in business for the money. Oh dear no.” He sipped his whisky and soda. “That’s why you interest me. Last week in Sorrento when I saw you racing Barrett for the last buoy, I knew that you were a kindred spirit. In those few minutes as you and Barrett toyed with death, don’t tell me that you were thinking of the prize money. I know that you were thinking solely of winning. The game is everything. Money is only numbers.”

“But it comes in useful if you don’t have any.”

Safardi removed a small plastic sachet from the folds of his dishdasha and tossed it on the coffee table in front of Kane. “Do you know what that is?”

Kane picked up the sachet of white powder and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “Dope?”

“You are looking at pure cocaine, the world’s greatest trading commodity,” Safardi said, a gleam in his eye. “The only commodity that rivals it on the world market is enriched plutonium. Tiny quantities are worth huge sums. The profits to be derived from the trade boggle the mind. It is the ultimate game. To supply the market against all the might and power of the world’s governments. That is the greatest thrill. You have a problem with running cocaine?”

“Not in the least.” Kane tossed the cellophane packet back to Safardi. “There was a time when I was in the market for such a commodity myself. I’m not enough of a hypocrite as to refuse to run what I once used.”

“Excellent,” Safardi said. “I think that you will prove to be a very useful addition to our operation.”

It was over, Kane thought. They had found who was responsible for Monica Bell’s death. “And if you’re caught?” he asked.

“Ah, therein lies the real beauty of the game.” Safardi’s face broke into a wide grin. “In Hawat, I am a prince. My brother rules over the peasants, the camels and the sand dunes. But we are a sovereign nation. And as such my brother in his wisdom has granted me diplomatic status. The Spanish authorities can take my house and raid my bank accounts but they cannot incarcerate me. I am like the Hydra. You may cut off my head here in Spain but I will grow another in Portugal or Morocco. Is it not a beautiful game?”

While you’re in the win-win situation, Kane thought. “You’re a very lucky man.”

“I am an extremely careful and diligent man.” Safardi finished