The Deadly Lies Page 5

  West Coast cut in again. “What makes you think he’s benign? Anyone outside Charter Ninety-Nine has to be seen as a threat. If the Originator was making external alliances, he was compromising our security. And at a crucial moment in the rollout. Which brings me back to my third question: has he gone loopy?”

  Karl Michael scowled again. “I will not have you question the mental state of the Originator in such a flippant way.”

  He paused and looked down onto Balmins beach. It was still empty. Then he continued, “Allow me to complete my answer to your second question. The third party is a British lawyer and was an acquaintance of the Originator from many years ago. Interestingly, I’ve established he has connections with another British individual. That person was identified some time ago as a possible candidate to join the Ninety-Nine. For the moment, he remains under observation. From flight schedules, I’ve discovered he’s on his way to the hackfest in San Francisco as we speak. I’ll send details to you, West Coast, so you can observe, and possibly intercept, if needed.”

  Karl Michael looked toward the beach again. He could see some figures scrambling down the rocks at the far end.

  “I have to wrap this now, as I believe the third party’s arriving for our meeting. Don’t worry. I have reason to believe this will be straightforward—”

  The voice of East Coast cut in. “Look. This is serious shit going down. If the DG chip goes AWOL, then Charter Ninety-Nine is fucked. And if it’s in the wrong hands, then the world’s data systems are going to be screwed for years. That will cause chaos like you’ve never seen. You say it’s straightforward. Well, good luck with your sweet-talking, Germany. But we’ve got heavyweights in Barcelona. If you can’t handle it, we will.”

  Chapter 7

  STEVE STRETCHED out his legs as a glow of smug satisfaction spread through his body. If you had to fly at over five hundred miles an hour in a tin tube for eleven hours, he mused, then first class on an Airbus 380 was the way to do it. He contemplated taking out his laptop to continue research into the mysterious disappearance of his father’s online records. Instead, he looked out the window and enjoyed the view as the plane banked slowly west and headed for its cruising altitude over the Atlantic.

  A voice at his side shook him from his daydream. “Your beer, sir.”

  Steve looked up at the dark-haired flight attendant standing by his seat. The man was well over six feet tall, with a narrow waist and broad shoulders, his hair cropped very short. As he leaned in close to place the beer on the tray table of Steve’s seat, their eyes met for a moment.

  “Would you like to book a spa and shower for later in the flight, sir?”

  Steve nodded. It would be the perfect preparation for the next three days, when he would be locked in a room with a bunch of computer programmers. If he could persuade this fine specimen to join him in the luxury of a first-class spa, flying at forty thousand feet, then he would have fulfilled the boast he’d made to Jonathan earlier.

  GABRIEL LIFTED his head from the pillow and gently stroked the curls of black hair between Alfonso’s well-formed pectoral muscles. Slowly, he let his hand slip farther down his husband’s chest. Alfonso opened one eye while reaching down gently to stay any further progress of Gabriel’s fingers.

  “Gabriel, you’re insatiable. We’ve just had two glorious hours here. I could happily stay in this bed with you forever. Every time we make love, I feel our love for each other is strengthened even more. But there’s just one thing—”

  “Yes, I know. Your stomach’s rumbling.” Gabriel rested his head on Alfonso’s chest and stared up at him. “I think they can hear it up the coast in Figueres. It was wrong of me to desert my post at the kitchen stove, but you were just too irresistible. The way you reacted to the surrogacy letter from California made me so horny for you.” Gabriel sat up and smoothed his hand across the valley of his husband’s chest. “I feel we could almost think of this as our moment of conception.”

  Alfonso lay back and laughed. “I’m sorry to bounce you back down to earth, but doesn’t that happen in a laboratory? In a test tube somewhere?”

  Gabriel stopped moving his hand. “Honestly, Alfonso. You can be so prosaic. Allow me this moment of romanticism. Indulge me. Think of this as our second honeymoon. And tonight, after the fabulous supper that is even now incinerating next door, I want you to take me on the back of your motorbike on a ride to the bar in Sitges where we first met.”

  Alfonso sat up, pushed Gabriel over, and rolled on top of him. He kissed Gabriel a dozen times on his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, and then explored his lips. Finally, he lifted his head and smiled.

  “It’s a good job I didn’t have time to drink any of that wine I poured. Otherwise we’d be taking a taxi. Much less fun than feeling your crotch nuzzling my ass on the back of the bike at 140 kilometers an hour.”

  DISTRACTEDLY, DOMINIC checked his watch in the moonlight as he edged his way down the rocky path to Balmins beach. It was just after eleven. His foot slipped, and he flung out his arms to recover his balance. Jonathan grasped his waist firmly to steady him.

  “This was really a very bad idea, wasn’t it?” Dominic said in a half whisper.

  “I don’t know why you’re whispering,” replied Jonathan loudly. “It’s your secretive friend who called this meeting. He’s the one acting all clandestine. I want as many people as possible to know we’re here. I don’t want to end up as the subject of some bizarre story in a Spanish newspaper. ‘Body of unknown, well-dressed Englishman found on Sitges nudist beach.’ You know I’m wearing my best chinos, don’t you?”

  “Jonathan, I didn’t ask you to come—”

  “But you’re grateful I did, now, aren’t you? It may be a moonlit night, but there are an awful lot of dark crevices in those cliffs over there. Who knows what they’re concealing?”

  Dominic heard the sound of footsteps below them. He peered into the gloom and vaguely made out the shape of a man striding across the sand toward them. He seemed to be wearing nothing but a pair of sandals and carried a small rucksack.

  “Hola!” called the man cheerily, waving an arm at them.

  “Oh my God,” whispered Jonathan to Dominic. “There are some people who are definitely not suitable on a nudist beach.”

  “Shh, Jonathan, don’t be so rude,” Dominic hissed. “He can probably hear you.” Dominic clambered down the last few feet of jagged rocks onto the sand of Balmins beach. “Hello,” he said as confidently as he could. “Did you leave a note for me at the Restaurant Fragata earlier?”

  The man stopped a few feet away and looked Dominic up and down for a moment. Dominic had to admit Jonathan was right in saying the man would have been better off wearing clothes. A lot of clothes. He was very large, with multiple folds of skin making him look like a melting wax effigy. When the man finally spoke, it was with a lisping, high-pitched English accent.

  “Not me, ducky. Must have been another man of your dreams. You two come down for a late-night skinny dip? I could join you, if you like.” He put his hands on his hips and struck a pose with his chin jutting out. Dominic tried not to laugh.

  “No, no. Don’t let us hold you up” came Jonathan’s voice at his side. “Otherwise you’ll be late for your personal-trainer session.”

  The man tossed his head and reached into his rucksack for some clothes. “There’s no need to be like that, ducky. There are a lot of men who would kill for the fuller figure.” He started to pull a pair of large sweatpants over his flabby thighs. “If you’re looking for your young German friend, you’ll find him over there. You’ll be well suited. He’s just as rude as you.”

  With that, the man pushed past them and started to climb the stony path, swearing loudly as he did.

  Jonathan whispered into Dominic’s ear. “If I ever get to look like that, my dear, you have my full permission to suffocate me with the nearest plastic bag. Now, let’s go and find your mysterious assignation.”

  THE LIGHTS in the first-class cabin of fli
ght 391 to San Francisco were dimmed. The window blinds had been closed to create an artificial night, allowing passengers to sleep if they wanted to. Those who did had their expensive seats converted into beds. Wearing their Gucci eye-shades, they slept soundly. The flight attendants would wake them gently in several hours’ time with early evening tea, shortly before their arrival at America’s seventh largest airport.

  Steve was bored and frustrated. His cute flight attendant had been thoroughly professional and declined Steve’s invitation to join him in the first-class shower. Steve wanted to carry on searching for his father’s online records, but his next move was to get onto the dark web, the shadowy world of the internet closed to search engine robots, or “bots.” He preferred not to access the dark web through a public airline’s onboard Wi-Fi.

  He thought about breaking into the plane’s control systems for amusement. He knew where to find the hidden cabin interface points and could probably get to them at some point in the flight. But he had packed two important cables in his hold luggage. To keep his mind occupied, he called up a bot on his laptop screen and sent it out to explore the passenger laptops and phones connected to the onboard Wi-Fi.

  While he waited for the bot to work its way through the flimsy firewalls on his fellow travelers’ computers, Steve sat back to ponder the mystery of his father’s electronic records. He remembered he had forgotten to search a key database before he left London. The SSDI, or Social Security Death Index, was a publicly available service and needed no hacking to view. Perhaps his father had died and no one had notified Steve’s mother. Or maybe his father had fallen victim to one of the ten thousand or so “accidental death registrations” that happened in the US each year. Even if his father was now electronically dead, there would still be some trace of him on the internet. But Steve had found nothing at all.

  Steve’s train of thought was interrupted by an alarm from his laptop. He typed in the password to unlock his screen and read the simple message “Gotcha!” displayed in flashing red letters. Steve watched as a trail of type began to arc across the screen.

  Neat little bot, but sooo last year. I was going to erase your hard drive for being such a failure, but I’m curious to know who you are. See you by the aft galley in ten minutes. Otherwise the hard drive gets it. Top-to-Bottom.

  Steve sat back and smiled. There was somebody with a brain onboard. Perhaps he was cute as well.

  Chapter 8

  STEVE WALKED down the aisle toward the aft galley of the twin-deck A380 airplane. He looked pityingly at the passengers crammed into the economy cabin, remembering his own aching, bedsore experience of sitting in their place for eleven hours. That was only a few years ago, before he learned how to manipulate the passenger manifest. Not only were the poor mugs confined like caged pets in a pet store, but there were far more of them here than in first class. Which meant less of the same rarified, partly recycled air to go round. No wonder they developed colds when they got home.

  As Steve walked the last aisle to the back of the plane, a tall Mediterranean-looking man, probably in his midtwenties, stepped out from the galley. He wore slim-fit jeans, and his sleeveless white T-shirt revealed well-developed upper arms.

  “So you’re the guy with the steampunk bot?” The man’s voice was deep, with an English accent that betrayed a southern European origin.

  “If you’re so hot with your code,” replied Steve, “what’re you doing languishing among the deadbeats of economy?”

  “In with the prickless wankers of first class, are you?” the man asked. “No wonder your coding’s crap. You’ve gone soft.” He looked down at Steve’s footwear. “Nice pair of Grinders, mate. Bet they had a field day with you at Heathrow security. I’m Sinon, by the way. Take the word sin and add on to the end of it. It’s Greek.”

  Steve smirked. He glanced across at the restroom door opposite, then back at Sinon. “Sinon by name, sin on by nature?”

  Sinon grinned and looked Steve up and down again.

  “What? With a muscled skinhead like you? Sure.” He looked around and then continued in a low voice, “Ever seen the crew quarters on one of these planes?”

  Steve was impressed.

  “Don’t tell me you can get us in?” he asked.

  Sinon thrust his hand into the pocket of his chinos and pulled out a small digital key. “Friends in high places,” he said with a cocky smile. “It’s a better place for a fuck than the restroom. And my mate Charlie, the purser, will even bring us some beers when we come up for air.”

  Steve grinned back. It was going to be a good flight after all.

  DOMINIC AND Jonathan stood side by side on the sand, sharing the beauty of the moonlight dappling the surface of the sea. The air was warm and still; the hubbub of Sitges nightlife sounded muted and distant. Dominic slipped his fingers through Jonathan’s, squeezed his hand tight, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Jonathan.”

  “What for?” he asked. “I haven’t done anything yet. I may yet need to protect you from the perils of the night. I anticipate we will imminently be attacked by international drug smugglers or carried off by white-slave traders to be sold in the markets of Morocco as the playthings of Arab oligarchs.”

  Dominic laughed, rested his head on Jonathan’s shoulder, and watched the moon-silvered waves lap the shore.

  “I think I want to say thank you for so many things. You make me very happy. And I feel guilty I wasn’t honest with you about this evening, or the meeting earlier—”

  “What meeting earlier?” Jonathan turned to look at Dominic. “So your visit to the antiques shop was just a cover story, was it?” His face appeared severe, but Dominic was certain it was mock anger. He knew Jonathan too well.

  “No, not entirely. I did go to the antiques shop, and I did find the gift for you I was looking for. But the reason I didn’t tell you about the meeting—”

  “Dominic, stop.” Jonathan kissed him gently on the lips. “We all have convenient lies to tell from time to time. I am confident—no, more than that—I know you love me enough not to want to hurt me. I know there’s some good reason for your secrecy. I love you and trust you. You don’t have to say any more.” He looked into Dominic’s eyes. “But if I find it’s another man—”

  “Hello! Good evening. Are you Dominic Delingpole?”

  Jonathan and Dominic turned in the direction of the man’s voice. He had a faint German accent. At first, all Dominic could see was the glow of a cigarette followed by the glint of very white teeth, forming what appeared to be a beatific smile.

  “Who’s there?” Dominic asked, peering into the gloom.

  A man stepped toward them, aged in his late twenties or early thirties. He had untidy blond hair and wore a shapeless black fleece top. After transferring the cigarette to his left hand, he extended his right in welcome. Dominic recognized him as the young man who had been watching him outside the Restaurant Fragata earlier.

  “My name’s not important for the moment,” the man replied. “I’m a friend of Bernhardt, and I know he was on his way to meet you. He’s missing now, and I’m most concerned for his safety. I was hoping you might help me find him.”

  The man smiled again and waited for Dominic to shake hands with him. Dominic hesitated. In that moment, Jonathan stepped forward and grasped the man’s hand firmly.

  “Well my name’s Jonathan, and I don’t take kindly to being dragged away from a very pleasant late-night dinner with my husband to meet a man who won’t even tell us his name.”

  Jonathan jerked the man’s hand down, at the same time hooking a foot between his legs and pulling sharply backward. The man fell to the sand. Jonathan jumped astride him and placed a hand firmly on his throat. The man fought back and attempted to stub his cigarette on Jonathan’s neck, but Jonathan intercepted it and thrust it into the sand inches from the man’s face.

  “Let’s start again, shall we, sonny? My name’s Jonathan. This is my husband, Dominic. And now, be so kind as to t
ell us your name.”

  The man tried to twist his head aside, but Jonathan simply squeezed his throat tighter. After a few moments, his struggling stopped, and he lay still, his eyes staring wide and angry at Jonathan.

  “Now,” continued Jonathan, “in a moment I’m going to relax my grip on your throat. If you do anything stupid, you’ll be in a lot of pain. But first….” He turned to Dominic. “My love, could you just check his pockets for anything unpleasant? In this boy’s case, that could mean virtually anything.”

  Dominic squatted down on his haunches and gingerly patted down the outside of the man’s jeans.

  Jonathan gave him a despairing look. “Darling, you’ll never get a job with airport security. This little toe rag has just tried to use my neck as an ashtray for his disgusting habit. Do you think you could display him a little less respect?”

  Dominic flushed with fury and embarrassment and decided he would talk to Jonathan later about insulting him in front of a complete stranger. He thrust his hand deep into a pocket of the man’s jeans and pulled out a mobile phone. Then he reached into the opposite pocket and retrieved a battered packet of cigarettes, a lighter, a pen, and a small bunch of keys.

  Jonathan relaxed his hold on the man briefly and, with an almost casual movement, flipped him over to lie facedown on the sand. As the man lifted his head in protest, Jonathan thrust it back into the sand.

  “Just a moment, sonny. We’ll check your back pockets now. If the sand’s getting in your mouth, try not to breathe.”

  “Jonathan, really,” said Dominic. “I’m worried you’re starting to enjoy this. Do you have to be quite so rough?”

  “Well,” said Jonathan, “as in all good S&M encounters, if he’d told me his safeword at the start, I could have stopped by now. But clearly he wanted to go all the way. Come on, Dominic. The longer you dither, the more sand he’s going to swallow.”