The Deadly Lies Page 7

  Karl Michael turned away to look at the sea. “I knew nothing about your wedding. He never told me about it.” He turned back to Dominic. “I am feeling he has betrayed me.”

  Dominic placed a hand on Karl Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t say that. Perhaps he was protecting you from something. I do know he loves you very much.” He turned back to look at the twinkling lights of Sitges. A siren sounded in the distance. Dominic looked back at Karl Michael. “And I love my husband very much too. So the first thing I must do is find him. Will you help me?”

  Karl Michael nodded. “And in return, you will help me find Bernhardt, yes?”

  “Agreed. I’m going back into town. Why don’t you come and collect the message now?”

  “Not immediately,” said Karl Michael. “I must attend to something first. I will come to your apartment in a few hours. Will you still be up?”

  “I imagine so,” sighed Dominic. “Even if Jonathan is there waiting for me, we’ve got a lot to talk about. But why can’t you just give me your number, and I’ll text it to your mobile?”

  Karl Michael shook his head.

  “I would rather the message did not go into the ether again. It may already have been intercepted. But that may not matter, because I imagine Bennie’s text only makes sense in conjunction with you.” Karl Michael turned to go, then stopped and looked back at Dominic.

  “Be careful, Dominic Delingpole. With Bennie missing, I think there may be others who will be very eager to get this information. And they may need your assistance to decipher it. Be very careful.” He turned and began to walk away.

  “What others?” called out Dominic to the retreating figure.

  But Karl Michael gave no answer.

  Chapter 10

  AS HE trudged along the beach, Karl Michael vigorously ran his fingers back and forth through his short hair, brushing out the last grains of sand. He was furious with Jonathan and suspicious of Dominic. Why had the man not carried his mobile phone with him? If he had, he could have handed Karl Michael the code from Bernhardt then and there.

  Karl Michael was convinced Dominic was not telling him the truth about his relationship with Bernhardt. He was certain the two had been fucking in Bennie’s apartment just a few weeks ago. Karl Michael stopped. He thought about turning around to catch up with Dominic, demand he take him to his apartment to retrieve the phone message.

  But he needed to keep Dominic on his side, at least for the moment. If he had to wait for a few more hours, it would not be of any consequence.

  Karl Michael resumed his slow progress toward the path that would take him off the beach. The moonlight had gone. He stumbled several times as he moved from soft sand to the smooth, slippery rocks that formed the steep track.

  After several minutes, he neared the path’s summit, and he could see the rough track of the road above him. He reached up to grab on to a rock to pull himself up the last few feet.

  The thin pointed heel of a woman’s shoe came down hard on a fleshy part of his hand. Karl Michael cried out in pain. He lost his footing on the smooth rock and started to slide backward. His chin scraped against stone, his fingernails grasping desperately for a handhold.

  He slid nearly twenty feet before he came to a halt, his feet resting on the sandy beach. Karl Michael lifted his head and tentatively felt his chin. He winced as he touched the grazed flesh, feeling blood oozing from a wound.

  “Well, you fucked that one up didn’t you, Herr Meyer?” The woman’s voice came from above him. It had a soft Irish lilt to it.

  Karl Michael groaned and looked up into the darkness. “Janet Downpatrick. Why are you here? I told you, I’m handling it. If anybody sees me with you, it will jeopardize the whole mission.”

  The woman bent down and shone a flashlight on Karl Michael’s face.

  “Why didn’t you go back with Delingpole and get that message when he offered?” she asked. “We’ve lost time. What was so important you couldn’t go with him straightaway?”

  Karl Michael held up his hand to shield his eyes from the beam.

  “I must check in again with Charter Ninety-Nine. We have a schedule to work to. If I deviate from it, they’ll get suspicious.”

  Karl Michael slowly began to climb back up the steep rocky path.

  Downpatrick bent down and held out her hand to help him onto the cliff path. Reluctantly, Karl Michael took the offer of assistance and hauled himself up. Despite her slight frame, she was remarkably strong. Karl Michael let go of her hand and slowly massaged his shoulder.

  “Leave me to manage this,” he said without looking at her. “I didn’t realize you were bugging my phone; otherwise I’d have left it behind.”

  “It’s as well I did,” Downpatrick replied. “Now I know I must take care of things. You run along and make your call to your little friends in the Ninety-Nine. I’ll deal with Delingpole.”

  AS THE white Lexus drew up to the curb, Jeff leaned forward to the uniformed driver. “All right, Robbie,” he said. “You can take off for an hour or so. I’ll call you when I’m through. Don’t go too far away.”

  Robbie turned around awkwardly in his seat. “Yeah, okay, but don’t be all night. Why do you have to make me wear this fuckin’ uniform? It itches like a wrestler’s jockstrap.”

  Jeff stepped out of the car and closed the door. He leaned in Robbie’s open window. “Appearances, you asshole. I’m the multimillionaire. A successful entrepreneur. Remember? I’ve got to look the part, haven’t I? Now piss off. And don’t show me up later if I manage to hook her and I’m reelin’ her in.”

  Robbie turned and grinned. “I just love it when you talk dirty like that, Mr. Multimillionaire, ‘sir.’” He leaned forward and kissed Jeff on the mouth. “Now don’t you forget, I’m the one who coded that first piece-of-shit website you made your money on. At the same time as sucking your dick.”

  Jeff laughed. “I’ll never forget. That’s why, when I wanted the best-goddamn-looking chauffeur in San Francisco, I immediately thought of Robbie Wakeling. Ex-lover, champion coder, lead guitar player, male model—”

  “Yeah, yeah, flattery will get you most places, Jeff,” interrupted Robbie, still grinning.

  It was all true. Robbie Wakeling had been modeling Vivienne Westwood bondage clothes when Jeff first met him backstage at the Marriott during San Francisco Fashion Week. He told Jeff it paid better than working as a hack programmer.

  “All I can say is, thank God you got bored with modeling.” Jeff smiled. “Otherwise I could never have built MusicScene and sold it to the greedy dot-com market boys, who had more money than sense.” He pressed his forehead against Robbie’s. “You’re a smart boy in so many ways. Even in that ridiculous uniform.”

  Robbie turned his head slightly and playfully bit the end of Jeff’s nose. “Fuck off, you asshole. Go do what you do best. Charm.”

  He put the Lexus into drive and eased the car back into traffic. Jeff strolled over to the entrance of the Montgomery Street Bar and Grill. It was coming up to seven o’clock in the evening, and the place was crowded. Jeff pushed his way to the bar through the jostle of suits and wineglasses.

  “Hey, Jeff, good to see you,” hailed the barman, reaching out to shake his hand. “Your usual bottle? Just two glasses tonight? I’ve got you a table over in the corner. Go take a seat. I’ll bring it over to you.”

  Jeff smiled and nodded. Jeremiah was not just the barman, he was the owner of the Bar and Grill. A man who knew his customers like an encyclopedia. It was Jeff’s preferred restaurant above all others in San Francisco. The design was a modern take on the classic French art nouveau brasserie. Exquisite, large contemporary chandeliers and mirrors on every wall of the vast interior. Not since the superb Stars of the 1990s had a restaurant been so successful in attracting San Francisco’s socialites and celebrities. Located as it was in the heart of the city’s financial district, it was a perfect place for Jeff to pitch his exclusive stable of loyal programmers.

  He walked the length of
the restaurant to a table tucked in an alcove against the wall, away from the noise and bustle. Jeff settled into his seat and looked around to make sure he was unobserved. He reached into the jacket pocket of his suit, pulled out a small wireless camera, and tucked it discreetly into the wall light. Once more, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small wireless microphone, and hid it under the rim of the flower vase. Jeff took out his laptop, set it on the bench beside him, and opened the lid. Eyeing the screen, he adjusted the angle of the camera. Finally he connected a small earpiece and checked the microphone.

  Satisfied, Jeff closed the laptop and turned to watch the professional courtships of the clientele. The majority were alpha-male financier types, their tailored shirts cut to enhance their gym-worked chests. The few women in the room had power-dressed in black. They were bare-armed, tanned, and wore minimal jewelry. Most of them wore high heels to elevate their stature. Almost everyone used the copious supply of mirrors frequently to check their appearance on this important social stage.

  Within a few minutes, Jeremiah arrived at the table. “I presume your guest will ask for you at the bar?” he inquired as he placed a chilled bottle of Argyle Blanc de Blanc, two champagne glasses, a jug of water, and a bowl of olives on the table. “When are you expecting them?”

  Jeff looked at his watch. “She’s due any moment. Sure, just send her over, Jeremiah. We might get a bite to eat later. See how it goes.”

  Jeremiah opened the blanc de blanc and poured Jeff a glass. He placed the bottle in a cooler next to the table and returned to the bar to keep an eye on the steady trickle of customers coming through the doors of the Montgomery Street Bar and Grill.

  Jeff swallowed a mouthful of the chilled wine and turned to scrutinize his reflection in the mirror behind him. He complimented himself that he could still pass very well for a successful dot-com millionaire. Jeff was careful to keep his growing collection of tattoos below his neckline and above his elbows. His tattooed, lean physique could be cloaked with expensive clothes when business called. The rest of the time he dressed in T-shirts and sweatpants. This evening, wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit tailored by London’s Ozwald Boateng, he knew he was very appealing, to both men and women.

  “Jeff, darling, it’s wonderful to see you.”

  Jeff stood to greet his guest. She was nearly as tall as him in her high-heeled Manolo Blahniks and was wearing a narrow black dress, slit up to the waist on one side. Her hair was cropped short, and her makeup was subtle, highlighting naturally high cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes.

  “Tanya, you look ravishing,” he said with sincerity. They kissed on both cheeks. Then Tanya kissed him a third time on the lips. Jeff pulled away gently and sat back in his seat.

  “I took the liberty of ordering the California champagne I know you love. And before you protest,” he continued as Tanya opened her mouth to speak, “I call it champagne whatever they might say. And whether you’re on a diet or not, you’re going to have a glass. You can always have a water chaser to follow.”

  Tanya laughed and kissed him gently on the lips once more. She sat and looked around at the other customers in the restaurant.

  “It’s busy for a Thursday night,” she commented. “But it’s been a good day in the markets, and”—she looked around at Jeff—“they don’t take much encouragement to celebrate.”

  “What do you mean, ‘they’?” he asked teasingly. “You’re just as much a part of them.”

  Tanya looked sideways at him and set her head to one side coquettishly. “I may walk in the same corridors as some of them, Jeff, but we are worlds apart. I just run their IT for them. They’re simply salesmen—”

  “And women,” Jeff continued to tease.

  “Whatever. It’s more than I can do. I couldn’t sell a life raft to a drowning man. Or woman,” she added and took a sip from her glass.

  “You undersell yourself, Tanya,” said Jeff. “You know you don’t just ‘run their IT for them.’ You control pretty well all the financial systems in the US—”

  “Nonsense,” interrupted Tanya. “The banks do that very successfully for themselves. I just make sure they all link up. You’re trying to flatter me, as ever, Jeff. Which means you’re trying to sell me something. What is it?”

  Jeff smiled and leaned in toward her. “Security, Tanya. I’ve been watching your perimeter breach ratios recently. They’re increasing, aren’t they?”

  Tanya carefully placed her glass back on the table. “That’s confidential, Jeff. And you shouldn’t have access to them. I certainly won’t discuss those figures with anyone outside WRI.”

  “Six months ago,” Jeff persisted, “they were less than .001 percent. And they’d been that way for the past five years. This morning they were .01 percent. A tenfold increase in six months. Don’t tell me it’s not at the top of your agenda every day. And what have you done about it?” He cocked his head. “Whatever it is, the problem’s not gone away.”

  Tanya stared at him for a moment, her eyes unblinking.

  “So tell me,” she said. “What are you proposing?”

  Jeff picked up the water pitcher, poured two glasses, and handed one to Tanya.

  “You can stop drinking the wine now, Tanya. I can see you’re counting the calories.”

  She smiled and took the water glass. “Jeff, our security parameters remain well within our service delivery requirements.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re sleeping at night. Although I must say you’re disguising the bags under your eyes very well.”

  Tanya pouted in mock anger.

  “But we know the reality, don’t we?” Jeff continued. “One day, maybe one day soon, WRI is going to receive a concerted attack. Maybe from Russia, most likely China. Can you really be sure your systems are robust enough?”

  Tanya took a sip of water, then placed her glass on the table.

  “So,” she said, “I’ll ask you again, Jeff. What are you proposing?”

  “Get me a way to meet your head of analysis and your head of operations,” replied Jeff. “And give me your support. You know I supply programmers to five of the major banks in the world.” He laid a hand on her bare forearm. “The system’s failing, Tanya. The last time we met, you said WRI would give us a chance. Maybe this is the time?”

  Tanya placed her hand on top of his for a moment. “The last time, it was one helluva a party.” She looked at him wistfully. “And it was a very good night.” She stroked his hand for a moment. Then she reached into her leather satchel and took out a slim laptop.

  “But I did say we’d consider you,” she continued, “so let’s see what we can do.” She opened the computer and began to type. “Let me log in to the group calendar and fix a date.”

  Jeff felt a Manolo Blahnik shoe gently rub his calf. Without looking up, Tanya added, “You know, I’m not counting calories as much as you might think. Did you say dinner was on offer?”

  ALFONSO AND Gabriel walked up to the bar of XXL and peered into the smoky gloom of the club. It was a quiet night, and there was very little to see. Three or four groups of men gathered along the length of the bar, which stretched to the dance floor at the back of the club. The dance floor was empty. Gabriel looked forlornly at Alfonso.

  “We’ll be taking an early night, I think. Let’s have two Shirley Temples, then head back home.” He leaned across the bar and placed the order with the bored-looking, tattooed barman.

  The loud, pulsating beat of “One More Night” by Maroon 5 segued into the cover version of “Sexy and I Know It” by LMFAO. Alfonso grabbed Gabriel’s waist.

  “I don’t believe it!” he shouted. “They’re playing our song. Come on, leave the drinks. Let’s show this place how to party.”

  The two men strutted to the dance floor and threw themselves into a celebratory exhibition of nostalgia for the night they had first met, twelve years previously. The barman pumped smoke into the small dance space and wound up the music volume. After a few minutes, several men at t
he bar, who had been admiring their display, put down their drinks and joined them. Gabriel smiled as he watched, and admired Alfonso’s clumsy but charming approximation of dancing. Gabriel leaned close to his husband’s ear and shouted, “Tell me again. Who is it who sings this?”

  “It’s LMFAO,” shouted back Alfonso. Then, seeing the look of puzzlement on his husband’s face, he added, “Laughing My Fuckin’ Ass Off. American.” He stopped dancing and turned Gabriel’s head to look at a tall man with sun-bleached hair who was leaning on the bar, watching them.

  “What do you think, Gabriel? Do you want to be really disreputable for just one more night? Very soon we must be well-behaved parents for years to come.” Alfonso glanced again at the man, who was still looking their way. “I bet he’s English. He looks very cute.”

  Gabriel nodded and laughed. Then he beckoned the man over.

  Alfonso shouted into Gabriel’s ear. “He’s coming over. You’re a bad man, Gabriel de la Torre. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Yes,” shouted Gabriel with a smirk. “My father, shortly before he kicked me out of the house. I’ve never looked back.”

  Gabriel extended a hand to the tall man as he joined them on the dance floor.

  “Are you from England?” Gabriel shouted in English into the man’s ear. The man nodded, and Gabriel continued, “You’re very cute. We saw you looking. Come and help me and my husband celebrate a night of nostalgia. I’m Gabriel, and my handsome man is Alfonso.”

  The Englishman leaned toward him. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Jonathan. I’ve just run away from my honeymoon.”

  Chapter 11

  STEVE AND Sinon shuffled forward in the immigration line at San Francisco International Airport. It was nearly eight in the evening, and they were both tired and irritable. Their delayed flight from London had arrived at the same time as several others, and the immigration hall was packed. The two men had been waiting in line for over fifty minutes. Finally, they were close to the front. Sinon reached into his rucksack and retrieved his passport in readiness. To pass the time, they checked out each other’s passport photographs and made critical comments.