Luc: A Spy Thriller Read online

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Author's Note

  Title

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Afterword

  Also by the Author

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 Greg Coppin

  Published by Runway & Jetty

  All Rights Reserved.

  Ebook Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com

  Visit the author’s website at: gregcoppin.com

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, events and organizations portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Luc

  A Spy Thriller

  Greg Coppin

  CHAPTER ONE

  Crooked Tree is not known for its dead bodies.

  It’s known for an impressive array of exotic birds, thrilling boat trips along the river and the cashew.

  But I wasn’t here for any of the last three.

  I strode inside the Barracuda Eye.

  It was not a large bar and its wooden walls were painted a light green.

  The ceiling fan whirred lazily, offering not much in the way of coolness to the room. Luckily the bar wasn’t busy at the moment or I imagined the place could be stifling. Unless they had a provision for that. If they had, use it now, my advice. I got into a conversation with the barman.

  ‘Two days ago,’ I said. ‘He was found dumped outside.’

  ‘Look, like I say, I hears about this but I never see nothing.’

  He had an oval face, dark skin, with a straggly salt and pepper beard. He was lightly dancing to some brukdown music that was coming from a portable stereo on a wooden shelf behind him.

  ‘A dead body is dumped behind your bar and neither you, your staff or any of your customers see anything?’ My shirt was sticking to my back. My face must’ve had a bit of a sheen but I didn’t wipe it, I just stared at him.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’ His hands were rhythmically pistoning by his chest, his hips were lightly snaking. ‘Maybe because it was behind the bar. We don’t tend to have eyes in the back of our heads round here.’

  I looked at him. ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘Scared?’ he asked. ‘Scared of what?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  He grinned a wide engaging grin. ‘I no scared, man. I no scared of nothing.’

  I nodded.

  A young woman with mocha skin, wearing a green blouse and black cutaway jeans was spraying some liquid onto the round wooden tables and wiping them with a cloth.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said to her. She looked up at me through her dark curls. ‘Did you hear about the dead body outside?’

  ‘What is this, man?’ the barman said, ceasing the dancing and arching his back. ‘Who are you, coming in here asking all these questions? We’ve spoken to the police. And you is not the police.’

  I turned back to the barman. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’ I asked him.

  ‘Me name’s Augustin. The girl here’s Hayley. And the good Lord is Wilfred Peters.’

  ‘Right. Well, it’s like this, Augustin.’ I pointed at the far wall. ‘That man? He was a friend. And he was murdered. And he was dumped by the roadside. And I’m trying to find out some reasons.’

  Augustin held out his hands and smiled.

  I looked back at the woman. She had stopped cleaning, and was standing up, holding the blue cloth, and looking between me and her boss.

  ‘Hayley. You heard about the body outside?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes.’ She spoke quietly.

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  She shrugged. ‘Like what?’ The curl of black hair she moved away from her eyes had red streaks in it.

  ‘Like the body being dumped outside,’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anything, hear anything, that might be of interest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  I looked between the two of them. The barman had now gone over to the shelf behind him and he took a peach out of a wicker bowl. He resumed his laid back dancing. The shelf had coloured lights snaking in and out of various trinkets.

  ‘Interest you?’ the barman asked, strolling rhythmically back. He was pointing at a charity box sitting on the left of the bar top.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Like it says,’ he said. He took a bite out of the peach and flicked juice off his bright red T-shirt.

  I looked closer at the box. There was a white label stuck on it with a handwritten message: Jaspars Fridge Money.

  ‘Jaspar Toms. Wants a new fridge.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Runs the fruit stall two miles down the road.’

  ‘I see. How much has he got?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘If I give to Jaspar’s fridge fund will you tell me what I want to know?’

  ‘Could do,’ he said.

  I pulled ten Belizean dollars from my wallet, folded it twice and slipped it into the slot. I then looked up at the barman.

  ‘What?’ he said. He took another bite out of the peach and wiped his beard.

  ‘What do you know about the man being dumped outside?’ I asked. But I think I already knew his answer.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Told you.’

  I smiled. Nodded.

  ‘You want beer, man?’ the barman asked.

  ‘Thanks for your time.’

  I began striding towards the entrance, my shoes echoing on the wooden floor. I looked back. ‘If either of you remember anything, or any of your customers remember anything, you can contact me at the Ramble Down Hotel,’ I said. ‘Belize City. Leave a message for Philip Luc.’

  Augustin shook his head. ‘Rush, rush,’ he said, the peach halting at his lips. ‘Not good for your constitution.’

  The melody he got out of the word ‘constitution’ was n
othing short of extraordinary.

  I strode towards the light.

  The coloured ribbons fluttered around me as I walked back out into the baking heat. The lake in front shimmered and a small orange and black bird hopped along the wooden jetty and I rounded the bar to the back. I passed the telephone pole with the paper sign nailed to it, and continued until I got to the roadside ditch. Even from a distance away you could still see some of the blood that had pooled on the earth.

  I wiped some of the sweat off my forehead and crouched down.

  This was where Wilson had been dumped. A road ran next to the ditch with scrub land opposite. In the distance there was the cawing of a lot of birds.

  I looked back at the dried blood. A lizard scampered down the ditch, stopped motionless, and then continued up the other side and disappeared under a spiky bush.

  I frowned, and then crawled on my hands and knees over the earth. ‘Ow,’ I said flatly, as my knee landed on a pebble.

  Something had caught my eye. A glint in the sun. I peered closer and found, nestling in the grass, under the bush, a small sparkling object. It was a silver button.

  There were blood stains on the button. And pressed into the blood stains there was, what looked very much like, a fingerprint.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, the rented Suzuki Jimny 4x4 was making easy work of the journey, although I occasionally missed seeing a speed bump and almost wrote off the vehicle in the process.

  I was making my way along the main Philip Goldson Highway, a pleasant drive south from Crooked Tree to Belize City. The sweet jacaranda and bougainvillea vied with the roadside food stalls, the mixed aroma was intoxicating.

  I was going to see a man named Niek Steenhoek.

  Possibly the last person to see Wilson alive.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The rain lashed down on the Suzuki’s roof. There was a continuous roar echoing inside, drumming away. The water poured down the windows, down the windscreen. I could hardly see outside, everything was obscured, made blobby by the million raindrops. At the moment, Mr Niek Steenhoek’s pad looked like it was inside the hall of mirrors.

  I had been sat here for about two hours now. I was across the road and half a street down from his house. I had bought a pork tamale and a lime juice from one of the roadside food stalls. I’d finished them both off about an hour ago and hadn’t had much to do since, except sit in the driver’s seat and perspire. There were no vehicles in the drive of Steenhoek’s place, so it was reasonable to presume he wasn’t there at the moment.

  Wilson’s assignment in Belize was to obtain specific information that Steenhoek was selling. To our knowledge Wilson didn’t get this information. He did though get murdered. We patently needed to know why.

  A short while later my mobile rang.

  ‘Mr Luc, it’s Beverley Milo from the City coronary.’

  ‘Hello. Thanks for ringing back.’

  ‘Am I saying that right - Luke not Luck?’

  ‘You have it right.’

  ‘Then, Mr Luc, your request has been accepted. Would you like to come in, or…’

  ‘Thank you. You can email me the contents for now.’

  I gave her my email address and she said she’d do it straight away.

  A minute later my phone vibrated. I opened the new email and read the coroner’s findings on the body of Wilson.

  It didn’t make happy reading. As well as being shot in the stomach there was blunt trauma around the head and ribs and they’d obviously put electrodes on his privates.

  They’d tortured him.

  It must’ve been pretty intensive. Wilson would not have given in lightly, and we knew he eventually gave in because whoever had logged into his cloud account and wiped everything had used the proper address and password. First time.

  Wilson was no girl’s blouse. They must’ve gone to town on him.

  When Steenhoek’s black and beige Range Rover swung through his electronic gates and up his drive I was not at all in a happy mood.

  CHAPTER THREE

  One of Steenhoek’s thugs now patrolled the grounds. Light blue shirt, black jeans, cream linen jacket to conceal the gun.

  The rain had now stopped and the humidity had dried much of the road. I was out of the Suzuki and approaching the gates. I raised a hand to attract the thug’s attention. He was about twenty feet up the drive. He saw me but didn’t approach. Just looked at me, waiting for me to speak.

  ‘Hello,’ I called out.

  Nothing.

  ‘Couldn’t give us a hand, could you?’ I continued. ‘My car seems to have stalled or something. Can’t get it to start at all.’

  Nothing. Just a malevolent stare.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ I said. I tried the gate. Locked.

  ‘Is this locked? Can I come in?’ Shook the gate again.

  The thug was getting visibly annoyed at this.

  Shook the gates much harder. Rattled them.

  ‘Can you open these things up?’

  Bingo. He was on his way.

  Okay, he looked mad as hell, and I really shouldn’t vex him any further.

  Shook them so the ground quaked.

  ‘Open these bloody things up. What’s the matter with you?’

  His hand shot through the bars to grab my collar. I side-stepped, grabbed his wrist, thrust his arm down onto my raised thigh. Heard the crack. Heard the cry. Reached through the bars, into his jacket, pulled the 9mm Glock from under his arm. I pointed the naughty end at his head.

  ‘Press the button,’ I said quietly.

  He spat onto the ground.

  I dug the barrel deeper into his head.

  ‘Press the button.’

  After six more seconds of macho resilience he reached with his left hand and pressed the button on the remote control he had in his pocket.

  The gates started to swing open.

  A little awkward initially, because we were linked together on opposite sides of one gate and had to synchronise our walking in time to its movement. When the gate stopped, the thug was in the roses.

  Keeping the gun on him I walked round the gate, told him to get on his knees. I used a plastic tie on his hands and then pistol-whipped his head. Left him in the bushes.

  I headed inside.

  ***

  All quiet on the ground floor.

  I could hear voices coming from upstairs, so I stealthily crept up a winding wooden staircase, thanking my lucky stars that Steenhoek, apparently, did not have dogs. I came out into the lounge on the first floor. Steenhoek was sitting on his terrace overlooking the sea. I recognised him from the two photographs I’d seen of him a day earlier. A broad-shouldered, suntanned man with blond, greying hair. One of his thugs was standing nearby, his back to me. They were talking but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  I padded quietly through the lounge and out onto the terrace. Steenhoek saw me first. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped a little, the glass of orange juice halting at his lips. Then the thug saw me out of the corner of his eye and snapped around, his hand going for the gun on the table. But I was already on top of the thug and I smashed my fist into his face and smashed it into it again, and he dropped to the stone tiles, out cold. I pulled the gun from my waistband and swung back to the still-sitting Steenhoek.

  My breathing had accelerated a little, especially in the heat, but I was in control. Steenhoek was still coming to terms with the situation, pulling tightly at the end of his Hawaiian shirt.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he asked. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Get on the floor,’ I told him. ‘On the floor.’

  Steenhoek slowly got up from his chair. He looked at me and must’ve decided against doing something heroic. He carefully sat down on the white tiles.

  ‘Cross your legs. Hands on your head.’

  When he’d done this I moved back to the thug, who was still out cold. I pulled another two plastic ties from my pocket and secured his wrists and ankles. I can do
this now without needing to put down the gun.

  I stood up, swinging the gun back to Steenhoek.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’ he asked. There was still the faint trace of a Dutch accent, but he had rattled around North and Central America and much of the tropics since his early twenties.

  ‘My name is Philip Luc. I work for the British government.’

  ‘Whoop-de-doo,’ he said. ‘And?’

  ‘I want to know - .’

  ‘Look what you’ve done to this guy,’ Steenhoek said, pointing at the thug on the floor. ‘A man just enjoying the day and then you - .’

  ‘He was pulling a gun on me.’

  ‘I don’t give a rat’s tit. I’m a man down.’

  A seagull hovered high, away to my right. It gave its familiar plaintive cry and then swooped away, out of my sight.

  Steenhoek jerked his thumb behind him. ‘There’s another guy, out front. Is he badly injured too?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘I will worry about it. You think these expenses don’t mount up?’

  ‘Mr Steenhoek, you know why I’m here, I’m sure.’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘I’m somewhat tempted to kick you in the face, Mr Steenhoek.’

  He looked alarmed at that.

  ‘What? What the hell’s going on here, would you tell me?’

  ‘Have you lost any buttons recently?’ I asked.

  He frowned hard. ‘Have I - ? What sort of question is that?’

  ‘It’s the sort of question that requires an answer.’

  ‘No. I haven’t. Jesus.’

  There was the click of a door opening from inside and all my senses were now on double alert.

  A couple of seconds later a woman walked across the lounge area, heading for the kitchen. She was blonde, thirties, barefoot, wearing a red kimono, and by the look of her had just got up. She was padding slowly across the room. She stopped and looked out at us with half-lidded eyes. She took in the scene: the thug tied up, Steenhoek sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands on his head, me pointing a gun at him. Eventually she said, ‘Kinky,’ and continued toward the kitchen.

  I looked at Steenhoek.

  ‘Get her back here.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to be involved. In fact, you know, it’s better if she’s not.’