Luc: A Spy Thriller Page 11

  ‘Roger,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll send air support. Eight minutes.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s Giuttieri,’ I said. ‘He’s started a riot.’

  ‘Luc. There are riots everywhere.’

  Frowning, I looked up, looked around. God, Charlie was right. I hadn’t noticed before, but I could now see the orange glow of fire and the columns of black smoke drifting lazily skywards wherever I looked.

  ‘What the hell is he doing?’ I said.

  ‘He’s bringing the country to its knees.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A distant airborne drilling sound signalled the arrival of the air support. A minute later we could see the commanding sight of the blue and white AgustaWestland AW139 helicopter approaching over the Swing Bridge. As he neared us, the sound of the rotor blades became a deafening roar. He swung round and our hands went up to shield our eyes in unison as we were almost blinded when the sun was suddenly reflected off the side window. The helicopter gently lowered to just a foot off the roof. It was expert piloting.

  The down draught rippled our clothing and I told Sylvia to take it easy when she climbed in. I held her hand as she stood up. She kept her head low, as most people do, fearing the rotor blades will hit them. She looked up at me, her face streaked with soot and fear. The open rear door hovered at around waist height in front of us and I decided it would be easier to lift Sylvia inside.

  Sylvia flinched and I too looked up as there was a loud bang from somewhere.

  At first I didn’t know what had caused it and Sylvia had moved closer and was looking around, nervous. Then I saw a rock flying up towards the helicopter. It hit the far side door, causing another loud bang. Then more missiles. Rocks, stones, other objects, hurled from below at the helicopter. Some hit, some missed, and some came under the helicopter, dangerously close to us. I wanted to persist in getting them into the helicopter, but the onslaught became too much.

  ‘Okay, down,’ I shouted.

  We crouched down, shielding our heads.

  The missiles slammed into the helicopter, picking out small splinters in its bodywork and windscreen. The mob down below roared at each victorious hit. I was frightened that a rock could hit the rotor blades. It could do devastating things to the helicopter. It could also be sliced into fractions and the lethal shrapnel sprayed at us.

  The pilot was doing his best to control the helicopter. With so many missiles flying about, and with the helicopter lurching, it was impossible for us to get in just yet.

  We all saw it. I seemed to see it in slow motion. The glint of the bottle in the sunlight. The orange and blue of the flame. The crash as it exploded against the windscreen. The arc of fire splayed across the front of the helicopter. The pilot momentarily lost control and the helicopter suddenly dipped down sideways. There was an enormous increase in noise as the rotor blades churned violently towards us. Lucia and Sylvia threw themselves flat on the tiles. I curled up in a ball, shielding Malena as best I could, our hair and clothes whipped furiously about in the intense down draught. The violent noise of those things, churning, pulsing around so near us was truly frightening.

  And then the noise and the down draught lessened. I looked up. Saw the pilot. He had regained control and was motioning to us, waving his fingers back and forward across his throat. Letting us know that this was too much. He was aborting.

  I nodded. He was right. But as we watched him disappear into the distant black smoke, we all knew that our last means of escape had gone too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  With the helicopter gone, the throwing of the missiles also ceased. However, the menacing ambience from down below remained. I was still looking out to see if any more of the mob would try their luck at confronting us on the roof. So far there were none. But I kept scanning.

  And that’s how I saw it

  The lazy drifting smoke from below.

  I got to my feet and peered over the rear of the building. Smoke was flowing out of an open window.

  I called Charlie.

  ‘Charlie. They’ve set light to all the buildings. It won’t be long before we’re crashing to the ground, one way or another.’

  ‘I hear you. I could send Dave back with company. We’ll need to be ready for the diplomatic fallout.’

  ‘Do it, Charlie.’

  ***

  As the distant drilling sound returned, the heat from the fire below was becoming dangerously evident, even through the roof tiles. The pilot swung the helicopter round, side on, and we could see the company: a man crouched in the rear, aiming at the mob down below with a mounted sub-machine gun. As the helicopter lowered above us, the man fired a fierce volley of bullets. For a brief moment I actually thought he was firing into the mob, (would not be great), but as the blue public phone booth shattered and crumbled under the assault, I realised he was merely sending a message to the mob.

  From the lack of subsequent missiles, it appeared the mob was getting the message.

  I helped Sylvia and Lucia into the helicopter and then climbed in behind them and the pilot took us up, and we swung round, tilted forward a little, and soared off, away from the broiling mob.

  As we passed over other angry scenes, more fires, more columns of smoke, I didn’t need to speak to Lucia and Sylvia to know what they were thinking: what was going on? What was happening to their city? Their country.

  Lucia glanced over at me. I could read these exact questions in the look in her eyes. Then her features seemed to soften. I realised she was looking at Malena, still hanging from the harness on my chest. Now sound asleep.

  Lucia smiled. ‘I see you in a whole new light,’ she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Blood pooled in my mouth and drooled onto the ground. Another boy kicked me in the stomach and my torso felt as if it was on fire as I sprawled backwards across the hard surface. The familiar cry of, ‘Fight, fight,’ continued to echo around.

  Every sane part of me said, ‘Stay down. You don’t need this. Tell them they’ve won.’

  I got to my feet. There were three of them.

  I wiped the blood from my chin.

  Somehow I knew that if I could really hurt one of them, the other two would back off.

  I clenched my fists. I nodded towards the one in the middle. ‘You,’ I said. And strode toward him.

  He was too tall for me to initially go for head shots so I concentrated on, as I saw it, brutal uppercuts to the stomach. His head lolled after three punches and I immediately switched to right-hooking his face. But he was a strong lad and it all got a bit messy after that and I was kneeing his ribs as he was trying to twist my neck in half. I was using everything though: fists, knees, elbows, forearm, head.

  Despite his size, I may have had an advantage, as he seemed reluctant to even try to punch me in the head.

  I had no such qualms.

  ***

  An hour later, three of us were sitting in the headmaster’s office. Mr Martlesham was sighing and shaking his head.

  ‘I expected better,’ he said. ‘Especially of you, Winterson, and you, Luc. Radleigh, I’m beginning to despair of you.’

  The room smelled of pipe tobacco and, actually, fresh flowers, as I was right next to a tall red vase.

  All three of us were sitting with our heads bowed as the headmaster tore into us. In the distance we heard the siren of an ambulance. I bowed my head even lower.

  ‘I hope you’re not sitting there secretly proud of your actions, Luc,’ he said. His greying moustache quivered with anger.

  ‘No, sir,’ I said.

  ‘There is absolutely nothing to be proud of.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Although I’d thought the ambulance was overkill. The lad had a few cuts and bruises and it turned out I’d fractured two of his silly ribs. An aspirin would have done the job.

  I was eleven years old and three months into my first year at Chiswick Secondary Modern School. Things were starting as they meant to go on.

  CHAPT
ER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘For all but essential journeys, the public is advised to stay indoors until further notice.’

  The Minister for National Security, Julio Falcao, was back on TV giving a press conference. He was wearing a light blue shirt and deep purple tie. His big dark head looked into the camera and he rarely seemed to blink. I was watching it with Mike on the big screen in the Comms Room of the safe house.

  ‘You all need to be aware that we are doing everything we can to combat this lawlessness,’ Falcao said. ‘It will not continue. Those responsible will be stopped. They will be taken into custody. And they will serve lengthy prison sentences. Anybody considering going out and joining them or staying out and continuing the rioting needs to understand that quite clearly.’ He had a commanding voice. You listened.

  ‘I have, in the last hour, ordered teams of anti-riot personnel into every province. We are flooding the areas with our own people. We will stop this. Belize will be returned to peace. Thank you for listening.’ He turned away from the camera.

  ‘Where’s the PM?’ I asked Mike. ‘Seen this chap a few times. Yet to see too much of the top man.’

  ‘Prime Minister Dutton was due to give a press conference earlier but the camera crew got caught up in the rioting.’

  ‘Right. Not ideal.’

  ‘It’s not looking great for him,’ Mike said.

  I turned to look at him. ‘The PM? How do you mean?’

  ‘There’s quite a bit of discontent with Neville Dutton. Not just the public. Although that is sizeable and growing. But there’s now rumblings in his own party as well.’

  I frowned. ‘Do you reckon it could get serious for him?’

  Mike sighed, shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I think he’s viewed as something of a novice. Too young, hasn’t got to grips with the post, his critics say. He definitely seems to have been on the back foot where this current crisis is concerned. But it’s difficult to see what’s going to happen for certain.’

  I moved away from the TV.

  ‘By the way,’ Mike said, ‘Charlie’s checking satellite recordings regarding your theory about rent-a-mobs being bussed in.’

  I nodded. ‘Good. How are Sylvia and Malena?’ I asked. Mike had got Molly to give them a quick medical.

  ‘They’re fine. Slightly shaken. By the way, thanks for bringing in two more strays.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘We’re not the Salvation Army.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t want us to leave them there?’

  ‘We’re not a large place. We’ve already got granny and your fancy piece.’

  I turned to face him. ‘This is casual humour, I hope.’

  ‘Just don’t go out looking for any more. It doesn’t say Ritz above the door.’

  ‘Thanks for the observation, Mike.’

  ***

  Lucia was in the kitchen holding Malena and doing coochy-coo noises. I strolled in and smiled at the pair of them.

  ‘Hi,’ Lucia said, looking up.

  ‘Now there’s a picture,’ I said. ‘Fancy being a mum someday, Lucia?’

  Lucia smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Where’s Sylvia?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s resting.’

  Lucia waggled her finger between Malena’s lips and did the appropriate bbrrrrr sounds. Malena’s sweet little face broke into a gurgly laugh which would lighten the most determined of grouches.

  ‘Shame I have to go out soon,’ I said.

  ‘Must you?’ Lucia asked.

  I nodded. ‘Have to see that man Dondero.’

  Lucia didn’t say anything for a while, then she looked up at me. ‘I still go into a cold sweat when I think back to being up on that roof.’ She was speaking quietly. Almost as if she didn’t want Malena to hear. ‘That was not an easy thing to go through.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But you did. You survived it. And you were amazing, Lucia.’

  ‘Weren’t you scared?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I was frightened. Especially when that helicopter took a sudden dive.’

  ‘Oh, don’t.’

  ‘It was all a bit like Christmas, to be honest.’

  ‘Christmas?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, you know. A baby. Rooftops. Unannounced visitors suddenly popping up. Not to mention roasting my chestnuts on an open fire.’

  ‘Philip,’ she said, trying to cover Malena’s ears.

  I nodded. ‘More thought for the baby’s ears than my chestnuts.’

  ‘Let’s discuss your chestnuts later,’ Lucia said quietly.

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  Lucia smiled broadly, the first proper smile I’d seen since the bomb had gone off. Then she probably realised the same and been reminded of Frank, because she suddenly stopped smiling and looked awkwardly down at the floor.

  ‘You know, that truly is a beautiful sight,’ I said, indicating the pair of them.

  She looked up, her eyes now glistening. ‘Her parents are arriving shortly,’ she said.

  I nodded.

  ***

  A little later I brought a mug of coffee into the lounge room. Lucia was curled up on the sofa watching the small TV. Malena’s parents had arrived and taken her and Sylvia. They had family in Dangriga where they could go and stay. I handed Lucia the mug.

  ‘Are you leaving now?’ she asked, holding the mug in both hands.

  I nodded.

  Lucia was watching a news report on one of the channels and it suddenly caught my interest. There was a lot of hand-held footage of armed, well-trained police officers overpowering some of the rioters and dragging them away into vans.

  ‘I am standing in West Street,’ the female news reporter was saying. ‘Which only an hour ago was the scene of some of the most intense rioting. Now, calm has returned. And the clean-up is beginning. Local residents are praising the swift and decisive response from Julio Falcao.’

  The picture then switched to a vox-pop of a middle-aged woman being interviewed in her doorway. ‘We need a man like that at the top,’ the woman said. ‘He gets things done. He doesn’t just hide and hope it’ll all go away. Just hope that everything will get better.’

  The news reporter closed the piece. ‘That last comment is believed to be a reference to the Prime Minister. Many people have vocalised their thoughts that Mr Dutton has largely been silent throughout all the recent crises.’

  ‘It’s not his fault,’ Lucia said.

  I smiled. ‘Are you always on the side of the underdog?’

  Lucia took a sip of the coffee. ‘Maybe. Although you can’t really call the Prime Minister the underdog.’

  ‘True.’ I nodded.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Jimmy Dondero lived in Tallis Street, a dusty lane, lined with palm trees, telegraph poles and stray dogs. A newish red and grey Mitsubishi Animal 4x4 pickup truck was parked outside his home.

  Dondero was the man whose phone number we’d frequently found on the phone of Hector Fernandez, the man in the red Jeep next to Pinto. I could just make out the house from where I was parked on the corner.

  I pulled out my phone and dialled the number.

  ‘Charlie, it’s Luc.’

  ‘Ah, hello, Luc.’ Man’s voice.

  ‘Warren,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, hello, Luc. And thank you. Your drop in audible enthusiasm is most welcome. Really lifts my self-esteem.’

  ‘Happy to help.’ A breeze blew into the vehicle from the semi-open window.

  ‘Yep. These continuous digs at me are interesting. And I would like to return to them, I really would, but I’m glad you’ve rung because I have some information I need to impart. We’ve been scanning satellite pictures and local CCTV imagery and we’re pretty certain that you’re right. There does seem to have been a number of youths bussed into Belize overnight. It looks like there was more to this rioting than simple local anger.’

  I nodded. ‘Giuttieri. I knew it.’

  ‘Think you’re probably right there,
Luc.’

  ‘Warren, I need - .’

  ‘Anyway, getting back to these digs at me. As I say, they interest me. They do. And so what I thought I would do was to have a little look through your file. And do you know, it’s all becoming a little clearer now.’

  I was frowning. I sat up in my seat. ‘You looked through my file?’

  ‘Keeping up. That’s good. It’s going to help. Yes, now obviously Philip Luc’s a legend…’

  ‘Kind of you.’

  ‘Ha ha. But I didn’t realise you actually were French. I mean, I know, keep the legend as close to the truth as possible, but even so. And your real name,’ he said, saying my real name, ‘is a bit of a French belter, isn’t it? I mean that truly is striped jersey and onions.’

  ‘I need you to - .’

  ‘Born in Clermont-Ferrand, thirty-one years ago. Parents, Eloise and Fabien, moved to England when their little boy was six.

  ‘Anyway, what I’m driving at is I think I can see where all your animus comes from. Can’t have been easy. Growing up in England as the lone French kid. Always known as Frenchie, or Froggie, or, what’s the new one? Cheese-eating surrender monkey?’

  ‘After my time.’

  ‘So, just the former ones. Well, they’re enough to be getting on with.’

  I chewed the inside of my mouth.

  ‘Always felt like the outsider, did you?’ he asked. ‘Never really one of the gang.’

  ‘Well, the girls liked me. They loved a bit of French speak.’

  ‘Good. It helped to ease your pain, did it?’

  ‘Warren, I need you to arrange a meeting between myself and the Minister for National Security. Julio Falcao. If you can fit it in between your psychoanalysing.’

  ‘Merely stating I understand where you’re coming from. And, look, I’ve got troubles too. My glands, for instance…Well, maybe another time. No, I’m on your side here, Luc. And as for your request, I will get on to it immediately.’

  ‘Use the proper protocols.’