18 Million Reasons to Die: The Peter Hacket Chronicles

By M B Chattelle

The Mexican based Ruiz crime family flourished from exporting printed pornography to Europe laundering the huge profits through the Viennese Liberec International Bank.

When widowed, Fernando and son Carlos relocated to Miami. Carlos was despatched off to finish his education in New York State where he established friendships with the sons of wealthy and politically ambitious families.
Carlos videoed his liaisons with the mothers of his fellow students.

What he did not appreciate at the time was just how valuable such videos would be when his school friends fathers became elected to the US Senate and Congress.
The internet began to diminish the profitability of the Ruiz business.

Simultaneously the Belize drug cartels were infiltrating the Mexico end of the operations. In desperation, Fernando Ruiz reluctantly accepted a solution proposed from Carlos.
"Youve eighteen million Euros to prove what can be done Carlos. Call this a test run through the Liberec Bank. I dont want anyone messed up, especially the local families in Mexico.
As long as they are up to printing currency Ive already got the people who can organise the distribution by manipulating the computer systems. Before you know it well own most of the industrial property in Europe.

What Carlos did not know was that the UK Intelligence Services had Bernice Jayne Peters inside of the Liberec Bank monitoring the laundering of Ruiz money.

The issue was that Charles Grimshaw, who had been forced to engage Peters on his retread team, did not trust her.

Hacket, you go and see what the hell is going on. Too many bodies are turning up. Grimshaw had said. London wants, no, I want an end to this and yesterday.


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• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456789404

M B Chattelle

Author Biography & more available  - on web web site : http://www.mbchattelle.me.uk

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© 2011 by M B Chattelle. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/30/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8939-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8940-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by and copyright MB Chattelle/ Fotolia LLC are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

1.August Portugal

2.Previously

2.3June

2.3.6Miami

2.4July

3.August Portugal

4.September Rockingham City, Western Australia

5.Epilogue

These Chronicles unravel the story of assignments undertaken by ‘retreads’ who don’t ‘officially’ exist.

These men and women are paid on a ‘consultancy’ basis to work on our behalf so that we might sleep easy in our beds at night.

Retread [adj]—

Special Intelligence Service (SIS) Field Operative, officially retired.

Engaged on commission basis where a confrontational situation is possible.

Occasional [adj]—

Supportive Operatives (to Retread Field Operatives) engaged on a commission by commission basis in a non-confrontational situation.

1. August Portugal

Whispers in the small town of Manchero on the Portuguese Algarve were abuzz that late-August about the flurry of activity associated with the back street Bar Montero.

Exaggerated stories circulated that the two flamboyant middle-aged men, who had run the bar in the small town, had fled in separate vehicles the night in August to avoid being arrested by the regional Portimao homicide Policia. It was inevitable so the gossip went.

I mean. One of the Bar Montero’s regulars had said in front of the new owners of the bar, Gilbert and Averill. You get homosexuals like them that in a Catholic town like Manchero and you expect trouble don’t you?

It was those Germans and their prostitutes I didn’t like. Another regular remarked and glanced as his friend. Drugged up all of the time they were when they came in here.

"The Policia never said Gilbert. The first man remarked. But we all believe that the dead woman they found in the valley, she was English and shipped over here by the Germans to set up their own brothel down by the Portimao docks."

What Germans? Gilbert enquired as he served two more canned Super Bock beers.

They came in here with this woman… The second local began and glanced at Averill who had moved away along the bar. She was called Helenska or something, dressed in black leather with boobs exposed and juggling everywhere. He commented and with his cupped hand held out he drew laughter from all three men which halted instantly when Averill slammed a glass down on the counter. No offence. The customer said and raised his glass to his lips and gulped at his beer.

We’re all really glad that you two turned up, aren’t we? The first customer asked of his friend. "The Bar Montero is so much better with a respectably married couple running it."

Did you hear that Averill? Gilbert asked and winked slyly at her scowling face. Oh dear. He mumbled and leant on the bar toward his customers. The wife’s in one of her strange moods again. He whispered. So what’s this address on the docks? He asked conspiratorially from behind the hand which he held beside his mouth.

Averill. Gilbert said in a hushed voice after the customers had departed. This is the address which you’ve come all this way for. He advised and passed her the scrap of paper which he had been given.

Thank you Gilbert. She responded as she read the Portimao address. I’d never have believed this would be so easy. She remarked and rolled up onto the balls of her feet so her lips could kiss his unshaven and solemn looking face. And I promise… She whispered in his ear. I’ll do the whole wife charm thing tonight Gilbert. She said and lowered her self away from him.

You’d be more help around here Averill if you were the smiley, glamorous landlady and get the locals to open up and talk.

I owe you that Gilbert.

That evening Peter Hacket, who used various aliases, slowly strolled from the valley and up toward the Bar Montero. He stopped part way up the hill then perched on a stone wall he lit up an American Detroit filter tip. It was a brand name that amused him since he seemed only ever to find it Portugal. Through the first smoke he exhaled he looked down at his freehold property, which, in a moment of slight inebriation he had smashed an unopened bottle of local red against the gate’s stone pillars and pretentiously christened the Villa Castillo.

His small, two bedroom property was nestled off of an unlit and narrow dirt track. High stone walls and an abundance of bushes and evergreen foliage in the grounds provided reasonable seclusion and adequate shade from the sun. His deteriorating wicker table and chair, alongside the adequately sized outdoor swimming pool, was his preferred location to sit and pass the undisturbed hours whilst he steadily sipped the local red wine during daylight and Caribbean Morgan’s Spice after the sun had lowered.

Villa Castillo was Hacket’s safe house. A place he would escape too and avoid reflection on his latest wet assignment which, for the most part, the ageing Charlie Uncle Grimshaw would have thrown at him. When the UK Secret Intelligence Service, MI6/SIS, had downsized, Uncle had established a team of retreads. It would be these compulsively retired and expensively trained specialists retreads who undertook commissions that the SIS had found its self ill equipped to undertake.

From behind him, Hacket heard the scratching noise and the rustle of dried vegetation. He turned quick enough to spot the rat and flicked his spent cigarette at the rodent which scurried away. His blue eyes followed the line of the drainage ditch which he knew would pass opposite his villa and in which the so called, English prostitute, had been discovered. The Portimao Policia had never managed to track down and interview the illusive Pira Hascombe, which they understood owned the Villa Castillo. Hacket had all the answers concerning the murdered woman, but what he was interested to hear was the latest local gossip and the Bar Montero was no better place to start.

Welcome Sir. Gilbert warmly greeted Hacket in a broad Yorkshire accent.

Have the previous gentlemen moved on? Hacket enquired as he took ownership of a wooden stool.

They have Sir. It’s me, Gilbert and my darling wife Averill for the moment. Well, just to see if we can make a go of things Mr… . . ?

Good for you. Hacket replied with uncharacteristic civility and with a forced a grin. I’ll have a… He said and spotted the towels over the pumps. "You’ve no draught Sagres?"

Not as yet. We’ve only canned Super Bock until we get some delivery problems sorted.

Sure, as long as its cold. Hacket capitulated then watched Gilbert break the tab off the beer can and begin to pour it into warm, stained glass which he had retrieved from the dishwasher.

Your first time, you know, running a bar then Gilbert? Hacket mocked sarcastically at the manner in which was killing the life from the chilled beer.

Nothing much else to loose back home since the last Government and the Banks screwed us up. He explained and slid the glass and cold tin can across the bar. So we thought we’d give it a spin Mr… ?

"Haslope." Hacket informed him over sudden burst of laugher from further along the bar shared between Averill and two elderly male customers.

Pardon?

"No need for titles Gilbert, just Haslope is fine. He repeated then sipped at the tiny amount of froth that the warm glass had managed to kill. I see the locals have warmed to your wife already." He said and nodded toward the slim, brown haired Averill.

She seems to be able to handle herself. He mumbled and did not go unnoticed as being an unusual remark to make about a spouse. "So you live down here Haslope?"

No Gilbert, I’m renting a villa in the valley. He lied and then rolled his knuckles over his moist lips. It’s something I do occasionally so I know some of the locals down here.

I really haven’t had a chance to explore the area as yet.

That’ll always be a problem when you’re running a business like this Gilbert. He stated before he slipped off of the bar stool. It’s been nice to meet you Gilbert. He remarked and glanced along the bar at Averill who was roaring with laughter. And good luck to the both of you.

Thank you very much and I’ll try and get the Sagres back on tap before you call in again.

The warm evening air engulfed Hacket when he stepped from the chilled bar and out onto the narrow, quiet, cobbled street. As he used his teeth to pull a filter tip from its packet and as his spare hand fumbled through his pockets for his lighter he heard and turned toward two women’s giggles and the clatter of their heels.

For a moment whilst the lighters’ flame flickered under his nostrils the women paused at an illuminated shop window and he immediately recognised the fasces which were a long way from where he had recently met them in Guadalajara, Mexico.

What the fuck? Hacket muttered under his breath as he peered over his shoulder and watched mother and daughter step down the hill and then confidently enter the bar.

He waited a moment and then pivoted around to peer through the bar’s window. Whilst the daughter slipped up on a bar stool and beckoned Averill toward her, her mother spoke to Gilbert who shook his head. A second or two later Gilbert joined Averill and he watched the older of the women furtively hurry to disappear through a wooden door at the back of the bar.

It became abundantly clear to him that the assignment which he had been undertaking for Grimshaw had not been concluded. What happened next was as much of a shock and surprise to Hacket as it was to the customers inside the Bar Montero.

2. Previously

2.1. April

2.1.1. UK

Lionel Howell, the head of the UK’s MI5, and often referred to a as Mr.H, glanced up at the wall clock in his Thames House office. Though he had been awake at five that morning when he had taken the telephone call, he was not best pleased to drive through dark and pouring rain from his home in suburban Cobham, Surrey and into central London.

Jamison? He asked and looked around at the solemn faces in the room. Status please.

Sir. She responded in surprise at being singled out as she was the most junior in the windowless room. Ah… yes, the Metropolitan Police took the call from one of their own patrol officers’ yesterday afternoon at sixteen hundred hours. SO16 were called in by the duty Sergeant because of the US Diplomatic plates, err, DUK 0690. A DI Gordon Summers arrived at seventeen hundred to where the Range Rover was on the hard shoulder two kilometres west of Heathrow airport. The incident report inventory lists twenty small aluminium cases, of which five were on the grass embankment and all which contained some printed adult material but mostly large denomination Euro notes in mint condition and strapped. The estimated total cargo street value has been placed at one hundred thousand on the street. Lastly of course Sir, we have the yet unidentified female in the passenger seat but we still await the pathology and ballistics reports on what killed him.

And the woman who turned up later in the Silver Shogun and took the cargo Jamison?

We’ve some poor quality photos Sir. She replied and spread the grainy pictures which she held across the table top. The US Embassy deny all knowledge about the DUK plates she transferred from the Rover to the Shogun.

They bloody would wouldn’t they. Howell mumbled. What about our tracker transmitters?

They’re… Jamison started to explain and then glanced at her male colleague sat opposite her who immediately lowered his eyes toward the table top. They’re operational and we have the Shogun now midway between London’s Tilbury Docks and Zeebrugge.

So we have the Shoguns booking and boarding details right? Howell asked but his question was met with silence from those sat around the table. Oh, for God’s sake?

We do have details Sir. Jamison nervously said. Cash paid for fare but the address, phone number and named driver details that were used are fictitious.

I’ve never heard such bullshit! Howell shouted and then groaned behind the hands that he rolled over his mouth. What the fuck are we paying Border Control for, for fucks sake?

Sir… Jamison sheepishly mumbled and glanced at her work colleagues.

Alright… . first I want a name from Border Control and whatever surveillance footage we have from Tilbury and secondly, hurry up the DPG post-mortem report on the stiff left in the Shogun. Just divide this up however you want. Howell stated forcefully and after he had looked at each of the faces in turn he suddenly clapped his hands together. Do I make myself bloody clear!?

Sir! All responded.

Apologies Lionel. Frederick Marsh said as he adjusted the bi-focals on the bridge of his nose. "It’s a Friday in Vauxhall Cross and God knows . . . . but these Select Committee investigations, they simply never stop my friend."

Frederick?

Sorry, I heard you’ve had an early start. Marsh apologised again and sat down behind his desk. Please. He said with a wave of a hand to indicate that Howell should take his visitors chair. I’d offer you a tea or something… but at this time… Marsh murmured as he flicked through the paperwork on his desk. What’s all this buggeration outside of Heathrow then? Porno, bundles of counterfeit Euros, stiffs…

It was on my turf Frederick so SO16 offloaded things but since we’ve gone European?

Ah, I see. It’s pass the buck over to MI6 time. Marsh said with a sigh and a smirk as he looked at Howell. Interesting these vehicle registration plates eh?

Have you anything in back about the deceased?

Let’s see. Marsh mumbled and flicked through the papers. He we are. Yes, ballistics says the single bullet found in her gut was from a small calibre German or Austrian Mesh and… He began and paused after he had turned to the next page. And, she’s got some amateur crafted tattoo of deformed spider at the base of her spine. Marsh explained and glanced up at Howell. Here. Marsh said and slid a photograph over his desk. Ring any bells Lionel?

Not again. Howell groaned after studying the picture. "The Ruiz family?"

Its damn close, but old man Fernando Ruiz’s mark was much more professional eh?

Really? Howell said and slumped back into his chair. "Just how long has it been that upstairs instructed you and me to drop monitoring the Ruiz family?"

Ministers change Lionel. And memories are short concerning the detail and all that shit. He smirked as picked up his ringing desk phone. Yes!? He shouted then listened as he stared at Howell rang. Keep me in the loop. He finally said as he clattered the handset down then leant forward and rested his forearms on his desk. Your transmitters in the Shogun cargo have finally come to rest Lionel. They’re bleeping away merrily in some lock up close to the Viennese State Opera House on Operngasse.

Then officially, I guess, it’s over to you Frederick? Howell suggested and inwardly sighed relief.

"That’s apart from the fact we’ve a whisper that it was Heathrow airport Customs and Excise in Hounslow which cleared the cargo into the UK and that most certainly is your turf."

I suppose, but please don’t tell me there’s a Ruiz connection?

"It always was always an optional route for Ruiz you recall. Just maybe the family has moved from pornography into printing currency these days?"

What, and ship the paper all the way from Mexico? You’re fantasying Frederick.

Well Ruiz has since relocated to Miami and he always did have interests in that construction company group called Neubau. Maybe the business is in financial trouble like everybody.

Give over… even Ruiz can’t support a company with unlaundered money for Christ’s sake.

So he cleans it first. Marsh snapped back at Howell.

What is it that I’m not hearing here Frederick? Howell asked and his eyes searched Marsh’s expressionless face. If you’re expecting some interdepartmental co-operation here Frederick, the least I’d hope for is to know who is whispering into your ear.

Ok and in the name of co-operation. Marsh said with reluctance. It’s Uncle Charlie Grimshaw. He explained and saw Howell’s face wince.

Charlie Grimshaw had officially retired from the Marsh’s UK SIS payroll following Government budgetary cuts, though he had never disappeared. From his near derelict, one bedroom flat located in Enfield north London he ran a freelance team of retreads, all ex-MI6 field operatives, and one or two, what where termed occasionals. These occasionals were engaged in the field to provide support to his retreads by intelligence gathering which mostly involved low risk undercover assignments.

Marsh had been pragmatic at the time of time of the Government budgetary reforms in that the loss to the SIS of specialist skills would be detrimental to the Service. Eventually it was agreed that comprehensive training be offered for those remaining on the SIS payroll. In practice all costs associated with Grimshaws’ retreads and occasionals were taken from the extensive training budgets. The only compromise was that Grimshaw was sometimes presumed upon to take on board Agents from the SIS and second them to field operations where they would gain experience.

For several weeks Grimshaw had had an occasional field operative in place at the Liberec International Bank headquarters in Vienna. Under the alias of Ivana Ibirika, Bernice Jane Peters, the unmarried, thirty eight year old blond was contracted in to monitor and report on any and all transactions conducted by the Neubau group of companies that passed through the Liberec bank, especially new and large deposits of Euros. Her primary interest was to pass back intelligence that in any way identified a connection to the Ruiz organisation.

At the time Marsh had leant on Grimshaw to place someone in post, especially so when a vacancy occurred in the Liberec operations room. Grimshaw believed he knew all there was to know about his occasional, as did the Liberec who checked into her background that he had fabricated. It would be an error on both of their parts.

As an occasional, the short legged, mousy blond had previously never been commissioned by Grimshaw to act in solo capacity and it was that mainly which had concerned Grimshaw at the start. However much Ibirika had made a contribution at first, the flow of intelligence from Vienna had come to almost a trickle. ‘What the bugger is going on Uncle? Marsh had asked and rightly so since both he and Grimshaw had intel from their own sources that the Ruiz family was active. It had been Grimshaw that had telephoned Marsh during his meeting with Howell and based on limited intel from a, normally, reliable source, this would change events and the level of involvement.

Both Marsh and Grimshaw were concerned about the level of Ibirika’s contribution and thus her loyalties. What was finally agreed was an approach that satisfied Howell in that he would not only be kept involved but would provide one of his ambitious Agents first hand field exposure that she so wanted. Grimshaw was not so pleased and had to be convinced that the twenty eight year old Emma Richards seconded from MI5 to MI6 and then placed in his charge would actually be capable out on the grid for what was intended.

On first meeting Grimshaw, Richards had been taken aback by the unkempt and poorly furnished London flat and certainly how much the retreads man, who few rarely met, wore his life on his sallow face. Grimshaw however, he saw a confident, fresh, young attractive woman with long straight black hair and cavernous, dark brown eyes who was not as innocent as she first appeared.

How good are you Richards with the whole role play thing?

When I’m sober or out on the town? Richards retorted with a grin and Grimshaw roared with laughter.

What’s your tipple? No don’t tell. Grimshaw had said and held a hand up. Vodka, neat?

And you’re a… let’s see a beer type of guy, bitter right?

I can see that we’re going to get on just fine my Richards. So before you take a perch and we get down to business of your new identity, the drinks cabinet is to your right.

As he had briefed her on the who’s, why’s, wherefores and what might be expected of her Richards had found her self warming to him and could quite see why he was referred to as Uncle.

One last time then… from the moment you’re the departure hall? Grimshaw prompted.

"I’m Jennika Spelling, English born, with a toddler called Joe who is currently visiting my parents in London. My husband, Edward is on a photographic assignment in Paris for several weeks and his last one was in Vienna and that’s why I’m there… She paused and sighed. Couldn’t something a little more glamorous have been dreamt up Uncle?"

"We don’t do much glamour here Fräulein Spelling, that’s mostly for the movies. He had replied with a smile. This provides you with a reason to disappear, the husband is back and your kid is sick, whatever, more than that, that’s why you’re cruising the bars at this time."

"To me, this wife and mother, Spelling, she’s suddenly morphed into some kind of lesbian."

"The Waldmuller is known locally as a safe place for lone, liberated women to frequent Spelling and that’s where we know Ivana Ibirika patronises most of the time. This is a better way to get close to her rather than you two meeting whilst you’re out shopping for nappies."

What’s this safe house like on, err, Heidenplatz is it?

"No idea Spelling, one of my guys arranged it and it was the only accommodation close, in fact, it’s only a few buildings down from Ibirika, so you’re going have to be careful. Now remember this is passive field operation, look, listen and learn. No heroics. You get a whiff of Ibirika having crossed the line then or easing back for some reason you step back and contact me for guidance."

She had listened to and heeded Grimshaw’s last words, but all the same she did not delete the phone number her MI5 boss Howell had texted her in case she required urgent assistance or advice.

"And who was that you old dog?" Freddie Gold enquired with a smirk on his face as he entered Grimshaw’s flat having passed Spelling on the concrete balcony outside.

"That was Fräulein Jennika Spelling, F.G., Mr.M.’s idea as a honey trap for Ibirika."

"We didn’t have Agents like that when we worked in-house."

"Put your pecker away F.G. and show me these computer files for Christ’s sake."

Uncle I’m so not sure you’re going to like this? Gold suggested as he pushed the computer memory stick into Grimshaw’s notebook then stood behind from him from where ho provided a stilted summary of the background to what they watched on screen. Freeze the movie there Uncle, right, recognise the face that’s peering over the redheads shoulder?

"So Mr.M. is having a night in some pub on Connelly Street with… . is that Lolika Polanski?"

"She’s the same Uncle. The Ruiz family is in town or some of it is. She’s grown up in age that’s for sure, but not so much in appearance has she Uncle?"

"Jesus. Grimshaw cursed as he spotted Marsh roll his hand down Polanski’s naked arm. Talk about keeping your enemies close. Do we know any other faces here?"

Obviously there’s Watkins, the girl at the Hounslow Custom and Excise with Polanski… but no.

Ok then… Grimshaw began to say as replayed the video clip then he abruptly froze the frame. He scratched his forehead with his index finger and stared at a woman in the background who was using her mobile phone. What the hell is she doing there? He mumbled.

What is it?

Oh nothing F.G. Grimshaw lied and concealed his concerns behind a brief smile whilst he decided whether Gold was the best retread for what he wanted. "Ok, You’re off to Vienna F.G."

Oh brilliant. Gold responded sarcastically. More rain is all I ever dream of.

"I’m after reassurance that Ibirika is actually still with us on this Liberec assignment."

"But surely Uncle, I’d assumed that that Jennika Spelling who was here was covering that angle and she’s certainly more Ibirika’s type than an old fart like me?"

"I remember you telling me she swung both ways F.G. Grimshaw retorted and then removed the memory stick from his computer. No, Spelling is SIS staff payroll F.G., Ibirika is on mine. There’s a difference and I don’t want Mr. M. peeing in my ear that we can’t do what we’re contracted to do. Anyhow, this is Spellings first time out on the grid and it’s more of a training and assessment thing going on with her. I’d prefer a retread with some experience out there and in a position to be able to kick an occasional into shape if need be."

Why do I get the feeling this is you covering your butt Uncle?

"Because that’s what it is F.G. alright? He stated and glanced at Gold’s grinning face. Oh, and by the way, Harry Greenley is floating around undercover as David Evans in Vienna. He’s tasked with something other than Ibirika but if she strays out of the city he’ll take control."

"Jesus, you really must be worried about something this time Uncle."

Whatever, but as I told him, don’t pee in each others cup.

2.1.2. Austria

Emma Spelling was both nervous and excited when she arrived in Vienna’s international airport. She had pestered and had waited for an opportunity to prove her self capable of a solo field operation. What she did care for was that had arrived with the burden of three governors, Howell, Grimshaw and Marsh and in that order of priority to her.

As the airport cab headed toward Heidenplatz and the company accommodation, she began to feel that she was actually transforming into her new alias, Jennika Spelling and she sensed her adrenalin pumping. What light headiness she felt certainly faded when she had climbed out of the cab and into the April rain then peered up at number thirty Heidenplatz.

Before her stood a grey, weathered, five storey building built of concrete with rows of deteriorating metal framed and closed windows. Five worn concrete steps led up to a steel door from which somebody had unsuccessfully attempted to remove the multi-coloured aerosol graffiti.

On the third press of the security entrance pad the front door lock of the building block buzzed opened and she pushed her way into what was a dimly lit and tiled foyer. From somewhere above her, a woman’s voice shouted down and she peered up at the wrought iron stairwell.

"Fräulein Spelling?" The elderly woman’s voice repeated.

"Ja." She replied as the woman appeared from the darkness with her hands gripped and bunching her patterned apron into a twisted ball.

A musty, mould like odour lingered in the one bedroom apartment and made Spellings’ nose crinkle in disgust. She attempted, but failed to find a window which she could open. She managed to get the shower functioning after she had struck the soul of her shoe against the shower head several times but she accepted defeat on attaining consistently running water from the basin taps. Of the greatest distress to her was the condition of the single bed and its stained mattress and pillow which she pummelled with her fists which she hoped would frighten away any bugs that believed habituated there. The Heidenplatz apartment was a far cry from her immaculate and comfortable pied-á-terra in Purely Oaks south London but then she smiled as she recalled Grimshaw’s words to her, ‘we don’t do much glamour’.

During the short sleep on the mattress, which was as uncomfortable as it looked, she actually dreamt in German and vividly visualised her and Ivana Ibirika meeting for the first time. It would be a sudden splattering of the rain against the windows that awoke her awoke her.

"Come on Fräulein Jennika Spelling it’s time to see what you’re made of." She said aloud.

At number forty and further along Heidenplatz, Ibirika paced back and forth as her mobile phone rang out and she waited for Grimshaw to pick up.

At last. She whispered. Finally we’ve got some movement Uncle.

"I’d thought that you’d abandoned us Ibirika." Grimshaw moaned with a hint of sarcasm.

Would I? Anyhow, I monitored a late trade just before leaving the Liberec. The central Neubau Bank account was credited with just below one hundred thousand Euros. She explained as she pulled at the string of her white thong. Almost immediately it was divided and distribution to the three subsidiary Neubau companies. She said and sat down on her apartment sofa.

"And the investment source Ibirika?"

This one was from a México Adventure Travel company and their Panama account. She explained as she stood up to check her makeup in the mirror behind the sofa. Also, I had a request to change the authorised signatories earlier from Carlos Ruiz and Astrid Peleska here in Vienna to a Juliette Harmon in the US and a Sir Alan Oliver who’s stated as a UK resident.

"Is all of this supposed to mean anything to me Ibirika?"

Please Uncle. She mocked as she stood back to admire her near naked self in the mirror. It means that this Harmon and Oliver, whoever they are… they’re now in control of the Ruiz funds from Adventure whatever. It might be that they could be simply very trusted investment advisors to your Ruiz people or, well maybe, they’re being set up to take any fall out for these Euros should the authorities attention be alerted.

"And why shouldn’t they be alerted Ibirika?"

Because the transaction was just a little below the automatic trigger level so somebody would have to inform the authorities directly of suspicious activity. Surely you know that?

"That’s what you’re being paid to know Ibirika. He replied with frustration in his voice. You find out if the Liberec does anything for a company called Adventure Global Investments Ibirika."

Is that something to do with this Oliver or Harmon? She asked as she adjusted the string of her thong over her hips. Because if it is… .

"Just do it Ibirika."

I was going to say that Alan Oliver, he’s pretty well known over here as being a big time investor amongst certain circles Uncle.

Is that right?

Even Jena Carter in my, sorry, the Liberec office which I share with her at the Bank knows about Alan Oliver.

Oh really? Grimshaw mumbled and rolled his finger tips over his tired and closed eyes. What he could not explain was that Jena Carter was already on the SIS ‘to watch’ list.

Carter is involved somehow with some on-line community called MyGoodFriends.de which seems to be fronted here in Austria by a woman called…

Astrid Peleska.

You’ve heard of it then? Ibirika remarked with surprise. They claim to have a lot of pretty influential people signed up which might help us Uncle.

"Cut the bull shit, just what is it that you’re angling for here Ibirika?"

I kind of, you know, put through an on-line application with a profile to this MyGoodFriends.de. It was just a few saucy photos with some words about my boring life as a Bank employee and they responded with an invitation to their next event in… .

Salzburg? Grimshaw interrupted with a sigh.

It’s a perfect opportunity Uncle.

"I’m not sure for what Ibirika. You’re a background operative for Christ’s sake and need support which I can’t, at this moment, find the resources for."

Surely Uncle, it’s a simply a weekend away where I could make some good contacts. Everything is respectable and strictly business. So I have a yes for Salzburg right?

"Bugger you Ibirika . . . . you… ."

Thanks Uncle and I promise I’ll be really careful. She interrupted then immediately closed the connection and yelped out in excitement.

In London, Grimshaw shook his head at his silent phone then before he dialled Gold he finished his beer and downed a whisky chaser.

Spelling arrived at the Waldmuller Bar & Disco a little over an hour before Ibirika. The bar was quite empty when Spelling took ownership of a bar stool as the last of collar and tie early evening clientele prepared to leave. She listened to the DJ on the podium run through his sound checks and then watched him as he then occupied a bar stool whilst he talked at length to the barman whom she had discovered was called Bertie.

Over the following minutes Spelling began to notice that the clientele numbers inside of the Waldmuller began to swell but what gradually became quite evident was these new customers were the most part only women.

It was as the DJ returned to the podium that Spelling spotted Bertie fiddle with a control panel and the general lighting in the Waldmuller became subdued and then suddenly numerous orange and blue strobe lights began to alternatively flash from the ceiling. The bar instantly became alive and as excruciatingly loud hip-bop music bounced off the walls the majority of the women clientele flocked to the small dance floor.

"Fräulein Ivana!?" Spelling heard Bertie shout enthusiastically over the music.

Spelling studied her target, who was dressed in a fitted black business jacket and skirt with open necked blouse, lean over the bar. She cupped a hand around her mouth and Spelling heard her shout over the music, ‘My usual Bertie’ after which she slowly turned and made eye contact with Spelling.

Spelling threw an arm over her face to shield her eyes from the rays of a pale morning sun that filtered into Ibirika’s bedroom. Memories of leaving the Waldmuller that previous night were somewhat hazy, though she could recall the rush of cold air and rain on her cheeks before collapsing into a cab.

"Good morning Jennika." Ibirika purred into Spelling’s ear.

"Goodness me Ivana don’t the birds around here ever give up squawking?"

"That’s more probably last night’s vodka Jennika." Ibirika remarked as she rolled her self over Spelling’s naked breasts to reach out and turn off her mobile phone alarm. "We had quite a night of it Jennika. She said and swivelled around to sit up on the edge of the bed where she caught sight of the hickey bruising on her neck and collar bones. Oh you bitch."

What? Spelling enquired sleepily as she raised her sticky face from under the quilt and squinted to see Ibirika stand and move over to the wardrobe mirror.

I’ve got bites all over me and a bristle rash for Christ’s sake. Ibirika complained but simultaneously grinned as she threw her discarded blouse over Spelling’s face. "You’re a bad, bad girl."

I’m… it just kind of happened. Spelling apologised with a giggle. Are you going?

"I’m a mess Jennika and simply stink of sex." Ibirika remarked with a smirk as she moved to the bedroom doorway. I’ll take a shower first and leave a razor out for you. She advised and wrinkled her nose before she turned away.

Spelling wasted not a moment after she heard the shower jets. She grabbed Ibirika’s mobile, took it to her handbag where she left it below the television and retrieved her phone and a device to device cable. Within seconds she had connected the two phones and copied across Ibirika’s entire contact book.

It was as she replaced her phone into her bag that her knee brushed against the TV’s front control panel and it popped open. As she stooped down to tap the panel back into position, alarms bells rang in her thoughts. Adjacent to the TV remote perspex sensor, the stand bye indicator light had been replaced with a micro video lens.

You bastards. Spelling cursed quietly. I hope you Peeping Toms enjoyed the show.

"The shower’s free Jennika!" Ibirika shouted out from the bathroom.

Ibirika gave Spelling the briefest of kisses before she climbed into the waiting taxi cab outside of her Heidenplatz apartment block. As Spelling waved to the cab that sped off, above her Vienna’s pale yellow morning sky threatened yet more rain that day.

‘I’m not cut out for this lesbian shit.’ Spelling mumbled to her self with self doubt as she walked across the road into the Waldmuller recreational park.

She slumped down on the first wooden bench she found and stared across the manicured lawns. In the distance a grass strimmer powered up and sent birds shrieking into the sky. As she was about to close her eyes she heard her mobile phone bleep several times indicating she had received two text messages which awaited her attention.

The first message welcomed her to the Austrian phone network but it was the second from Grimshaw that somewhat intrigued her. ‘Overland cargo shipment via Tilbury Shogun is stationary. Located in Operngasse 364. You’re requested to confirm.’

2.1.3. UK

I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of the night Sir. Grimshaw said with a humbleness of tone that he rarely adopted.

"Don’t you ever sleep man?" Frederick Marsh grumbled as he lifted Lolika Polanski’s hand off of his groin and wriggled away from her so he could sit up in his bed.

"I thought you ought to know Sir that Ibirika has an intro into the MyGoodFriends operation."

Salzburg?

Sir. Grimshaw answered with an element of surprise in his tone of voice.

I make it a point to know what the Ruiz people are up too Uncle. Marsh whispered. Has this invitation been via Astrid Peleska by chance?

Yes Sir and there’s a reasonable chance for her to get close to this guy Alan Oliver.

She’ll be lucky. Marsh replied as he glanced down at the young Polanski who reached up her hand to play with his chest hairs. He’s not known for that kind of thing Uncle. You’ll have to keep a close watch on that woman.

"But at the same time I ought to give her some slack Sir, she is being proactive after all."

Ok, give the woman some rope… Marsh replied as Polanski’s head disappeared under the bed quilt. "You ensure that she understands that officially we’re not even over there Uncle."

Sir. Grimshaw sighed and rolled his eyes upward. Oh, there’s just one thing Sir.

Oh please. Marsh gasped as Polanski’s mouth engulfed his erection.

"I’ve some feedback from Ibirika about that Lolika Polanski you asked about."

And?

It was a bit of a surprise but yes she is connected to Fernando Ruiz in that he had an account at the Liberec set up for her years ago and sighed as a parent. This of course makes Peleska and Polanski related Sir.

Jesus. Marsh complained as Polanski’s teeth scraped up and down his stiff manhood.

"That’s exactly what I said when I was told me Sir."

That’s not what I meant. Marsh said as Polanski’s face reappeared from under his quilt and her hands caressed his testicles. You’ve… you’ve… He stammered as his semen spurted below the quilt into Polanski’s hands.

I won’t disturb you any further Sir. Grimshaw said quickly.

Sure. Marsh replied dismissively.

"And I’ll keep tabs on Ibirika." Grimshaw commented and sighed in relief that Marsh had not challenged him, particularly as he was fully aware that Ibirika was already on the move.

Have you noticed how little wildlife we have in the garden these days Janet? Howell asked of his wife. He shielded his eyes from the morning sunshine which sparkled over the manicured lawn of their home