Skin for Skin: Bitter enemies. What will they risk for their loved ones?

By David Knight

Terry Bannister, tough, mean and not too fussed about the law, is not happy. Firstly, he barely survived a firefight in Sydney with his enemy Jack Martin the rescue by Jack and his buddies of Jack’s daughter from Terry’s clutches. And secondly, he is out of a job after the collapse of the shady bank he was working for.

But thes

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Knight Novels
• Release date: Apr 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648305316

David Knight

David has helped to conduct Spiritual Development and healing circles for over 25 years. He has also been a guest speaker - sharing his enlightened experiences to promote ‘oneness’- at various Mind, Body and Spirit engagements across the UK. Through inner-dictation, dream interpretation, meditation, mindfulness, pre-cognition and healing, the books he co-writes with Spirit provide you with the foundation to discover your own path of truth. With a renewed sense of purpose, the Spiritual Guidance and Education you receive can help you reach the goal of self-realization and bliss within the permanence of love and light.David is tee-total and a vegetarian, who loves sunshine, nature, animals and his wife!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Saint Emilion Region, South East France, Late 1981

Jack Curtiss, formerly known as Jack Martin, awakes to the sound of silence. Quietly he gets out of bed, leaving Jenna, his wife, still sleeping. Jack, naked, tiptoes to the bedroom window and peers out through the shutters of their restored two storey French villa. What he sees is sunshine. He smiles.

It is a mild Sunday morning in mid-September 1981, almost two years since the Martin/Curtiss family had to flee their home in Australia to escape the aftermath of the terrifying kidnap of daughter Natalie by Jack’s nemesis Terry Bannister. They have made their home in a small French hamlet called Brunet, in the famous southern France wine region of Saint Emilion, through a World War I link between Jenna’s grandfather and a French soldier named Jean-Michele Moreau. As they both speak passable French learnt in school, it is as good a place to hide as anywhere. Jean-Michel’s son Claude and daughter-in-law Lidia, both lawyers, have helped the Curtiss family to establish a new life, with Jenna getting involved in wine making because she was not permitted under French law to continue her career as a nurse.

Hearing a sigh behind him, Jack turns. Jenna has just sat up in bed, letting the sheet fall to her waist, exposing a pair of perky breasts. He quickly becomes hard, remembering the night before. Jenna looks at her husband and notices his arousal. She giggles. ‘Down boy, you’re insatiable. Anyway, what are you doing at the window?’

Slightly deflated, Jack still manages to grin. ‘Good news, sweetheart. It’s stopped raining.’

Jenna gives a squeal of delight and jumps out of bed and crosses to the window. ‘Fantastic! Oh, I hope the grapes aren’t too damaged. Let’s go and see.’

Jenna has every right to be concerned about the grapes being grown on their ancient walled property called Clos Brunet. It has been pouring with rain for four days over the whole of the Aquitaine region, and the impact on the grapes could be horrendous. A disease called Noble Rot could spoil them just before harvest time.

‘Don’t you want Marcel to look them over?’ replies Jack. Marcel LaPierre, slim, sort and a charmer, is a local wine growing expert who passionate about the terrior, the unique characteristics that have given Clos Brunet, located near the famous Saint Emilion region near Bordeaux, its reputation for premium grapes. Well, that was until ten years ago, when the previous owner, now dead, grew too old and infirm to keep up the standard. That’s where Claude had stepped in and used his influence to secure the property.

‘Good idea, my love’, replied Jenna, reaching for some clothes. I’ll call him straightaway. He’s only five minutes away and he isn’t a churchgoer. You get Natalie breakfast and I’ll meet you near the caves’.

‘What about your breakfast’, protested Jack but it was too late. Jenna had already gone. Sighing, he dressed and went to find their daughter. 

Seven-year-old Natalie is sitting cross legged on the floor in the sun room watching a French TV show. Her command of French is much better than her parents; her youth and enrolment in the École Primaire, primary school, in Libourne providing constant exposure to the language has helped. She looks up and smiles. ‘Bonjour, Papa’, she greets him.

‘Bonjour to you too, Nat’, Jack replies mostly in English. He and Jenna prefer to speak their native tongue at home, so Natalie doesn’t forget it. ‘How did you sleep?’

Natalie frowns. ‘I had a bad dream.’

Jack goes to her and gives her a hug. ‘Remember what we talked about, darling.’ Jack is referring to the occasional nightmares Nat used to have which her parents attributed to the trauma of being kidnapped by Terry Bannister and his henchman named Dozer in Sydney in late 1979. In the rescue attempt Susie and Dozer were killed and Terry left for dead. Jack’s Vietnam War sniper skills and several close mates had saved Natalie.

Natalie squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Yes, daddy, but sometimes the black-haired monster comes back.’ 

‘Well, my sweet, remember what mommy and I said. If it does, try your hardest to imagine that a really big truck comes along and buries your monster under a very thick layer of concrete. The concrete is that thick that the monster can never get through it and harm you.’

‘Okay, daddy’, Natalie says dubiously. Then her face brightens. ‘Can I have a croissant for breakfast?’

Jack laughs. ‘Sure. Want to help me make it?’

Thirty minutes later Jack walks down a set of stone steps to a series of shallow limestone caves set into a small hill near the rear of the villa. He can see ahead to a shallow valley which contains row upon row of vines extending to a line of trees on a low hill to the south. There is a break in the vines about one hundred and fifty metres away which marks one of the boundaries of Clos Brunet. The remnants of a low wall a similar distance at right angles to the first boundary marked the other edge. 

Jack hears voices speaking in French coming from the furthest cave. As he nears Jenna and Marcel emerge, speaking in serious tones. They stop when they see Jack.

‘What’s the story?’ asks Jack in French.

Jenna shrugs and gestures wordlessly to Marcel.

‘I think there is some rot’, says Marcel. ‘That is the bad news.’

‘Is there any good news?’ asks Jack.

‘Well, the rot is confined to only about ten percent of the vines. The rest appear to be okay, but there will be a delay in the grapes ripening and the flavour will be diluted. Unfortunately, Clos Brunet will not have a great vintage this year.’

Jenna looked close to tears, so Jack goes to comfort her. ‘Easy, girl, it’s not the end of the world. Hopefully next year will be better.’ She clings to him and starts to sob. Marcel looks away, embarrassed.

Pulling gently at his wife’s arms, Jack urges: ‘Come on, let’s go inside and I’ll cook you some breakfast.  Marcel, do you want some?’

Marcel shakes his head. ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Madame. I wish it was different. I must go. Others will need my advice.’

Jenna smiles through her tears. ‘Thank you for coming, Marcel. I will talk to you later.’

Inside, Jack busies himself in the spacious kitchen as Jenna sat listlessly on a chair. ‘Come on, darling, cheer up. We can’t let the rain get us down.’ He has a thought. ‘Why don’t we go into Libourne and watch the water? I’ll bet there is a flood. It will help take your mind off the grapes.’

Jenna glances at Natalie, who is nodding her head eagerly. She does not have the heart to tell her husband that seeing all that water will do the exact opposite. ‘Alright, let’s go. Natalie, get dressed and clean your teeth please.’

In Libourne, an old city built on the junction of the Dordogne and Isle rivers, a large crowd has gathered in the still warm sunshine to watch the swiftly running waters of the two rivers merge in a jumble of muddy brown waves and whirlpools. As the Curtiss family reach the riverbank upstream from where the rivers join, Natalie spots her schoolfriend Giselle and runs off to play with her. Giselle’s father, a burly man named Gaston who is the informal mayor of the hamlet of Brunet, ignores them and resumes chatting with some other locals. Madeleine, Giselle’s mother, an attractive woman about Jenna’s age, seems to want to talk but is pulled away by her husband.

Jack deep breath in frustration. Despite their best efforts, the locals remain aloof and barely cordial. Jenna says patiently, ‘Pay him no mind, Jack. To him and those like him, we’ll always be outsiders, even when we’ve lived here for twenty years. Just keep your eye on Natalie. She’s a bit too close to the water for my liking’.

Jack gazes out at the raging waters, at the same watching Natalie, who is having a great time playing with Giselle and some other friends. They are running along the banks of the river, screaming with excitement. Natalie is chasing Giselle, who is about ten metres in front of her. Jack moves towards his daughter to warn her about the river.

Suddenly the part of the river bank on which Giselle is running collapses, and in an instant Giselle is in the swiftly flowing water, her screams of joy transformed into hysterical cries of fear. She is thrashing wildly in the flood waters. Her mother sees Giselle in the water and screams out: ‘Giselle, my baby. Help, she can’t swim. Someone, please, help’.

Jack doesn’t hesitate. He quickly pulls off his shoes, socks and shirt and plunges into the river in a shallow racing dive. As Giselle starts to slip under the raging waters, he reaches her in a few powerful strokes, grabbing her and lifting her face clear of the waves. ‘Hang on to me, Giselle’, he shouts in French to the terrified girl.

The force of the river has swept them quickly downstream and into the main Dordogne river channel. People run along the bank, shouting words of encouragement, but Jack is unable to manoeuvre them any closer to the bank. The confluence of the two rivers creates steep waves that break chaotically over them. Jack is struggling to keep their heads out of the water. 

On the riverbank Jenna is holding Madeleine tightly, trying to stop her from plunging into the river after her daughter. Gaston has taken off along the bank, screaming out, ‘Help, help’. Natalie stands near her mother, numb with shock.

Jack is tiring quickly with the effort of keeping both their heads above the raging waves. He tries to encourage Giselle. ‘We’re fine. Someone will come very soon’, but his words are interrupted by muddy water that keeps on washing into his face.

They have been in the water for several minutes now, and the torrent has swept about four hundred metres downstream from where Jack dove in. The river is cold, but not freezing, and Jack is thankful for small mercies. Part of him rues the fact that he is no longer as young or as fit as he was when he last was involved in such a rescue as a surf lifesaver back on the beaches of Australia. However, the primitive part of his brain is fixated on staying alive and he cannot waste energy in indulging in ‘what ifs’. 

It is impossible to avoid swallowing some muddy water in the choppy conditions, but he tries to control his breathing, resisting the urge to gulp for air and thus risk ingesting more water. He mustn’t panic, or they will be dead. Giselle is no better shape, having swallowed a decent amount of water initially. Desperately he swivels his head, searching for something to hang on to, to keep them afloat. ‘Hang on’, he implores her.

Suddenly he spots the branches of a tree that is being swept downstream in the powerful current. It is about ten metres away, parallel to them. Jack starts to sidestroke towards the trunk, keeping a firm grip on Giselle. Slowly they get closer, and finally he is able to grab an outlying branch which he hangs on to for dear life. Gathering the vestiges of his reserves, he pulls them along the branch to the main trunk, and then with one last effort he hoists Giselle up onto the tree trunk so that she is partly out of the water. Jack clamps one arm around her and the trunk to hold her in place, the other arm clinging to a small branch, while he sucks in great gulps of air. ‘Don’t you let go’, he warns tiredly.

A minute later, energy levels partially restored, Jack pulls himself part way out of the water and slumps against the tee trunk, holding Giselle and murmuring words of encouragement to her. Jack prays that someone will come to get them before they collide with an obstacle and perhaps lose their grip on the tree trunk. The river banks are further apart now, and Jack can see another bridge looming ahead.

Running madly, Gaston has reached a jetty on the bank of the Dordogne where a man is working on a sturdy looking motor boat tied securely to a bollard. ‘I need help. My daughter has fallen into the water’, screams Gaston. Seeing the man hesitate, he points to the raging river. 

The man acts swiftly. ‘Get onboard’, he urges Gaston and a thick set man who has run along the river bank. 

The skipper of the boat quickly casts off and guns the powerful motor, heading out into the middle of the river. Gaston and his colleague cling on to the windscreen in the cockpit of the boat and search anxiously for the pair in the water.

Gaston spots them clinging to the tree trunk, about three hundred metres away. ‘There, on the tree’, he shouts at the boat skipper who immediately alters course. The boat quickly converges on the tree trunk, and the boat skipper skilfully manoeuvres the craft to the more sheltered side of the tree, lightly nudging up against it. Strong arms grab Giselle and pluck her from the tree trunk into the boat. Those same arms help Jack to climb on board.

Gaston wraps his big arms around Giselle, hugging her and kissing her fiercely. ‘My baby’, he whispers fiercely over and over. After putting her gently down and swaddling her in his coat, Gaston turns to Jack and hugs him, shouting: ‘Merci, merci beaucoup, mon ami’. Jack is too exhausted to respond, merely nodding his head. Gaston gives him an old blanket to put around him as the boat heads back to the jetty.

A crowd has gathered to await the boat’s return. When Giselle and Jack emerge, wet and cold but not visibly injured, the people erupt into loud cheers. A lot of kissing and back slapping follows before an ambulance, summoned by one of the townspeople, arrives to take them to the local hospital to be checked over. 

Several hours later Jack is pronounced fit enough to go home. Giselle is to be kept under observation for a few more hours, but it seems that she is none the worse for wear. Jenna and Natalie drive Jack home, happily chatting to him about the drama and its successful outcome. Jack is tired, and very, very pleased to be alive. It was a close call. After a stiff drink and a bowl of hot soup, Jack is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

The family are attending to a few chores the next morning when, just before midday, a cavalcade of vehicles suddenly enter through the gates of Clos Brunet. About fifty adults and children emerge, most from the Brunet area. The Morel family are there, as well as Gaston, Madeleine and Giselle. Everyone is carrying baskets of food and drink. 

Giselle runs to Jack, who goes down on one knee to greet her. She hugs him hard and, tears in her eyes, says quietly ‘Tu es mon heros’. You are my hero. 

Jack tears up as well, and again there are cheers from the crowd. As Giselle lets go, Madeleine steps forward and embraces him, pulling him close, kissing him full on the lips, not once but three times.

As tears streak her face, she murmurs in French: ‘I will do anything for you, Jack, anything. All you have to do is ask’. 

Embarrassed and unsure of her intent, Jack’s eyes seek Jenna’s, but to his relief she is smiling, visibly affected by this show of gratitude. Gaston takes off his cap, takes Jack’s hand and shakes it vigorously, oblivious to the fact that his strong grip is squashing Jack’s fingers. The crowd falls mute as Gaston waves his hand to silence them.  He looks Jack in the eye and, voice trembling with emotion, says: ‘Jack, my family and I will never forget what you did yesterday. The courage you displayed is tres formidable, and we will forever be in your debt’. 

Gaston pauses, and sweeps his arm around in an all-inclusive gesture. ‘I know the people here today echo these sentiments.’ Applause breaks out. Gaston speaks again: ‘Jack, I suspect many of these people here have been guilty of not showing you and your wife the friendship and respect you both deserve.  I know I am. We should be better than this, and I guarantee that in the future we will. Now, as the unofficial Mayor of Brunet, I take great pleasure in declaring you both to be citizens of this area. The bureaucrats may say you have to live here for five years, but we say they are les connards’. This translates as arseholes.

The cheers get louder as Gaston continues. ‘Now, enough of this formality. Jack, we are here to celebrate your amazing deeds yesterday. We have an abundance of food and wine. All we need is for you and your family to agree to share our feast.’ Gaston looks at Jack expectantly.

Jack glances at Jenna, who is all smiles. ‘Monsieur Le Maire … Gaston … we are pleased to accept your most generous offer.’

The crowd erupts into wild cheering and the party begins.

Later that evening, when everyone has finally left, and Natalie is in bed, Jenna and Jack sit in the lounge room and reflect on what fantastic fun the party has been. More than that, they bask in the feeling of belonging that the party has brought to them. They are very happy. 

Jenna snuggles up to Jack and, with a glint in her eye, says: ‘I saw the guilty look you gave me when Madeleine was practically licking your tonsils with her tongue, not to mention an offer that could be misinterpreted.’

Jack laughs self-consciously, and replies: ‘Yes, she was getting a little amorous, wasn’t she?’

Jenna pulls his face to hers. ‘You go anywhere near that French woman, and I’ll cut off your dangly bits with a very blunt knife.’ Seeing Jack’s reaction, she smiles at him with bedroom eyes. ‘You think that was amorous? I’ll show you amorous, my husband.’

Nine months later, in the middle of 1982, Jenna gives birth to a son they name Ben. When Jack and Jenna found out that Jenna was pregnant, they realised that the party had been successful in more ways than one. As their fears that someone might be after them recede, the Curtiss family settles into normality in France, never imagining for one moment that Jack’s nemesis Terry Bannister is alive and very much kicking.

Chapter 2

North and Latin America, Late 1981

Limping slightly on his bad leg, Terry Bannister spots his new boss Ashraf Nasr, a middle level functionary in the Bank of Credit and Commerce International, BCCI for short, waiting in the departures hall at Miami International airport. They are headed for Bogota, Colombia, on a Braniff International Airways flight.

This is the first time they have worked together. Michael Hand, the co-founder of the Australian Nugan Hand Bank had put in a good word with Ashraf after Terry and Michael had fled to the USA in early 1980 to escape the fallout from the collapse of the bank. Nugan Hand’s multimillion dollar debt had been a big incentive to get out of Dodge. Terry has been keeping a low profile until the furore has died down. There are a lot of pissed off customers out there, some of whom are heavy hitters.

With a professional haircut, manicure and shave, and dressed in one of his new suits, dark highly polished shoes and a new white shirt, Terry looks very much the businessman. Ashraf gives an admiring whistle at Terry’s getup. 

‘Wow, Terry, you look a million dollars.’

‘Thanks, Ashraf. You look your usual upmarket self’, replies Terry insincerely. He doesn’t really like his boss – Ashraf is too good looking and suave for Terry’s taste. Not to mention shallow. Still, Terry knows from bitter experience to keep his thoughts to himself. His boss may only be partway up the totem pole in the BCCI, but the bank, as Terry has learnt, is not to be fucked with. 

They board the flight which is not full, so Terry takes a seat behind Ashraf. As he buckles up his seatbelt, his mind, as it does so often, wanders back to the night in Sydney when he nearly died after Jack Martin shot him twice and left him for dead in Sydney harbour. If it hadn’t been for that guy on the Nugan Hand payroll who pulled Terry out of the water and got him to safety, and the quick thinking of his buddy Bernie Houghton, a silent partner in the now defunct bank, to get him to a doctor who owed Bernie a favour, he’d not be here now. Jack fucking Martin. He should have killed the price in Vietnam when he had the chance. Now the bastard is living somewhere with his family with his stolen millions. Terry shifts in his seat and vows for the umpteenth time to get his revenge.

He is jolted out of his revelry when Ashraf Nasr slides into the seat next to him. ‘Terry’, he says in that oily voice, ‘pay attention. I need to brief you on Pablo Escobar’. 

Terry listens to Ashraf as he drones on in a low voice about the drug lord. Pablo Escobar is a native Colombian who ostensibly is a hugely popular successful businessman. In point of fact he runs the Medellin cartel in Colombia, one of two local cartels that deal in cocaine, huge quantities of it, from production through to distribution, with most of it finding its way into the USA. Ashraf will take Terry to meet the bosses of the other cartel named after the city of Cali on another visit. When Ashraf describes the two cartel’s operations it makes anything Terry has been involved with in Australia and the Golden Triangle in Asia look like chicken shit. The Colombian cartels control most of the country, particularly the economy, and the government is powerless to stop them. They rake in millions and millions of dollars every week. Ashraf tells him that Escobar is even considering running for parliament.

Ashraf asks him if he has any questions. ‘Only two’, Terry replies. ‘Firstly, what does he want with the BCCI? Secondly, where do I fit in?’

His eyes shining brightly, Ashraf says with a hint of condescension, ‘What they all want. Our services. Our services to wash his money. As for you, well, it won’t be anything you can handle once you’re trained up’.

When Terry asks what that means, Ashraf shakes his head. ‘You’ve had your two questions, Terry. You’ll just have to wait.’ With that, Ashraf returns to his seat, leaving Terry angry but powerless to do anything about it. Seething, Terry turns his mind to his new boss and what he knows about him from the BCCI office gossip.

Born in Lebanon, Ashraf spent his childhood there before attending an Ivy League university in the USA courtesy of his well-heeled family. Banking seemed a natural choice when he graduated with honours in finance and business. After several years learning the ropes at a couple of smaller US banks, he was headhunted by the BCCI, where after training in Karachi he rose quickly to his current position. Single and prosperous, Ashraf seems to have the world at his feet. Given his boss’s smug attitude, Terry decides to find out more about him. He must have a weakness, something that Terry can exploit.

After landing in Bogota, the pair stay overnight in a smart hotel before boarding a flight to the city of Medellin the next morning. Terry and Ashraf are met inside the terminal by several hard-looking men who escort them to another part of the airport where a helicopter is waiting. The four men strap in and the pilot immediately takes off, heading away from the city. When Terry asks Ashraf where they are going, he cryptically replies: ‘Hacienda Los Napoles’.

Hacienda Los Napoles turns out to be a large, sprawling ranch about eighty miles east of Medellin. It is Pablo Escobar’s pride and joy, and he has spared no expense in developing the fifty-thousand-acre property. It has artificial lakes, an airstrip capable of handling jet aircraft, and a menagerie of exotic animals: elephants, hippos, camels, giraffes, even a kangaroo. The main building can sleep one hundred guests. Terry is gobsmacked at this ostentatious display of wealth.

The pair are settled in a large open-air room which is luxuriously appointed with leather armchairs, brightly coloured rugs, and antique desks, chairs, and tables. Ashraf points out wall mounted photographs of Pablo Escobar with prominent people. Terry recognises several film stars. 

The man in question enters the room. Ashraf, speaking in fluent Spanish which Terry cannot understand, thanks Escobar for making the time to speak to them, and introduces Terry. As he shakes hands with Pablo Escobar Terry can’t help thinking that the man does not look at all dangerous. Short and dumpy in stature, he has dark wavy hair and an engaging smile in a round face punctuated by a thick moustache. Even his eyes seem friendly.

A servant appears with coffee, and when it is served Escobar and Ashraf launch into a lengthy incomprehensible conversation interspersed by occasional laughter. Feeling excluded, Terry casually glances out of the window. There are armed guards patrolling the house and surrounds, and he can hear young kids splashing and playing in the swimming pool.

After about twenty minutes a man enters the room and quietly speaks into Escobar’s ear. Escobar says something to Ashraf in an apologetic tone and leaves with the man. Seeing Terry’s questioning look, Ashraf tells him that Escobar is taking a phone call, then in a low voice gives him a quick summary of what they have been talking about. 

‘He is prepared to use the BCCI to park a considerable amount of cash, but in return, as I surmised, he wants us to assist him to shift large sums of money from the USA to Columbia. I told him that this would not be a problem given the very liberal banking laws operating in the Caymans, which as you know is our base. All we need to do now is to negotiate the bank’s cut of the action. Oh, and he wants access to some sophisticated communications technologies and a variety of electronic surveillance devices, along with a few other toys. I told him you would help out there.’

‘You what?’ exclaims an astonished Terry. ‘I don’t know the first thing about any of that stuff.’

‘Relax, Terry, you will. In the next six months you are going to learn a hell of a lot about not only communications and surveillance, called CS I am told, but also how to break into the most secure building, and even how to interrogate someone without resorting to the same level of violence you displayed recently on Grand Cayman.’ Ashraf was referring to a little test he had set Terry when Michael Hand, well known in banking circles for all the wrong reasons, had suggested to Ashraf that he might like to employ Terry because of his special skills. Despite his injured leg, Terry had easily taken out two rent-a-thugs when they had attacked him on Ashraf’s instructions.

Terry is left to mull over Ashraf’s words as Pablo Escobar re-enters the room and resumes his discussions with Ashraf.

Less than an hour later they are back in the helicopter on the way back to Medellin, where they will take the late afternoon flight to Bogota. Terry is silent, listening distractedly to Ashraf’s excited chatter about how many millions the BCCI will make each year from this arrangement.

Not caring about this, Terry abruptly interrupts Ashraf. ‘How the hell am I going to get this training?’

Ashraf replies obliquely: ‘Why in the USA of course. They have the technology, and anything can be purchased there for a price.’

On a high after his successful meeting with Escobar, Ashraf takes Terry to a very upmarket Bogota restaurant that evening for dinner. Champagne flows liberally, and before long Terry is caught up in the celebrations. A couple of friendly women join them, and Terry has only vague memories of the rest of the night when he awakens alone in his hotel room the next morning.

Terry can only stomach black coffee and a piece of toast for breakfast, but Ashraf seems unaffected by the previous night’s festivities. Terry nurses his hangover while Ashraf makes several phone calls to his boss at the BCCI, speaking in some sort of code so not to alert anyone who might be listening in.

They catch a midday flight to Panama City, several hundred miles north. Terry is forced to concentrate as Ashraf briefs him on the man they are to meet with.  Manual Noriega is a Coronel in the military intelligence arm of the Army of Panama. He aspires to achieve much higher rank and is an important cog in the Army dictatorship that rules Panama. Ashraf says Noriega is openly corrupt and has agreed to discuss the prospect of the BCCI setting up a branch in Panama. This of course would require a serious bribe, and Ashraf’s business is to negotiate this. Noriega may want other concessions, too.

When they arrive at Customs, the pair is met by several armed soldiers who check their identities and lead them past the long queue and through a door into the airport proper. They are escorted to a jeep waiting outside the terminal. 

After nearly an hour of fighting through the chaotic traffic, the jeep pulls up outside a plush looking high-rise hotel with views over Panama Bay. The soldiers gesticulate to Ashraf and Terry that they are to go inside. A porter rushes out and takes their bags, escorting them through the sumptuous hotel foyer to reception. An English-speaking employee asks for their names and welcomes them to the hotel. He beckons a well-dressed man lounging nearby.

The man smiles at them and addresses them in accented English. ‘Señor Nasr and Señor Bannister, welcome to Panama City.  My name is Rafael. The porter will take your bags to your rooms. Would you please accompany me? Coronel Noriega is waiting for you. Would you like to freshen up first?’ 

Ashraf and Terry politely decline and follow Rafael to a bank of elevators. An armed soldier standing nearby salutes them as Rafael produces a key and inserts it into a lock. The elevator doors open. Rafael smiles apologetically and says: ‘You understand that there is tight security here. The Coronel has many enemies, and one cannot be too careful. I’m sure you will not object to my frisking you both?’ 

Ashraf and Terry acquiesce, obeying the rules of the game. Rafael completes his search, then presses a button, and the elevator rises quickly and silently. It stops and the doors open, revealing a large room, undoubtedly the main living area of the hotel penthouse, with the wall furthest from the elevator made entirely of glass through which Terry can see an expansive view of the ocean. The expensive looking furnishings are luxuriously tasteful. A big guy armed with a pistol stands near the lift entrance. Sitting on a cream coloured leather couch is a uniformed man, a waiter hovering nearby. The uniformed man rises as Rafael ushers Terry and Ashraf towards him. Rafael does the introductions. ‘Señor Nasr and Señor Bannister, may I introduce Coronel Noriega.’ 

The three shake hands, Terry sizing Noriega up as he does so. Ashraf and Terry tower above the much smaller Panamanian, but he shows no sign of discomfort. Noriega has a cruel, pock marked face framed with black hair. His uniform, which has Colonel’s pips on each shoulder, is immaculate. Terry is under no illusion that that this man is any less dangerous or treacherous than Pablo Escobar.

Rafael does the translating from Spanish to English and back, which suits Terry - he will hear the gist of the conversation first hand for a change. Terry sits back and watches the interplay between Noriega and Ashraf. Initially Noriega seems touchy and his face is set in a perpetual scowl, whereas the urbane Ashraf is just the opposite. Well, Ashraf is the seller, and Noriega is the buyer, so that makes sense. 

As the discussion proceeds, Ashraf seems to be getting through to Noriega, who appears more relaxed and is even smiling occasionally. Ashraf is rather good at what he does, Terry concedes. The pair is now talking about the possibility of the BCCI opening a branch in Panama City. Noriega seems to be pleased with this, and nods enthusiastically. Terry is not surprised when Ashraf offers Noriega the same deal for equipment – communications and surveillance gear - that Pablo Escobar has requested. Noriega accepts with alacrity and Ashraf names Terry as the intermediary.

Noriega looks Terry up and down and says coldly, via Rafael’s translation: ‘Señor, you had better deliver. The equipment is vital. In my country, failure is met with death’. A cold hand squeezes Terry’s heart. This man is not to be fucked with.

After the meeting Rafael escorts them back to the hotel lobby and into a waiting jeep. They are due to catch an evening flight to Miami. 

Once onboard the plane, sipping on a cold beer and very relieved to be away from the cold fish that is Noriega, Terry asks Ashraf about why the CS equipment is important to Noriega. Ashraf, relaxed and smiling, replies haughtily: ‘Coronel Noriega lofty ambitions. He wants to be El Presidente and that equipment will help him keep track of those who don’t share his aspirations’.

‘And of course, we’re going to help him do that’, replies Terry sourly.

‘Business is business’, states Ashraf dismissively, ‘the bank has a policy of backing winners, and Noriega is odds-on in Panama’.

Terry resolves to be very careful around Noriega. He changes the subject, asking about the training he is to receive in the States.

‘Ah, Terry, your education will be very exciting and interesting. In Miami you will meet the one and only Samuel Heinrich, a legend in the arcane world of communications and surveillance. He will teach you everything you need to know about these matters’.

Ashraf lowers his voice and whispers as if he is sharing a secret. ‘And Terry, you will meet the beautiful Kalila, who will teach you some Spanish, as she did for me. But a word of warning, my friend, Kalila may be extraordinarily pretty and smart as a whip, but she is spoken for. You may look, but don’t touch. Is that clear?’

Terry nods and drinks his beer. Things are looking up, apart from Noriega. He wonders about this Kalila woman.

Chapter 3

Saint Emilion Region, France, 1982

After learning she was pregnant, Jenna had decided to put on hold her planned study of oenology, the science of wine making, and viniculture, the science of grape growing and harvesting at the University of Bordeaux’s Ecole Supérieure d'Oenologie. She would resume when the baby was old enough.

Jenna, her conscience already troubled about the money that Jack had stolen from the Nugan Hand Bank, had confronted her husband when they learned that Nugan Hand had gone belly up. ‘Jack, we have to give the money back. We can’t keep it. Think of the honest customers who may have been robbed of their life savings. I’ve got some sense of what they are going through, from our our own experience. We have to help them’. 

Her expression becomes defiant, something he is well used to after eight years of marriage. ‘Jack, I am deadly serious about this. I hate giving ultimatums, but it’s the money or me. I can’t live this sort of life knowing that we have failed to help people in need when we have the means to do so. If you decide you can’t agree, then I will take Nat back to Australia and we’ll take our chances there with the new baby. I love you, Jack, you know I do. But my conscience dictates that I must make a stand for what I think is right.’

Jack is not surprised at her expression of sympathy for the innocent victims of the bank’s fraudulent behaviour, not to mention his. But he is shocked at her determination to give up her new life if he doesn’t accede to her stipulation. Part of him admires the fact that it is so like this woman to want to do the right thing as she sees it, even if it may cost her marriage, their future, or even their lives. But both must face reality. They can’t live without money and sticking blindly to a principle will do little to give his family a chance here, or indeed anywhere. He believes he may have a compromise that she will agree to, but he will need to tread carefully.

He takes a deep breath. ‘Jenna, I understand where you’re coming from. And I agree, mostly. But,’ he holds up his hand to forestall her response, ‘we are also victims of this bank and the people who operated it. They organised the kidnapping of our child, for Christ’s sake, and they did their best to ruin us and then kill us’.

He pauses, and grasps her hands in his, searching her face for any clue that he is getting through to her. Jenna’s face betrays nothing. Jack knows that he has to offer a significant concession to sway her. ‘Can I suggest a compromise? Something that will still enable all the money to be returned to the innocent people who are victims like us. Will you listen to me, Jenna, please?’

Jack sees something soften in her eyes, and she nods. ‘Jenna, how about we