Mission Jaguar Page 2

  James’s grandfather, Edwin Blake, had been the founder of the Lumos Energy company — one of the nastiest, most corrupt organisations on the planet. It had been behind the death of Beck’s parents, and James had eventually helped Beck bring Edwin down, after seeing the truth about his family.

  “I heard that your grandfather disinherited you?”

  “Yes that’s very true — but luckily I’d already inherited my mother’s share of the business and he couldn’t touch that.” He paused. “My grandfather died knowing I would inherit a fortune. It must have made his end even more bitter.”

  Winslow glared.

  James continued, as cool as ice.

  “So, can we agree that when I say that I can get you a very expensive barrister, I mean it?”

  Chapter Four

  “Who’s Ric Valcarcel?” Beck asked on the train back home. The first class compartment was empty apart from the three of them. James had bought the tickets. It meant that they could sit around a table and talk in privacy. “I get the feeling I should have heard of him.”

  Finally, after so long, they had a name. The inducement of an expensive barrister had helped jog it loose from Winslow’s memory. Most adoptions were done through proper agencies, with proper checks, and were all completely legal, but Dian’s was different, illegal and expensive. Winslow had met Valcarcel at a charity event and done the deal over a drink or three at the bar.

  “I remember Valcarcel,” Al said thoughtfully. “South American pop star, one hit wonder round about the time you were born. He made number one in most countries around the world, teenage kids everywhere screaming his name, raked in millions — and vanished. He would never have been eligible to adopt an English child.”

  James had been tapping away at his iPad and now he had found what he was after.

  “Ricardo Duarte Valcarcel. Brazilian dad, American mum, born in Rio de Janeiro,” he reported. “Says here: ‘After his taste of fame, Valcarcel declared his intention of investing in the spiritual and cultural development of his native Latin America. The result was the opening of the exclusive Jaguar Studios in the heart of the Guatemalan rain forest, dedicated to transcending national boundaries and furthering the musical and performing arts of the continent.’ Oh, and here he is.”

  He slid the tablet over to Beck and Al and they found themselves looking at a slender thirty-something man: dark hair that would have been curly if it wasn’t close cropped, designer stubble and cool, calculating eyes.

  “And his family?” Al asked.

  “Working on it.” James went back to work on the iPad.

  “So why would he buy an English baby?” Beck asked. “When he had all that, fame, fortune …”

  Al thought.

  “Well, maybe he wanted a Western child as a cultural status thing for him in Guatemala — or maybe he genuinely believed Dian was an orphan and that he could be a kind, loving father to her? Either way, he must have known he was breaking the law.”

  Beck pulled a face. Ever since he had learned Dian might still be alive, he also had to live with the possibility that she might be perfectly happy where she was.

  “First wife was English but she died of cancer,” James reported, reading from the screen. “She died a year after they got Dian. He’s been remarried twice since then. Number two was American, and he’s just divorced number three who is Mexican. One daughter …”

  His face went still.

  “And here she is,” he said quietly. “Only, she’s called Anita now.” He turned the iPad back around and, for the first time in fourteen years, Beck saw his sister.

  Chapter Five

  It must have been taken at some kind of party — maybe the kind that the teenage daughters of retired millionaire pop stars went to. There was a pool in the background, and everything was bright and sunny and there was lots of splashing going on.

  The dark-haired girl in the foreground seemed to be somehow apart from it all. She cradled a soft drink in her hands but it was untouched and her mouth was a straight line. Her eyes were hidden by sunglasses so that it was impossible to tell if she was looking at the camera or slightly to one side, and you couldn’t read any expression to fill in the last piece of what she was actually thinking.

  Beck and Al looked at her for about a minute.

  “Well,” Al said eventually, “we know at least one thing. Until we make contact with her, Beck stays well away. You look too alike — anyone else would notice the similarity immediately. That’s if we even find her.”

  He looked up at James and coughed to clear his throat.

  “James …” He seemed to force the words out reluctantly. “I can’t deny how I’ve felt about you, and you’ve known it. I didn’t want you brought into this but Beck insisted. And now, well, I have to say thank you. We couldn’t have done this without you.” He paused. “You played your part to perfection.”

  “Hey, no worries,” James said casually. Then he pulled a face. “You know, I still don’t like helping out a scumbag like him.”

  “It’s what we said we would do,” Al said simply. “It’s one way we stay better than our enemies — we do better to them than they would ever do to us, even when it sticks in our throat.”

  James shrugged. “So, what do we do now?” he asked.

  Al frowned.

  “We?”

  “Well, yeah? We’ve come this far—”

  Al held his hand up.

  “James — thanks, but this is family business now and it may well get ugly. You have done enough, and for that we are grateful.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “James, no, I’m sorry. I’m putting my foot down.”

  James looked genuinely sad and looked away, shaking his head slowly — as if deep in emotion.

  Then he pulled the iPad back and started browsing. “Look at you two. Grangers Against the World.”

  Beck wanted to say something — anything — but he wasn’t sure what. He could understand James being upset. He could also understand Al drawing a line. James was a great guy — one of the best — but he wasn’t family and there was no need to draw him into the dangers that inevitably would lie ahead.

  “Can we leave it that you are there for us if we need your help, James?” he asked.

  “You mean my money,” James replied.

  Beck felt a pang of awkwardness.

  “No, James.” Uncle Al interjected. “We just don’t want you to have to get more involved than is needed. That’s all. It is for your own good. So, what do we do?” Al continued. He paused, then he answered his own question. “We find out. We have to know more. We have to learn if Dian’s happy. I mean Anita. We have to go to Guatemala. See for ourselves. We can’t leave this up to some investigator, and I don’t want to alert the authorities. Not until we know.” He paused.

  “We need to find a way of getting close to her and her stepfather. Right up close,” said Beck.

  James coughed.

  “We need to somehow observe her stepfather as a family man,” Al agreed. He went on, thinking out loud. “Maybe we wangle a meeting. I’m associated with Green Force and could contact him for a contribution …” He sighed. “But he’ll get begging letters all the time — all rich folk do.” Al was lost in thought.

  James coughed again — a long, throaty rumble lasting several seconds. Al didn’t try to hide his irritation.

  “Something to say?”

  James smiled.

  “Use your assets, my granddad used to tell me. You guys know this millionaire kid, more money than sense, fancies a music career, wants to invest in a really cool music studio.” James paused. “Is a fan of South American pop history.” He spread his arms out and his smile grew wider. “I mean, what could go wrong?”

  Chapter Six

  Dian’s story.

  The volcanoes loomed on the horizon beyond Guatemala City.

  They had seen them as the jet came in to land, and she could still catch glimpses of them between the city’s high rises
, through the tinted windows of the air conditioned limo as it whisked them downtown. They were fifty kilometres away but still looked close.

  Somehow the city always looked to her like it was only there on good behaviour. The vibrant greens of the jungle canopy stretched into it, reaching down the avenues and into the heart of the town. It was like the rain forest was saying it could reclaim the buildings at a moment’s notice.

  This was Guatemala, after all — in the language of the Mayans and Toltecs who had lived here before the Europeans came, the very word meant ‘Land of the Trees’.

  But the trees couldn’t touch the volcanoes. They were massive ash grey cones, three kilometres high, hazy but deadly. The Fuego volcano was still active; just earlier in the year it had erupted again, sending columns of lava and smoke seven kilometres into the sky.

  She hadn’t actually seen it happen. Ric had kept them all safely back at the studio in the middle of the jungle. To the rest of the world, Jaguar was a state of the art recording and production environment but to her it was home. Or a gilded cage. Look at it whichever way.

  And after today, she might never see the volcanoes again.

  She carefully didn’t smile at the thought, or cross her fingers, or let herself show any outward sign at all. No. Let Ric go on thinking this was just like any other city visit, all the way up until the moment he realised it wasn’t.

  “So, what are you going to do in town, Anita?” Ric asked. “Where do you want Silvio to take you?”

  Ric sat in the rear-facing seats, alone as always. She and Silvio, whom she privately regarded as living proof that humans were descended from apes, and in some cases very closely, sat facing forwards. Silvio turned his head and regarded her with dead eyes.

  “Why does Silvio have to take me anywhere, Ric?” she asked.

  As a young child, Ric had always insisted she call him ‘Dad’, in English, not Spanish. She had never liked this. It felt weird. Everyone else called their fathers ‘papa’ in Guatemala.

  Instead, ever since the age of nine, she had started to call him Ric. Using his name instead was a small victory for her against her father’s anger and dominance over her — and she stuck to it. It helped put distance between them. “I think I can do my own shopping. I will then meet you for lunch.”

  “Nuh-huh.” Ric had perfected the art of smiling with his mouth in a dead straight line. He didn’t look up from his tablet, just shook his head once.

  “Do you have any idea what I’m worth, my little princess? No, you are too valuable — to me and to others who won’t have your best interests at heart in this city. I am wealthy and that makes me — and you — a target.” He paused, as if holding back his annoyance. “Stop fighting against that fact.”

  “Silvio,” Ric continued, “Anita is going to Galerías Concepción. Usual spending limit. No more discussion.”

  “Sure, Señor Valcarcel.”

  “We’ll meet there for lunch at one, after I’m done with the clinic. Deal?”

  She knew the form. She also knew how to return his flat smile.

  “Okay, Ric. Okay.”

  A pause settled on the limo and she knew Ric was waiting for something.

  She wasn’t going to say it.

  He looked at her, expectantly.

  No, she wasn’t going to say it.

  He kept looking.

  “Thanks,” she heard herself say.

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled coldly.

  * * *

  The limo dropped her and Silvio off a block before the mall. It was an overcast day, with the humidity trapped and compressed between a layer of clouds and the ground below. She looked forward to reaching the air conditioned sanctuary of the mall.

  A skinny little boy — about ten, barefoot, scruffy t-shirt and shorts — squatted by the doors to a department store, minding his business quietly but watching the passers-by with eyes like a hawk.

  She knew what he was the moment she set eyes on him. A street kid with no parents but a thousand brothers and sisters, his home probably a storm pipe somewhere. A boy who had learnt his street survival before he could talk. He would be waiting with infinite patience for some rich person to emerge laden down with bags which he could offer to carry to their taxi for a couple of centavos. Failing that, he might just relieve them of a little wealth by more direct, but less honest means.

  He would be out of luck with them — no way was Silvio going to let her part with any of the Señor’s money. But she always knew how to help these kids in the small way she could. It was part of her rebellion against her father — against the system — her way of making a positive difference. A phrase that her father would laugh at always.

  And so she carefully slowed down, half a pace, half a pace again, until she was just behind Silvio — still in the corner of his eye, because he would never let her out of it, but her own body should be blocking his view beyond her. She subtly shifted a handful of notes from her bag to her left hand. Hidden from view.

  As they passed the boy, she opened her palm and let the notes flutter to the ground next to him. She didn’t even turn to see his face. If she did then Silvio would notice her act.

  But she allowed herself a small smile.

  There you go kid, you need it more than I …

  But just then, Silvio abruptly spun round on one foot towards her.

  “Oi! You! Come here, niño!” he exclaimed. He barged back past her and grabbed hold of the kid’s arm with his powerful paw.

  Chapter Seven

  “No, Silvio, don’t…” she protested.

  Her bodyguard was pulling the notes from the boy’s clutch.

  “No one takes the Señor’s stuff. He stole this from your bag.”

  He grabbed the kid’s arm in two places and flexed his muscles. The kid’s face was already contorted with the pain. But she instinctively screamed:

  “No!”

  He paused, not looking round.

  “I am just looking out for you, Miss Anita.” He spoke like a teacher addressing a slow pupil. “No one takes the Señor’s stuff. If I don’t teach this kid a lesson, how else is he going to learn?”

  She thought, at desperate speed.

  “If you do that, I will scream,” she hissed. “I will scream so loud! Help! Murder! Then what? People with cameras. I’ll make sure you’re seen by everyone. Do you think Ric wants that kind of publicity?”

  Silvio waited. She could see the wheels turning in his mind. When he spoke, he sounded kind of puzzled.

  “You do that, Miss Anita, you know what he’ll do to you?”

  She knew exactly, and her blood froze at the thought. But she also knew there was no other way she could live with herself for what this poor boy was about to have happen. She had seen Silvio throw kids to the ground before and kick them for lesser things.

  “Let him go,” she said.

  Silvio turned his head to look at her. She didn’t blink as she returned his gaze.

  Silvio let go of the kid’s arm, one hand at a time. Then he cuffed the boy hard enough to send him staggering.

  “Beat it,” he ordered. The boy fled.

  Silvio walked past Anita without looking back, handing her the cash angrily as he went.

  “Be more careful, Miss Anita.”

  She forced herself to turn and follow him.

  Just as she always did.

  Chapter Eight

  There were advantages to being a girl. One of them was that your male bodyguard couldn’t follow you into the changing rooms. She could pick a cubicle in the changing room, draw the curtain, and be on her own. Those minutes of freedom, unguarded by Silvio, unmonitored by Ric, and finally able to do the thing she had been yearning to do all morning.

  She had felt her phone buzz in her pocket all morning. It had been burning a hole there. Only one other person had its number and her name showed on the screen. Kim. Her stepmother, Ric’s second wife. Kim was the woman who had basically raised her since Ric’s first wife died. They
had got on together so well, until Ric had essentially thrown Kim out. And Kim had given her this phone secretly just before she left.

  She thumbed it and the message appeared.

  Yellow taxi 2338 — 4pm

  “Yes-s-s!” she whispered, exultant but so quiet that anyone in the cubicle with her would have only heard a slight sigh of breath. Silvio was twenty metres away, with all the sounds of the store to distract him … but old habits, very necessary habits in his case, die hard. Getting away was never easy.

  OK, she texted back.

  “So, what did the doctors say?” she asked.

  On the dot of one, she and Silvio had met up with Ric as planned. Señor Valcarcel had their usual table in their usual restaurant, always available, even if the place was full. It was secluded away in one corner, and Ric always sat with his back to the wall.

  Ric paused, with a mouthful of burger part way to his mouth. He was always a greedy eater. She had gone for fish. As always. It felt more natural to her than the processed garbage her stepfather always devoured.

  Ric was chatting to Silvio now. He always seemed to talk more to him than her. But she was used to it.

  “Turns out the reason I’ve been getting these headaches is a thing called glaucoma.”

  “Gee.” Silvio looked concerned. “Is that bad, Señor?”

  “No.” The flat smile again, and Ric finished his mouthful. “It just means there’s extra pressure on my eyeballs. I have drops for it and I’ll be fine.”

  She perked up. This could be interesting. “Maybe I should get checked for glaucoma too?” she interjected.

  “Why?” He glanced sideways at her. “You getting headaches too?”

  “No, but I’ve heard of glaucoma.” She looked him in the eye. “It’s hereditary. It runs in families.”

  He dabbed a napkin to his lips.

  “You’ll be fine, honey.” He didn’t sound concerned.