Chapter Twelve

Her lips connected with his. Their foreheads touched. He kept his eyes shut. Savouring the warmth between them, losing himself in the sensation.

'I didn't expect this,' Tayla said.

'Me neither,' Kevorkian pulled her closer. Naked chest to naked chest, arms wrapped around each other, legs intertwined in a lover's embrace that somehow avoided the extra limbs.

He found her bottom lip and ran his teeth along it's soft fullness. It would be easy to bite harder, to pull, to tear.

'What didn't you expect?' he said. She opened her eyes. 'The sex?'

She laughed and placed her hand delicately on his cheek.

'Men on flights who chat me up, they're usually so, well, desperate. I'm their fantasy, they're not mine.'

He opened his eyes to see her. He'd imagined her how? Gagged and bound? Begging for life, tears running down her cheeks, pain and blood and despair.

'But you,' she nibbled his top lip. He willed her to bite down hard. 'You are something else.'

'What d'you mean?'

He ran a hand up her spine, fingers ready to dig in, tear through flesh into vertebrae, depending on what she said.

'I think you might be my fantasy come to life. A strong man. Funny. Cultured. Charming. I wasn't expecting the galleries, restaurants and minimalist composers at St Martin in the Fields. Stringfellows and dodgy cocktails perhaps.'

He allowed her to run a hand across his shoulder blade, they found the deep knotted scar. Her fingers traced it. She didn't ask why or how it got there.

Just one of the many all over his body.

She grabbed his head in both hands and pulled his face toward her. He saw in her eyes that she meant every word. 'Why have I only just met you Mr Kevorkian?'

His heart, he didn't think he had one, skipped a beat.

He rolled her over until she was beneath him, her legs wrapped around his back.

'I have a plane to catch,' she said.

He should rape her.

'I'll be back this Friday, late.’

He should kill her. Now.

‘Will you stay in touch?' she said. ‘I’d really like to see you again.’

His hands found her neck, he squeezed gently.

'I promise.'

She pulled him in with her legs and he let her take control. He didn't need to overwhelm or destroy her. It wouldn't have added a thing.

His phone still flashed with waiting messages on the dresser. It had all the death and destruction he'd ever need.

*

Savage found a Starbucks, a hacker favourite with their always-on wifi connection and giant cups of joe. He hit the photos first, it'd be a few minutes before the trojan gave him his first automated update.

He thought about how all this might link back to the journalist whose decapitated head still haunted his dreams. He didn't know how or what yet, but he'd find it. He'd also find what drove Michael to his death and how they were connected.

He knew the easy intellectual stuff, pushed to the point of no return, money, jilted love, yadda, yadda, yadda. But Savage had had enough. He wanted out. He wanted his new life back.

He examined Echo's pictures. She'd done a great job. Steady shots in low-light. And the file had only been labelled 'C'. She'd been thorough though and looked inside.

There were files for Cerberus Holdings, Cerberus Trading, Cerberus Asset Management, all fairly standard stuff. Banking information, transactions lists, and then statements from the various offshore accounts.

Switzerland, Monaco, Lichtenstein. Caymans, every loophole economy out there.

There was no reason for Armstrong to have them though. They should have been with the company director, not the relationship director at the company's bank, unless—

It clicked.

Unless they were one and the same person?

He'd have to find out for sure. He needed to know where the money was going and why? Personal greed? Extortion? Why was Armstrong being so clumsy? He didn't seem a stupid man. But, with the amount of bullshit, booze and drugs these guys consumed, you could never tell.

Where was Sutherland in all this? Just a party host?

He sat back and closed his eyes. Let the noises of the English language wash over him from the people on either side. The culture shock still very real. He missed the Arab language.

Not the religious hyperbole, but the everyday language of real people, the banter and the camaraderie. Sure there was conflict within that culture as there was here. Culture is not static.

Islam changed in the last century as much as the West had. In some areas it had grown more fundamentalist, in others more liberal. The Victorians and the Wahabis, he couldn't see much difference. And that was just skimming the surface. Not all Arabs were Muslim.

He focused on his breathing to keep the constant natter of his inner monologue at bay, until he heard the ping of an incoming message.

The first update from Armstrong's machine. It told him what programs the man opened and when, what words he'd typed in, gave web URLs and IP addresses and screen shots that he could download of picture based encryption.

There'd been an email from Armstrong at 8.22am that said:

We need to talk.

At 8.24am the CEO had responded with:

The party, this afternoon.

Two coffees later Thomson hadn't returned any of Savage's calls.

He wanted surveillance. Thomson clearly didn't.

Nothing a shopping trip couldn’t cure.