Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2) Read online

  I glanced at my watch, which I hadn’t adjusted since leaving Fort Piper. It was ten-twenty in the morning there. I tucked myself into a corner where I wouldn’t be overheard, next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and put the call through.

  “Yes, Jim.”

  “Sorry I didn’t check with you last night – I had to move quickly. Wendell, Abby’s gone.”

  “Gone? Where to?”

  “The Philippines. She’s almost certainly trying to intercept another of Vlasov’s meetings. If they recognise her she’ll be in deep trouble. I’m going after her.”

  “Of course. Where are you at the moment?”

  “San Francisco, but the flight’s been delayed. There’s still an outside chance I’ll make my connection at Manila if we can get away soon. Look, I don’t want people to know where I am. I’m going to switch my phone off after this, just in case someone tries to track me. I’ll get in touch again when I can.”

  “Okay, Jim. Good luck. Don’t worry, she’s a resourceful girl.”

  “Yeah, maybe a bit too resourceful.”

  I disconnected, looked at the phone for a moment, then wiped the palm of my hand over the window to clear a circular patch. There was just as much condensation on the outside as on the inside, tiny droplets coalescing and running erratically down the pane. Even with my forehead pressed to the cool surface I was looking at a grey wall.

  I turned back to the phone and was about to switch it off when it sounded. It was Howard. I’d forgotten I’d left him with something to follow up.

  “Hi Jim, is it okay to talk?”

  “Sure. What have you got?”

  “Our man was negotiating with Russians, all right. VDL – that’s van der Loos’s trading name – sold a whole string of mining companies to Mirovoi Industries about two years ago.”

  I got to my feet. “Mirovoi Industries? Leon Vlasov’s outfit?”

  “Yeah. What surprised me was how little money changed hands; if they were profitable concerns I’d have expected them to be worth a lot more. Anyway I decided to take a close look at the figures – they were limited liability companies so they had to file accounts. Boy, was that interesting! They’d been losing money for years! Maybe the deposits were running out or the costs of extraction were too high to make them economic. George must have been real glad to get shot of them. Why the Russians wanted them, Lord only knows.”

  “Where were these mines located, Howard?”

  “Out east, all of them: India, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, and the Philippines.”

  “So George held onto the companies in North and South America. Presumably they were still profitable.”

  “No, he’d already sold the profitable ones to Cuprex the year before. He had to, Jim. The van der Loos empire has been haemorrhaging funds for a very long time. On a back-of-the-envelope calculation, I’d say the man’s still seriously in debt. What he got for the companies he sold to the Russians would have helped, but it wouldn’t have put him in the black.”

  I stood there, frowning and scratching the back of my neck.

  “But he runs a great big mansion, with servants, the lot!”

  “Appearances are everything, aren’t they?”

  “That’s really interesting, Howard. Thanks a lot.”

  “Sure. Oh, by the way, you were right about Ted Zander and George van der Loos being old buddies. I looked up their biogs. They both did MBAs at Yale and they graduated in the same year. I have a graduation photo of the senior class here. They’re sitting together. Maybe they even knew each other before that; Zander’s a scion of a long-established family, too.”

  “Jesus, I thought that sort of thing was bad enough back in the UK.”

  He laughed. “You find it everywhere, Jim.”

  “Okay, so now we know why Ted decided to skip the security check. Are you going to do something about it?”

  “I don’t know. See, Ted could argue it wasn’t a security problem at all. Just the opposite, in fact: he wanted to have someone like George on the team, someone who had experience of negotiating with the Russians. Like I say, I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave it with you. Thanks for the info.”

  I disconnected the call and shut down the phone before rejoining the rest of the lounge. It was full of weary people. Some were sleeping where they sat, heads back, mouths open. Others had stretched out across two or three seats. The air was stale with the warmth and odour of too many bodies.

  The departures screen was still showing the same depressing display. The clock at the top said seven-twenty-six. This was Pacific Time. I adjusted my watch and sighed. There was no sign that anything was moving and my flight was already half an hour late.

  I bought an orange juice from a vending machine, popped the can, and carried it slowly round the lounge, taking a sip from time to time.

  What Howard had told me made sense. The van der Looses were still living in the style they’d always enjoyed, but the money had run out. George’s remaining asset was his position on the Cuprex Board. The Vlasovs had done him a favour by acquiring his companies in the Far East; maybe George’s half of the bargain was to persuade his fellow directors to accept a takeover of Cuprex. No doubt there was the promise of a handsome bonus if it went through. It would be tempting for someone in George’s financial position. Now that Ridout had been eliminated it wouldn’t be much trouble to get the rest of the Board on side.

  Even so, things didn’t quite add up. The Russians badly wanted Cuprex, probably for the uranium, but did they want it enough to take a whole string of loss-making mining companies off George’s hands? Perhaps they could break even by scaling down production, or asset-stripping the plants and sacking the workers, but why burden themselves in that way?

  I drained the orange juice and turned to retrace my steps – then stopped dead as it dawned on me.

  India, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, and the Philippines. In each one there’s a company George van der Loos sold to the Russians. And in each one there’s a destination on Gerasim Vlasov’s current itinerary. Is it a coincidence, or is Gerasim touring the legitimate holdings of his brother’s company? If so, what for?

  *

  We finally took off two hours late. The pilot managed to make up some time, but not that much; it was just after midday when we arrived in Manila’s Ninoy Aquino International Airport and I’d missed my connecting flight. I took the corridors at a run, swerving between women with small children, electric cars, cabin staff and business-suited men trailing suitcases, and entered the departure area. That, too, was full of people but fortunately I was tall enough to see over most of the heads. I spotted the sign for Transfers and headed straight for it. There were three girls at the desk and by good fortune one of them had just become free. She was infuriatingly calm.

  “I can get you on the next flight for General Santos, sir. It leaves at two-fifteen.”

  I tried to steady my breathing. “When does it get in?”

  “Four-fifteen, sir.”

  Vlasov’s plane was due to land at three-thirty. On previous form he’d be at his meeting in the airport at three-forty five and Abby would be there waiting for him. Four-fifteen was way too late.

  “That’s no good. I have an important appointment. What’s the closest to General Santos I can get?”

  “Ah, you can fly to Davao City, sir. There’s a flight at twelve-forty-five.” She consulted an outsise wrist watch. “If you hurry you’ll just make it. Gate number twelve. I’ll have to make over your ticket, though.”

  I stood there, rising and falling on my toes while she tapped in the details. When she presented the new ticket I nearly snatched it out of her fingers and, tossing a hasty “Thanks” over my shoulder, ran to the gate. They were already boarding the flight.

  The staff gave out newschips as we got on. When I’d recovered my breath I plugged mine into the reader on the back of the seat in front of me.

  There was a bit of world news – electi
ons in Japan, the trade dispute between China and South Korea, pictures from the Athena space station orbiting Mars, and results of matches in the Ten Nations Rugby. I didn’t think I’d find anything interesting in the local news so I scrolled through it quickly. Then I glimpsed something that made me scroll back.

  It was an item from the on-line edition ofThe Jakarta Post. The accompanying photograph showed two men in dark suits posing with a frozen handshake for the benefit of the cameramen. The one on the right was a fat individual who looked like Gerasim Vlasov. There was a short text headed “Minister in deal with Russian industry”. The location was Sorong Airport, which I remembered as the Indonesian stop in Vlasov’s flight plans. The visit had something to do with extending copper, gold, and tin mining in Irian–West Papua. I skimmed over that part but ground to a halt at the final sentence:

  “Following the official welcome, the Minister of Trade withdrew for talks with the prominent Russian industrialist, Mr. Leon Vlasov, pictured above.”

  Leon Vlasov! I slapped my hands down on my knees, and on my right a row of heads jerked towards me. I gave them an uneasy smile and made as if to brush my trousers, and they settled warily back again. I sat back too, but my mind was racing.

  I’d assumed it was justGerasim Vlasov touring in that Quickstream Majestic but they were both on it! It explained the route and the number of personnel on board the aircraft! Now I saw it. Leon would make journeys for his company, or for some trade agreement he was negotiating on behalf of the government, and his brother would come with, using it as a cover for meeting the drug manufacturers who were making pills for him. That meant they were in it together. Gerasim was running the racket for Leon – or at the very least with his full knowledge and cooperation.

  It had probably been worth their while to acquire that string of small mining companies from George. There was no way a man like Gerasim Vlasov could make regular trips without being noticed; this way he had a legitimate reason to be present in each of those places. And conducted on that international scale, trade in counterfeit drugs would be highly profitable.

  I looked out of the window and registered that we were still queuing for take-off. I continued to work through the implications.

  How did they set it up? According to Howard, Vlasov acquired the mining interests from VDL about two years ago. The task would then be to look for suitable manufacturers of pharmaceuticals within a radius of, say, fifty miles of each one. Having identified a conveniently placed factory they’d have to be confident of securing the cooperation of the CEO. No doubt they’d make him the kind of offer he’d find it hard to refuse: if he played ball, a nice personal income; if he didn’t, serious injury to him or his family, or a succession of unexplained disasters at the plant. Most or all of the CEOs would go along with it, and that would explain why these fake drugs in the genuine packs had begun to surface in the last couple of years.

  No wonder Leon used his brutal brother to run this nasty racket.

  The air hostess came past, checking seat belts. I stopped her.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me how far it is by road from Davao International to General Santos airport?”

  She thought for a moment. “It’s about 120 kilometres, sir.”

  One hundred and twenty kilometres. About seventy-five miles.

  “And what time do we get in?”

  “Two-thirty-five, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  I knew from previous experience it wasn’t a good idea to drive in the Philippines, but if I grabbed a taxi and gave him a handsome tip in advance I should be able to get there in an hour. Allowing myself just ten minutes to get off the plane, through passport control, and out of the airport I could just about make it, but it was going to be tight. Very tight.

  *

  When we touched down in Davao City I was the first at the exit. I ran through the baggage hall, tried to look calm as I passed through passport control, then rushed to the taxi rank – and pulled up short. Something big, like a Dreamer, must have landed. All the waiting taxis had gone and there was a queue a mile long for the next one. I cursed, ran back inside, found a car rental booth with another queue, and stood in it. My head was pounding.

  Outside the glazed front entrance I could see a digital display that alternated between temperature and time. The temperature was 30˚C and the time was 2:48. I checked my watch, but it said the same. My small margin was evaporating.

  At the front somebody walked away and the queue shuffled up one place.

  This is taking for ever! What the fuck are they doing up there?

  Inside my head I saw Abby sitting in the café at the airport, waiting patiently, perhaps stirring a cup of coffee. In comes Vlasov with his two heavies. Will one of them cast his mind back to the café in Indira Gandhi airport, where a girl paused to swing her bag to the other shoulder? It was five days ago, and she’d be dressed and made up differently this time, for sure. But what about the brooch? In Delhi Chowdhury had his back to her, but Vlasov could have noticed it. Probably not much escaped those piggy little eyes. If he had the slightest suspicion about her the brooch would clinch it.

  I kept getting drawn back to the display sign outside. It went on alternating, the temperature unchanged, the minutes on the clock advancing steadily.

  The last person ahead of me moved away. I stepped up to the counter and passed my I.D. card swiftly over the licence reader.

  “I’ll take the fastest car you’ve got.”

  “Ah, there is nothing left in that class—”

  “Then give me the best you have.”

  “Do you want—?”

  “No extras. Just the car. Hurry – please.”

  A few minutes later and I was running out with the key. It was five past three. I had less than three-quarters of an hour to cover seventy-five miles.

  32

  Driving is insane in the Philippines. I made it look sedate. Where there was traffic I swerved in and out, leaving behind a trail of screeching tyres, blaring horns, and blanched faces; on any stretch of open road I floored the pedal. Every now and then I’d glance at the clock on the fascia but the message was clear: I wasn’t going to make it. Three-forty five came and went. Vlasov and his heavies had probably made their appearance already and I was still more than ten miles away. When I skidded into General Santos airport it was five minutes to four. There was no time to park properly; I just drove the car up onto the paving outside the terminal and ran in, making straight for the café.

  As I got nearer I could hear a commotion and people inside were standing up to see what was going on. I moved swiftly between the tables, craning to look over their heads, and caught glimpses of a struggle, men in uniforms, blue open-necked shirts, darker blue trousers – Philippino police uniforms. There seemed to be two of them, armed with assault rifles, and they were arresting someone. My first feeling was one of relief: somehow they’d tumbled Gerasim Vlasov and they were carting him off. Then I spotted Vlasov sitting at a table to one side, fat and impassive.

  A piercing scream sailed out over the café and my heart sank.

  They bundled her out of the café and towards the front entrance. I saw Vlasov get unhurriedly to his feet.

  I hesitated. The two men with Abby were heavily armed and there could be more around. The odds weren’t favourable. I followed at a slight distance.

  The glass entrance doors to the terminal slid back and they took her outside. Vlasov ambled after them. On the other side of the approach road I could see two waiting cars. A man in a dark suit was standing by the one in front, a black limousine. He held the door open for Vlasov, then closed the door, got into the driver’s seat and pulled away fast. The second car was a silver SUV, not a standard police car. That clinched it as far as I was concerned: the uniforms were a blind – all of them were Vlasov’s thugs. The rear door opened and I caught a glimpse of a man in there before Abby was pushed in with him. The others got into the front seats and the SUV took off with a squeal of tyres.

/>   I pelted over to my car.

  An airport security guard was hovering by it, an assault rifle hanging from one shoulder. He challenged me instantly.

  “This your car?”

  By way of reply I delivered a quick finger jab to his throat. He sank to his knees, gasping, and I jerked the heel of my other hand into the bridge of his nose. There was enough on it for the blow to knock him backwards and his head slammed against the paving. I snatched the semiautomatic pistol out of his holster and tucked it into my belt, grabbed the rifle, and I was in the car, starting the engine and accelerating away. In the rear-view mirror I glimpsed the guard staggering to his feet, groping for a weapon that wasn’t there, and then I roared out of the airport.

  They’d just turned onto the highway. I took the corner fast, my body weighing heavily into the restraint of the automatic seat belt. Vehicles scattered in all directions and a chorus of honking horns broke out and receded behind me.

  I tried to gain on the SUV but it was driving fast. I had to stick to them like glue and if they knew they were being followed it was just too bad. I didn’t know where they were taking Abby, but they’d certainly want to find out what she knew and what she’d passed on. I didn’t even want to think about what they’d do to her if they got her there.

  At first it looked as if they were heading back to Davao City but then the lead car, with Vlasov, shot down an exit ramp and the other car followed. Before long we were taking right and left turns along minor roads flanked with irrigation ditches. Fields of maize, pineapple, and sugar cane stretched away into the distance on either side. I wrestled with the steering, bouncing over ridges and potholes on surfaces that were no better than packed dirt. Despite my best efforts they were getting further and further ahead. I rounded another bend just in time to see the cars take another right and when I came round that corner only the lead car was in view. A shock of realisation set off every alarm bell in my head but it was too late.

  The SUV came lurching out of a field of sugar cane on my left. I braked and swerved but it hit the front wheel with a tremendous bang and the car slewed off the road. It lurched and bumped and plunged down into the irrigation ditch. There was a graunching noise and I was thrown against the seat belt, but the jolt wasn’t enough to inflate the airbags. The car had come to rest in the ditch leaning over towards the passenger side. The window was open over there so I piled out, reached in for the rifle, jumped down past the spinning front wheel, and ran low. The ditch was deep and almost dry. Before I’d covered ten metres I heard bursts of gunfire behind me and the metallic thuds of a hail of bullets piercing the bodywork. I had a clear mental picture of them walking forward, pumping round after round into the car.