is any more information in that temple, it needs to be found.’
‘We need to find the statues too. And Stikes.’
‘I’ll speak to the UN intelligence committee and try to prod its members into stepping up the search. And I’ll talk to the State Department as well, make sure the CIA and National Security Agency get a reminder.’ He shook his head. ‘All those thousands of agents, billions of dollars, computers, satellites . . . and they can’t find one man.’
More than one, thought Nina, glancing at the photo of herself and Eddie.
She gave Penrose what additional facts she had, then the Englishman departed, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She continued reading Hayter’s files, but anything further the Atlanteans had recorded about the statues remained hidden in the Temple of Poseidon . . .
The phone rang. Lola again. ‘Nina, there’s a phone call for you.’
‘“Do not disturb” is still in effect, Lola,’ Nina replied testily.
‘I know, but I think this could be important.’
Something in Lola’s tone made Nina’s heart pound. Eddie! Was it someone with news about him? Or even her husband himself, finally making contact? ‘Put it through!’
She waited in tense anticipation for the call to be transferred. A click of the line . . . then a voice.
It belonged to a man called Chase. But not the one she had hoped to hear.
Larry Chase, Eddie’s father.
Mozambique
The bar was dimly lit at best, and the haze of smoke made it more murky still. Most of the miasma was from cigarettes, but it was bolstered by the tang of cigars and even whiffs of hashish from the darkest corners.
Eddie shot a disapproving glance towards one of the shadowed users as he stubbed out his cigarette. Second-hand smoke was one thing; second-hand narcotics another entirely. He flicked another Marlboro out of its pack and was about to light it when he paused, gazing at his reflection in his Zippo. He had quit smoking years ago, during his first, short-lived marriage, but the strain of being on the run, perpetually alert for the approaching hand of the authorities, had seen him take up the habit once more.
He shook his head and lit the cigarette. Nina would be furious if she knew, he thought, a sudden gloom settling over him. There was a cellular phone on the scratched table before him, and he could talk to her with a couple of key presses . . . but he knew it wasn’t possible. For one thing, any contact – on a line that was almost certainly being monitored – could see Interpol eyeing Nina as an accomplice rather than a witness.
For another, from what she had said the last time he saw her, in Peru . . . she thought he was guilty. She might not even want to speak to him.
So he had to prove his innocence first. Which meant finding Stikes. And doing whatever was necessary to force the truth from him – before his much-deserved death.
He looked at his watch. Strutter was, as expected, late. Tracking down contacts and wheedling information out of them, especially on a subject as risky as Stikes, wasn’t something that could be done to a timetable. But the Kenyan had said earlier that he had a promising lead, so Eddie was willing to wait.
The phone rang. Strutter? No – the number on the screen was British. There was only one person in his home country who knew how to contact him. Nevertheless, he was still cautious and terse when he answered, putting a finger to his other ear to block out the tinny music coming from a tape deck behind the bar. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s me.’ He knew the voice. Peter Alderley, an officer of MI6, the United Kingdom’s foreign intelligence service. Not a friend, exactly – in fact, Eddie rather disliked him – but for now an uneasy ally. The murder of Mac had instilled them both with the need to uncover the truth. Alderley had given Eddie a sporting head start to escape the law in London following their comrade’s funeral, and since then had provided surreptitious updates on Interpol’s search for him during their intermittent contacts.
In return Eddie had provided Alderley with what information he had uncovered on his travels, and was hoping he had managed to do something useful with it. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘First thing: Interpol is getting closer to you. They know you were just in Botswana.’
‘Do they know where I am now?’
‘No, but if I were you I’d move on. Sharpish.’
‘That’s the