Crash Course Derek Fee (interesting books to read txt) 📖

Barrett was always intrigued by the Arab’s accent which owed nothing to his place of origin. Without seeing the olive skin and the sharp Arabic features a person hearing only Safardi’s voice could not be faulted for thinking that its possessor was a member of the British Aristocracy.

The waiter came and stood beside the two men.

“Some coffee please,” Safardi said without consulting his companion. “You’ve been drinking.”

“What did you find out about our friend Kane?” Barrett asked.

“He is what he seems.” Safardi put his hands together before his chest the tips of the fingers joining. He looked for all the world as though he was praying. “In fact, he is an extremely interesting individual. Ex-captain in the Parachute Regiment, Distinguished Conduct Medal in Afghanistan. Left the service under some sort of cloud. Makes money and spends money. One could not say that he is a good money manager. A reckless man by all accounts and not one to be trifled with.”

Barrett raised his eyebrows at that. He could be damned rash himself.

“His uncle has decided to try and rehabilitate him,” Safardi continued as the coffee arrived. He waved away the waiter and poured two cups of the steaming liquid. He dropped four sugar cubes into his cup, stirred and sipped. “Most people think the old man has rocks in his head.”

Barrett sipped his coffee. “What are we to do about him?”

“He could sabotage our plan to get to the final race in Key West.” Safardi added another two cubes of sugar to the tea and stirred. “I’ve checked with every source we’ve got. It all adds up. And that might spell trouble for you in this year’s races.”

“Maybe the race committee should hear about his past?” Barrett said.

“Not yet if you don’t mind. I don’t really think they’d give a curse, do you? I want to see a little more of Kane.” Safardi leaned towards Barrett.

“I need some money.”

“You always need money. Our deal was that you would get fifty per cent of the prize money. Sorrento was a bust.”

“I’ll take an advance.”

Safardi took an envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Five thousand now, to be repaid in one week.”

Barrett picked up the envelope and slipped it into his pocket.

“That concludes our business I believe,” Safardi said pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Take my advice for what it’s worth and stay away from Kane. You’ve been on a collision course with him since you saw Morweena on his arm. Forget him and forget her. There’s plenty more where she came from.”

“I don’t give a shit about Kane’s background,” Barrett said, leaning close to Safardi. “Nobody walks out on me and nobody fucks with me during a race. Now it so happens that both people I want are in the same boat. Watch the race closely on Sunday. “This time I won’t be the one to pull away. I’ll fuck up that pair.”

“You’re a bigger fool than even I gave you credit for.” Safardi looked into Barrett’s glazed eyes. “Hate and revenge are useless emotions.”

“Watch the race,” Barrett said, getting up from the table. “It’s a pleasure doin’ business with you.” He strode off in the direction of the exit.

The young Arab watched the Englishman retrace his steps to the entrance of the restaurant. In many ways, Barrett was not a very satisfactory employee. Over the past months, the recklessness which had attracted Safardi to him had turned into a liability. Recklessness and brains were the combination that he was looking for. And Kane seemed to possess both. Perhaps it was time to change the old guard. But not before Kane had been tested and teased.

Chapter Thirty

Karakatis looked at his watch. He had an hour before he needed to be on his yacht for his traditional party. He sipped a Pernod and looked around the bar area of the Le Petit Carlton pub located in the back streets behind la Croisette. The clientele of the bar was predominantly British. Normally Karakatis wouldn’t be seen dead in such a place but tonight was different. He needed somewhere discreet where there was no chance of meeting one of his colleagues. In the middle of the floor, a woman in a black miniskirt gyrated to the bar music. He looked at his watch again. Five minutes more and not a minute longer

His head shot up when he saw the figure of Bill Thompson slide into the bar. They can never resist, he thought, as he watched Penhalion’s mechanic make his way towards his table.

“Good evening, Mr Thompson.” He pointed at a seat beside him. “What can I offer you to drink?”

‘Beer, pint of. I’m not sure I should be here, Mr Karakatis.” Thompson sat reluctantly in the chair proffered.

They’re always reticent until the money is mentioned, Karakatis thought and signalled the waiter to bring a pint of beer. “How’s the work going on the boat?”

“I’m not sure as how I should be tellin’ you, Mr Karakatis.”

Thompson was laying on the reluctant act with a trowel, Karakatis thought. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks.

“I’d heard that you were the kind of man who had enough sense to know which way the wind was blowing.” Karakatis took a Pernod and a pint of beer from the barman and handed him twenty euros. He passed the beer to Thompson.

“The boat is in great shape,” Thompson said, licking his lips after his first draught of the lager. “This stuff isn’t bad. Most of the beer I’ve had over here has tasted like gnat’s piss.”

“How will it run on Saturday?”

“Those engines are humming like a bird. I reckon she’ll do pretty well.” Thompson took another slug of his beer. “But I don’t suppose as you brought me here to get an update on the odds for Saturday.”

Not intelligent but clever, Karakatis thought, but there’s no harm in that. “You’re quite right, Mr Thompson. I hear on the grapevine that Penhalion is about to