Wings of the Morning Page 8

  ‘But finally Pente, I ask you to hang on in there. I honestly believe that the best way to deal with your worries is to keep them to yourself for a while. Let a bit of healing time flow over the whole question of where your personal faith is trying to lead you. Use your remaining time in Madagascar for what it is, an opportunity to explore yourself. That’s my advice, and for what it’s worth, that’s what I’m doing. To be frank, I don’t know whether or not I’ll keep working in this area for life. My instinct is that I will, because every time they open the plane door in Khartoum or Kigali, I feel that I’ve come home again. Wonderful places and wonderful people, but oh my word, do they ever create a shambles.’

  David rose and started to collect his few belongings together.

  ‘We’d best get going and get seated together. Let’s return to this weighty subject in a few months’ time because I need something a bit more flippant on the way over to Paris.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Pente said as he heaved himself to his feet, ‘I’ll start by telling you about my first funeral which really did turn out a dead loss ... Ho Ho!’

  They walked away together, unaware of how much help they could have been right then to Connie Aveling, sitting in the neighbouring terminal building and wondering about the fifth member of their Oxford Five who was only yards from him.

  Conrad had been happy to arrive early at the airport. He liked to be organised; he was not yet an experienced traveller and had never been further East than Cyprus. He was therefore content to make his way slowly through the departure formalities, eventually to take up a lounge seat near the gate from which his Qantas flight would depart in the early evening, calling at Frankfurt, Bahrain, Karachi and Singapore where he would disembark, allowing the plane to continue via Darwin to Sydney.

  He was sitting there, reflecting on a happy Christmas and the promise of this crucial posting. He was not concentrating on his crossword and kept on looking up in distraction. That is how he came to see Alexa Labarre, who was apparently inspecting a bookstall in the company of a large black man. Connie was mesmerised by the sight. Alexa had been his first love and she remained among his most precious memories. But they had not seen each other since university, and of course he hadn’t expected to see her now. There was something else. It was Alexa ... and yet it wasn’t. Could this be another girl, a complete stranger? There was something about her wandering gait, a slightly brittle, almost tarty look to her which was so unlike the Alexa of his past. He was spellbound, and being cautious by both nature and training, he settled to being inconspicuous as he studied the couple.

  THIERRY CESTAC — 1970

  The traffic was light. It was barely mid-morning on New Year’s Day. He was comfortably settled in the rear of his opulent Mercedes, watching the final outskirts of Paris give way to frozen countryside as they took the main highway south and west towards the Dordogne. His chauffeur, Olivier, was at the wheel. Cestac did not attempt any conversation, being occupied with his private thoughts and a review of his position. He was satisfied enough with the night’s work and relieved to have the package out of his hands. He was glad of the instinct that it was the final deal for him. His conviction was strengthened by the colossal profit he was making, but it was time to move on. He had already started to do so. The new business was very attractive although he sensed it would be short term. The income was excellent but the competition was intense and growing ever more ruthless. Cestac could not shake off the nag of concern which had hit him that morning as he left his apartment and looked up the street He had seen the Citroen parked fifty metres away with a tell-tale, fine plume from its exhaust rising in the cold, early morning air. He neither looked nor lingered as Olivier held the door of the car for him, but he had snatched a glimpse of two figures in the front of the Citroen and was conscious that the driver had killed the engine. Was that coincidence, or had the occupants been sitting in patient wait for him? He didn’t know, but he was not going to challenge the natural, furtive cunning which served him well. He would go to ground for a few weeks in his country cottage near Bergerac and would sniff the air carefully before he emerged and returned to Paris. In addition, as he told himself, it had been a hard couple of months. He could do with the rest.

  Thierry Cestac was a complete, gold carat villain, concerned with serving no one but himself, dedicated to his luxurious lifestyle, titillated by causing pain and discomfort to others. He had been brought up in the southern French city of Pau, nestling beneath the Pyrenees. He seemed predestined to make his way through the diligent practice of any number of black arts and his first motivation had been to escape a life of provincial ennui. His father was a diffident civil servant and his mother a simple girl from a remote farming community. There was no indication in their gene pool to explain the talents and temperament of their son, and whatever influence his mother might have brought to bear on him was lost as she developed cancer whilst carrying him and died within a year of his birth. An unmarried aunt helped to raise him, a large woman as dominating as her brother was weak, and she thrashed away at Thierry both physically and mentally without any consciousness that she was making a bad situation worse. As Cestac turned fifteen, all he wanted was to escape his stifling surroundings, and there came the day when he packed a bag, walked to the station and caught a train to Paris. He never returned, nor had further contact with his father.

  When first in Paris at school boy age, Cestac had been severely tested. He knew no one in the capital and he was short of money. He was helped by the pressures of the time. These were mid-war years in German-occupied Paris and neither individuals nor the authorities had much time for stray teenagers. To help him, Cestac had his wits which were considerable and his morals which did not exist. Within a month of arrival and living in a cheap doss house, he contrived to be picked up by a seasoned old roué, a sixty something year old pouf who was an established literary critic and lived in some style in the Latin Quarter. Cestac was happy to be used in whatever way pleased the old boy, who became unreasonably devoted to him, admiring his brain and natural guile, insisting that he complete an excellent education at the expense of his patron. Cestac stuck to it for ten years, recognising the value of all he was gaining from studies, qualifications and life experience, whilst at the same time building his own circle of contacts. By the age of twenty-five, he had achieved the dominant role in the relationship and then came the night when his carnal exertions achieved such a result that the old chap expired from heart failure. Cestac was gratified but not surprised to find himself the beneficiary of a considerable will. This was not a windfall. He had worked for it. Now he set himself to make the best use of his legacy. His life strategy was simple. Be wealthy, be secure. Exploit the weaknesses of others. Be calculating. Be cruel, because you enjoy it.

  Comfortably settled, Cestac moved carefully. He avoided the commonplace criminal fraternity. He was not interested in robbery. He would not get involved in financial fraud and would not have anything to do with kidnap and ransom. He was determined to work alone. He was available to befriend the lonely and wealthy if there was the chance for substantial gain, but he was no longer offering his body as part of his attraction. His insistence on what he would not do came to pay dividends sooner than he had expected. Moving freely in the twilight criminal world of the 1950’s, Cestac found that he could do well as a kingmaker who could put people together. If an introduction clicked and a consequent scheme succeeded, he would earn nicely, and if not, then he got nothing. But this way his bona fides became clear and respected.

  Later, his strategy started to pay huge dividends as the world moved into the swinging sixties. This was all about sex. Cestac had been quick to see the opportunity offered by changing attitudes. A small number of wealthy people with extravagant tastes now felt empowered to go out and buy the sort of entertainment which had hitherto been unavailable except in their wildest imaginings. Cestac set out to be the purveyor of dreams, assuring absolute discretion in return for stratospheric fees. He go
t involved in providing girls and boys and children and even animals. He became known within this warped community as the man who could arrange, and this soon moved from France to an international client base.

  By 1965, Thierry Cestac was dealing with the English, the Spanish, Scandinavia and Russia. Not with the USA. He had his chances but did not pursue them. He had a recurring suspicion that his privacy would be threatened so he kept his distance. Then there was the Middle East which became a dominant source of business. There was no shortage of money of course, but it did surprise him that there was such a demand for his services. He had assumed that religion, practices and penalties would annul the attractions of all he had to offer. But he was wrong, and happy to be so.

  During the second half of the 1960’s, Cestac prospered mightily in the white slave trade. This was an ill-defined term. There was a trade, but not in slavery as such and not all the victims were white. The transactions revolved around the kidnap and delivery to those whose taste and wallet qualified them, of humans of both gender, various ages and any colour suitable to meet the cravings of the client in question. The victim was unconscious of selection, not consulted in advance and not expected to survive for very long. The traffickers operated with caution, fearful on the one hand of the international authorities and on the other of clients claiming dissatisfaction with menace as their appetites were temporarily reduced. And occasionally, there were the relatives of victims, hell bent on any form of revenge. The suppliers protected themselves through checks and cut outs and Cestac was the best at this management control. He did not meet or speak to a single one of his end users. He used a number of intermediaries with whom he kept guarded contact as he trusted none of them. He employed ‘mules’ as companions to ensure safe delivery of the merchandise to the client. This was the most delicate and risky aspect of the transaction but Cestac developed it into a fine art, calculating the combination of calming drug, deceit, bribery and blandishment required to ensure that the captive went willingly to a chilling fate while he was counting his profits.

  It was thus that Thierry Cestac had moved over twenty-five years from bored child through teenage villain into an evil maturity. He was always a loner. He had great wealth and lived with every comfort at his disposal. But restraint was his style. The gap yawned between his true personality and the way in which he presented himself. He was probably psychotic but it would never have occurred to him to consider the point.

  Cestac was now taking stock of the present and considering his future. The swinging sixties had passed and international standards for the sexual norm were shifting. This was sure to lead to a reduction in demand for his specialist talents and he felt it beneath him to compete in a dying market. And then there were fresh opportunities, of which the most significant lay in drugs, especially heroin. He was doing some good business in arranging supply at a fabulous profit to some of the smart set in Paris. But he was wary. This was not a product which he could source himself. To obtain supply, he had to negotiate with two brothers of Bulgarian extraction with contacts through Turkey into Afghanistan. They were savage men, unreliable and unpredictable. At the other end of the chain lay the using punters, men and women who lived too close to the world of Cestac to permit him to relax in the anonymity he cherished. He was also sure that the drug trade was set to blossom and grow. This would lead to reduced prices and reduced margins while the whole business would become increasingly more cut throat and less exclusive. Not at all right for him.

  He needed to plan for his next development which he had already identified. The post-colonial independent states of Africa seemed to him to have great potential. In almost every case, the new rulers were hugely wealthy, entirely corrupt and eager to indulge themselves in all manner of mischief. He could help them with the supply of arms, the provision of mercenaries, with purchasing property and establishing hard currency reserves. And, of course, with obliging them with any extreme of personal foible.

  This was going to take some time and concentration, but first, he would rest up and relax during the first couple of months of this new decade. With this decision made, Cestac put his head back on to the leather luxury of his fine car. He slept as Olivier drove on towards warmer and quieter surroundings.

  KINGSTON OFFENBACH — 1970

  At 4 pm on New Year’s Day, it was almost dark in London and King was still at his desk in the American Embassy. The building was mostly deserted and he was surprised to hear his direct line ring, then pleased to recognise the gruff, smoker’s voice with the heavy accent.

  ‘Keeng? You are there?’

  ‘Yes, Victor, I’m here. It’s good to get your call.’

  They had a short conversation and agreed on a plan. King sat back in his chair and reflected that this was going to cost him the early night he’d been planning but it would likely be worth it. He got on well with Victor Sollange, Sicilian born, a well-respected officer in the French Security Service and a key member of the international team which would meet tomorrow. Victor was already in London, staying at a hotel in Victoria and King joined him there just after 6 pm. They went to a wine bar in Elizabeth Street and sat in a quiet corner to talk over coffee and some house red.

  Sollange started the conversation, speaking slowly in his guttural French. He wanted to talk about the latest developments in Paris. About twelve months previously, the two men had met for the first time when King visited Victor’s office. It had not been a comfortable occasion. Sollange had been reluctant to receive King and wary of sharing information with a black American arriving from London. But King had been at his gently persuasive best. He knew it was vital for him to build a constructive relationship with this man. It was the French who knew most about Africa, and Victor Sollange was their top man, with priceless experience and an impressive record. It had taken King a further two visits to persuade Victor that the CIA was serious and had something to offer. Specifically, he had provided Victor with valuable details on the Brothers Grimm and their heroin supply routes of which much was known in Langley. In response, Sollange opened up with his knowledge of how South American cocaine was coming into Europe via the continent of Africa.

  The Brothers had been allocated a suitable codename. They were wealthy, well known and viciously ruthless. They were content to be assumed as Bulgarian, but had in fact been born in Turkey and had spent time as guest workers in West Germany before slipping into France. The Grimms were not the only suppliers to French users, not even the biggest, but they had the greatest notoriety and were the fastest growing in coke distribution. Sollange had selected them as his prime target and he had fresh news to share.

  ‘I can confirm the Grimms are working with Thierry Cestac,’ he announced ‘we had a positive sighting just this morning.’

  King raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Sollange lit himself a fresh Gauloise and went on.

  ‘I must give credit to young Geslin. He’s not been with me for long and I told him to take New Year off. But last night he went round the clubs they visit, got lucky at the third and saw them leave around 3 am. Geslin followed and they parked up in Rue de Constantine — a very chic area. They sat there until 7 am, heater running from time to time. My man froze his balls off fifty metres up the street and watched them. Then Cestac appears. He has a young blond guy with him. They separate, Cestac gives his overcoat to the blond and then gets in his car which is chauffeured up to him. Blond walks up the street and climbs in with the Brothers Grimm. Both Cestac’s limo and the Grimm car vanish, but in different directions. Geslin doesn’t have the horsepower to follow either of them, so he goes to look at the building. They’re apartments, very high value. Cestac’s name doesn’t appear but one bell push is marked ‘Enterprises Pau’, so that’ll be him.’

  Sollange reached for his glass and lit another Gauloise. The eyes beneath their bushy brows twinkled across the table as he continued.

  ‘Cestac must really matter to the Grimms. Why else would they spend New Year’s Eve sitting in a car waiti
ng for him? Cestac is cunning. I confess we didn’t know he has a place in Rue de Constantine but it seems the Brothers had the road if not the number. My guess is they want to take Cestac out of the picture. He has the contacts in the smart set and they want his middleman profit. They figure to get him off guard and alone — then it’ll be a painful end for M. Cestac.’

  King interrupted, ‘I follow you, Victor, but you’ve said nothing about Cestac’s partner — this blond guy.’

  ‘Him. Oh shit, King, I’ve no idea, but you can be sure that he was no sort of business partner. And I do mean ‘was’. The Grimms took him off assuming he’s in on the act, they’ll have sweated him a bit, found he knows nothing, then they’ll have wasted what was left of him and our colleagues in the Gendarmerie will be fishing him out of some canal in a day or so. Cestac works alone and trusts no one. He’s way too smart for the Grimms and I bet he sniffed something this morning. So he sent off the blond as a diversion to give himself a bit of time. He’ll be back. They must owe him product so he’ll be back ... and with muscle behind him. What we must do now is watch and wait. We’ve got a good chance to roll up the network and get our hands on some of the using clientele too, and they’ll be a high profile bunch you can be sure.’

  ’I’d sure like that,’ said King, ‘but if you’re right Victor, what was the blond doing there? Is he a boyfriend? Is Cestac a queer?’

  Sollange laughed, ‘God no. Cestac certainly likes the girls and he likes variety too. So, I reckon that Blond was the cabaret for the evening.’