Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

A dan

Within twenty minutes of the cell door clanging shut, it’s flung wide open again.

“Out,” the guard orders. “You’re to come with me.”

I limp after him into the dank corridor, hanging on to the wall as we march along the narrow walkway to the stairs at the end. He offers me no assistance in climbing the steps into the daylight above, and I don’t ask for any. I’m used to shifting for myself.

Once upstairs, I pause to take a look around. I’m in the central foyer of what was the Domingo hacienda, now the home of Kris Kaminski, or more accurately, his underboss, Baz Bartosz. I gather Kaminski prefers to live on his luxury yacht in one of Tenerife’s marinas, leaving the hacienda to be inhabited by Bartosz and his family. I met his wife and daughter when they were my prisoners, briefly.

I suspect I owe my life to the fact that I was careful not to harm either of them whilst they were in my ‘care’. Gratuitous violence was never my thing, it wasn’t necessary to hurt anyone. The kid was never in any danger, there are lines I won’t cross, and murdering children is one of them.

Speaking of which, a movement to my right catches my attention. I swing my gaze around in time to spot Lily Bartosz darting out of the French windows dressed in riding gear. I vaguely recall that the Domingos were renowned for breeding fine racehorses, so I assume Bartosz has maintained the tradition.

“This way,” the guard snaps, heading for a second flight of stars.

“It’s okay, Pyotr. I can take it from here.”

Julia Bartosz emerges from a room to my left, and seems somewhat more put together than when I last saw her.

I bow my head. “You look well, Julia.”

Her brow wrinkles. “Which is more than can be said for you, se?or. Still, we can soon rectify that. Please, come with me.”

“ Se?ora , I—” the guard protests.

“Thank you, Pyotr.” She dismisses his objections with a wave of an elegant hand. “I’m sure you have a lot to be getting on with.”

“The boss told me to?—”

“Yes, yes. But I can take it from here. Se?or San Antonio will not be causing any problems, is that not correct?”

I assume the question is directed at me. I shrug, which Julia Bartosz takes as assent.

“There. You see. Let me show you to your new… quarters.”

The guard knows when he’s beaten and ambles off, muttering.

I fall in behind Julia as she ascends the grand staircase.

On the upper landing, she pauses at a door on the left and gestures me to go inside. “I trust you will be more comfortable here.”

I doubt if it could be less comfortable than the accommodations I just left so I turn the door handle and enter, to find myself in a guest suite.

Julia follows me inside. “The en suite is over there. I had fresh towels and toiletries put in there, and you’ll find a change of clothes on the bed. I understand my husband intends to provide you with funds to purchase more. I have also arranged for a barber from the village to come up here and give you a shave and a haircut. Is there anything else you might require?

Again, I shrug. “It sounds as though you thought of everything.”

“You will be hungry, no doubt. You’ll find fruit and snacks on the sideboard. Dinner is at six, in the main dining salon.”

“Thank you, se?ora .”

She offers me a tight smile. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” She’s already backing towards the door. “I believe my husband wishes to speak with you, once you are… presentable.”

Presentable? That’s one way of describing it. A year in an underground cell with no running water would leave most men somewhat less than fit to be in decent company. Clearly, Se?ora Bartosz does not want her nice dining salon contaminated, and I find myself happy to oblige.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, I take a moment to check that it isn’t locked. Having satisfied myself on that score, I swing around and head for the en suite.

The facilities are every bit as grand as I might have hoped. Walk-in rainfall shower big enough for half a football team, an array of gels, shampoos, and body lotions that wouldn’t disgrace the most expensive spa, piles of fluffy towels, and a soft towelling robe. I waste no time in stripping off my tattered garments and stuffing them in the trash bin. I turn on the jets and step into the steaming warmth.

The shower is heavenly. I spend about three times as long in there as I need to, just basking in the luxury. Yes, I’m expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment, but I see no reason not to enjoy the unexpected hospitality while it lasts.

I do eventually emerge to drag on the robe and lean over the sink to examine my features in the mirror. My face is thinner, my skin sallow. I find wrinkles I’m sure must be new, and my hair is a tangled, overgrown mess with wisps of grey in among the deep mahogany. I’m sporting a couple of weeks’ growth of stubble, and I conclude I’d not appear out of place begging for coins at the roadside.

I amble back into the bedroom and take a look around for the first time. My old cell would fit in here a dozen times over and still leave room to spare. The four-poster bed dominates the space, upholstered in a deep burgundy to contrast with the ash-grey shagpile on the floor. An alcove with a French window opens onto a balcony, and I can’t resist trying the doors to find out if they’re unlocked. They are, and I step out into the open air for the first time in over a year. I lean on the railing, breathing in the heady scents of the Tenerife countryside and taking in the mountainous panorama. It’s too dry, too arid to be described as scenic, lacking the lush, verdant fertility of my native Andalusia, but beautiful, nevertheless. The shrill buzz of cicadas fills the air, punctuated by the occasional whinny from the paddock below. A half dozen magnificent Arabian horses canter round in the late afternoon sunshine. There’s no sign of Lily Bartosz.

A light knock on the door brings me back inside.

“Yes?” I call out.

“Barber, se?or ,” comes the reply.

Ah, yes. As promised. I open the door and gesture the diminutive Spaniard to come in. He does, lugging a huge holdall behind him which he dumps in the middle of the floor. He treats me to a cascade of rapid-fire Spanish, the gist of which is that his name is Egberto, he’s the finest barber on the island, and I’m to sit on the chair he’s positioned in the centre of the room and allow him to perform his magic.

My hair is still dripping wet from the shower, but that doesn’t deter him. He sets to, snipping and clipping and combing, chattering away the entire time. The unruly locks fall away to form a pile around my feet. Twenty minutes later, he dangles a mirror in front of me.

“Is good, se?or ?” He nods excitedly, positioning the mirror one way and the other.

It’s a definite improvement. I manage a brief nod before my jaw is plastered with shaving foam and Egberto gets to work again.

My scruffy beard is transformed into a fair rendition of designer stubble. By the time the mirror is pressed into service once more, my appearance is better than presentable. All I’m short of is a tux and I could grace the finest social gathering or boardroom. Just the look I’ll need if I’m to regain my standing in the world of enterprise and entrepreneurship.

Satisfied with the result of his efforts, Egberto throws his gear back into his holdall. He hands me his rather tattered business card, assures me of his excellent work at all times and the cheapest prices to be had anywhere on Tenerife, and scurries away still chuntering to himself.

I check out the clothes supplied by Julia. Her taste is conservative but acceptable. A crisp light-blue sports shirt, grey trousers, and a flannel jacket make up my outfit, and incredibly they seem to fit. I slip into them, just in time. Baz Bartosz chooses that moment to stroll through my door.

“Don’t bother to knock,” I mutter, adjusting my jacket sleeve.

“Nice threads,” is his response. “You scrub up well.”

I don’t dignify that with an answer. “I suppose you’re here to spell out the terms of our deal.”

He settles into a seat by the window and casually crosses one ankle over his knee. “I like things to be clear. Avoids… misunderstandings down the line.”

“It’s simple enough. I pay you five million euros and you let me go.”

“Nice try. Five million euros settles the little matter of the ransom, then we renegotiate. Our deal is open-ended.”

“No deal lasts forever. You and I both know that.”

He leans forward, his dark gaze intense. “What we both know, is that no deal survives at all without collateral. A downpayment, shall we say?”

Just as I feared. The other shoe is about to drop. I hitch a hip on the windowsill and return his stare. “What do you have in mind?”

“You’ve never asked about Rosie.”

“Rosie?” I search my memory for some clue. “What Rosie?”

“Ah, I mean Rosa. That was the name you knew her by.”

He had my attention before, but it ramps up. I entertained a seriously soft spot for my little companion and probably still do. “What do you mean? Where is she? Is she all right?”

“Yes, as far as I know. She went home.”

“Home?”

“To the UK. You knew she was English?”

“Of course I knew.” Her accent gave that away, not that I spared much thought for the matter. “She is safe?”

“I believe so. I phoned her father, as you know, who flew out to pick her up. Such a happy reunion. Very touching. Shame you were otherwise occupied, but on second thoughts, her father would probably not have warmed to you. The man who held his daughter captive.”

I see no point in disputing that. It was what it was. “Why are you bringing this up now, Bartosz?”

“Collateral,” he repeats, as though this makes everything clear. “Insurance.”

He opens his jacket, and I brace, expecting him to produce a gun. Instead, he tosses a handful of photographs on the low table between us.

I glance at them and spot Rosa, exceptionally smiley and cheerful. She grins at me from the black-and-white image. I assume the tall, dark-haired man beside her is the doting father. The other females in the pictures, one of them just a child, could be her sisters, I suppose. She never told me anything of her family or former life, so how would I know?

“Very touching,” I concede. “I’m happy for her, she was a nice kid.”

“So I’m told. I didn’t get to know her very well myself. I do like to… keep in touch, though. From a distance, naturally.”

“So?” I’m becoming nervous now. Where is this leading?

He tosses another picture on top of the pile already on the table. “I daresay congratulations are in order.”

I peer at the image. It’s a baby, very young, as far as I can tell, but with nothing to distinguish the tiny, screwed-up features from any one of a million other infants. I guess it’s true what they say, all babies look alike.

“What the fuck?” I pick up the photograph then drop it again. “Why are you showing me these?” I’m beyond baffled.

“Cute little thing, isn’t she? Her name’s Erin, I gather.”

“And?”

“Takes after her mother, wouldn’t you say?” He picks up the discarded picture and squints at it. “She has her father’s eyes, though.”

An uneasy prickle creeps up my spine. I ignore the photographs, my attention riveted on Bartosz. “Who is she?”

“Just three months old,” he continues, although I haven’t spoken. “A fragile age. So much can go wrong…”

“Who. Is. She?” I grind out the question, though I’m beginning to think I know the answer.

“She’s yours, Adan. Yours and Rosie’s.”

“But… how…?”

“The usual way, I expect. Do you see the resemblance now?”

“Where…?”

“The UK. I told you that. Rosie went back to live with her family.”

“Where in the UK?” I grind out. “I need to see her. Them.”

“Sorry, that would make it too easy, though I’m sure a man of your resourcefulness will manage to track them down without too much difficulty. Not that you’d be especially welcome at Daddy’s house, not after… well, you know. Still, that’s your problem. My problem is one of collateral, as I said. And this is where young Erin comes in.”

“What the fuck are you saying, Bartosz?”

“Do I have to spell it out?” He sighs. “Yes, I can see that I do. I assume that despite never having heard of her existence until a couple of minutes ago, you have more than a passing interest in the kid’s welfare. I understand she’s thriving. Up to now. It would be tragic, would it not, if that was to change?”

“You bastard.”

He shrugs. “Yes, probably, but needs must. The thing is, Adan, the moment you’re free, what’s to stop you just disappearing? You’re a resourceful man. You have contacts. We’d never see a penny of what you owe us.”

“I gave you my word,” I begin.

“Alas, I feel I need something more… tangible. Some form of surety. And, as I say, Erin offers me that.”

“You’re threatening her? A child? A baby ?”

“Not as long as you keep your side of our bargain. You’re to keep in touch with me, send the payments on the dot, and we’ll all be happy. Erin most of all.” He examines the picture once more. “Sweet little thing.”

I snatch the photo from him. “You touch a hair on her head…”

“Let’s hope such unpleasantness does not prove necessary, but of course, that’s up to you. Now, do you have any further questions regarding our arrangement?”

“Get out, Bartosz.” It’s all I can do not to grab him by the neck and throttle him right here and now.

“I see we understand one another.” He gets to his feet. “Did Julia tell you that we eat at six? I gather we’re to have salmon this evening. Oh, I almost forgot. You’ll be needing this.” He hands me a very authentic-looking passport and a brand-new smartphone. “My number is in there already, and you’ll find details of a bank account in your name. I deposited the fifty thousand euros mentioned earlier, along with details of flights tomorrow out of Tenerife. I expect you to be gone by noon. I’ll make a car available to take you to the airport. Is there anything else?”

“Fuck you,” is my only response.

“My thoughts exactly. Until dinner time, then.” He gets to his feet, bows his head, and is gone as quickly as he arrived.

I’m left with a set of photographs and a burning desire to rip someone limb from limb.

I seriously consider skipping the invitation to dinner, but my stomach overrules me. I bite back my seething anger and present myself in the dining room one minute after six. Bartosz and his wife are already seated, him at the head of the table, Julia Bartosz to his right. The daughter is nowhere to be seen.

I take the spare seat to Bartosz’s left and reach for the half-full bottle of red wine in front of me.

“A fine burgundy,” Bartosz murmurs. “You will enjoy it.”

I swallow a glassful in one go and pour myself a refill.

My hosts make no comment. Instead, Julia offers me soup.

“It’s stilton and broccoli,” she tells me. “One of Se?ora Hernandez’s specialities.”

I accept and help myself to two of the crusty wholemeal rolls accompanying it. I’m famished, no point denying it, and the food above stairs is very good. In fairness, I was reasonably well-fed whilst incarcerated in the cellar, too, probably courtesy of Se?ora Hernandez, but not in such quantity.

I make short work of the soup. It really is exceptional, and I’m wondering about a second bowl when the main course arrives. Se?ora Hernandez places the huge platter of salmon en cro?te in the centre of the table and proceeds to carve it up. A maid trots in with a tray of steaming vegetables then scuttles out again. Se?ora Hernandez serves a generous helping of her salmon onto each plate, then beats her own retreat.

Up to now, the conversation has been minimal, but once the edge has been taken off my hunger, I find I have plenty to say.

“Where’s your daughter?” I demand. “Were you scared I might repay your ‘hospitality’ in kind? Did you prefer to keep her away from me?”

“She’s at a sleepover,” Julia explains. “A friend from school. Why would you think we wanted her to avoid you, Se?or San Antonio? Unless you fear she might still be traumatised following her brief stay in your keeping. If so, I can assure you that?—”

I tilt my head. “Not that, though I am glad she got over the experience. Did your husband not enlighten you regarding his plans for ensuring my compliance?”

“We rarely discuss business, Se?or San Antonio,” she replies blandly. “Is there something I should know?”

I look to Bartosz, who simply raises his eyebrows.

“Your husband has threatened to harm my daughter if I fail to meet the terms of our agreement,” I explain. “She’s only three months old.”

“Your daughter? Ah, you must mean Rosie’s little one.” Her gaze lands on her husband. “Was that truly necessary, Baz?”

“Business is business, my darling. You know that.”

“Even so…”

“I am glad we understand one another.” He smiles at me. “More potatoes, se?or ?”

I exit the main doors of the hacienda just after nine o’clock the following morning, to be met by a car and driver, as promised, waiting to take me to the airport. I fling the holdall containing my few possessions into the boot, then climb into the rear seat. The sleek vehicle purrs into life, and the graceful elegance of the Bartosz home recedes behind us.

The drive to the airport takes no more than thirty minutes. Nowhere is very far on this island. I’m deposited at the huge plate-glass doors leading to the departure lounge, so I make my way inside.

My first stop is the looming departures board where all flights for the next several hours are listed. Naturally, my preferred destination is already decided. I need to settle, at least for now, in a global financial hub. London and New York don’t appeal, which leaves Hong Kong, Singapore, and San Francisco. I find there’s an Iberia flight to Madrid leaving in just under two hours, and from there I can pick up Air China flights to Beijing then finally on to Hong Kong. That’ll do me. I head for the Iberia booking kiosk and ask if they have any spare single seats.

I leave armed with a ticket for Madrid and details of the flights for my onward journey. I head for check-in. The passage through border control and security is remarkably smooth, and I find myself ensconced in a nice window seat, ready to enjoy my flight to the capital.

I have plenty of homework to do, tracking down Rosa — or Rosie — but there’s no hurry. I have much to accomplish before I can even think about contacting her, and in any case I can’t get started until after we land at the other end. Flight mode doesn’t allow for internet browsing, so I have to content myself by thumbing through the in-flight magazine. I briefly flirt with the notion of buying a gift for Rosie, when I eventually see her. Erin, too. But I decide not to.

First things first.