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The Real Deal	By : Gallivant Category: M through R > Red Eye Views: 3201 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. I am not making any money from publishing this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
CHAPTER SIX – In Hot Pursuit
Heavy slurrying rain and dark threatening skies had slowed traffic considerably on Interstate-75. What Lisa had hoped would be little more than a pleasant three hour drive to Sunny Springs, in Sarasota County, to see Mr Gordon Buckley, looked like it might take much longer, jeopardizing her hopes to be back in Miami by nightfall.
She grimaced at the ineffectiveness of her wipers, barely able to cope with the torrential downpour pounding her car, streaming across her windscreen in thick flowing rivulets.
She had to pull over. Take a break.
XXXXXXXXXX
Lisa huddled over a hot cup of coffee in a roadside diner, drenched through from walking just the short distance from the parking lot.
She thought through her plans for the day.
As a private guest, Buckley had submitted his address on registration at the hotel, and a quick phone call to his residence yesterday evening had confirmed that he would be home. Lisa had spoken to a polite woman with a Cuban accent, who she figured was likely to be Buckley's housekeeper, judging by her deferential manner when referring to him.
Lisa then approached Eric, requesting a printout of the screenshot of Jackson, as caught on the hotel's security cameras. Eric seemed disapproving and curious.
In a misguided bid to deflect any awkward questions, Lisa told Eric that her Toyota had been stolen. Much alarmed, Eric urged her to make a formal police statement, as soon as possible, which she naturally agreed to do.
After all, this was an insurance matter. She couldn't continue to live off car rentals and cabs.
However, her primary task, right now, was to glean as much information as possible from Gordon Buckley about how he had met Jackson.
She flipped open a clear plastic folder and gazed sternly at the printout of Jackson's image.
Surely Buckley would remember him? Jackson had such striking, unforgettable features. His eyes alone … .
She drained her coffee. Best to hit the road again. The rain was easing.
XXXXXXXXXX
Two hours later, her cell phone's persistent beeping forced her to make another unscheduled stop at a rest area, abutting flat green fields.
Cynthia had left a message. Mr Talbot Haynes from the Keefe For America campaign had called, yet again.
Lisa had intended to call Haynes yesterday, but amidst everything else, she had clean forgot. Hardly surprising really, after her 'encounter' with Jackson in Room 3113.
Fortunately she had stored Haynes's number in her cell phone.
What could he want that was so very urgent? Lisa wondered.
Haynes answered promptly.
'Mr Haynes,' Lisa said brightly. 'My name's Lisa Reisert, manager of the Lux Atlantic Hotel in Miami. You called me … .'
'Hey there, Lisa!' Haynes bellowed. 'Cool you could get back so soon. I understand you've had some troubles.'
'Yes, yes. We have,' Lisa said, quickly realizing he was referring to yesterday's catastrophe at the hotel with the water sprinklers. 'But everything's under control now.'
'I'm sure it is, Lisa, I'm sure it is.'
Lisa frowned. There was something a little too familiar, too smarmy in Haynes's manner, for her liking.
Haynes giggled. 'Well, I'd best introduce myself. I'm Charles Keefe's aide and campaign adviser. And you know what, Lisa. I've heard plenty of good things about you. Charles reckons you're the darnedest little lady. The finest manager he's ever come across.'
Lisa somehow didn't think Charles Keefe had quite expressed himself in that manner. But it was nice to learn he had a high opinion of her. He'd always been consistently charming, sincere and friendly.
'In fact, Lisa,' Haynes continued, 'Charles would like you to climb on board his campaign for the White House.'
Even though she had never seen Haynes, Lisa summoned up an image of a portly, ruddy-cheeked man, in early middle age, grinning inanely.
Strangely, it wasn't an image she warmed to. Even though Cynthia's predictions that the Keefe campaign might want to offer her a job were clearly on the money.
'That's … that's very flattering,' Lisa said cautiously.
'You bet it is!' Haynes retorted. 'Let me tell you Lisa, it's a privilege and an honor to serve that man.'
Lisa tried to thrill to Haynes's words. He was undoubtedly right. Keefe was a great guy, a truly honest politician – which was increasingly rare these days – with a large, dynamic support base.
She didn't take too great an interest in current affairs. Heck, she hadn't the time to. But she was well-aware that pundits and ordinary folks too, were in agreement, that Keefe had a fine chance of scooping the nomination for his party in the upcoming primaries and had a strong shot at winning the White House the following year.
Working with Keefe would be an incredible, once in a lifetime opportunity. One surely not to be missed.
Except. She rather liked being a hotel manager. And as things stood right now … .
But what was she thinking?
'Keefe's a good man,' she said, rather solemnly.
'So you're up for it?' Haynes asked eagerly.
'Is this a formal job offer?' Lisa replied, incredulous.
'Not wholly Lisa. At least not yet,' Haynes said. 'More of an invitation to come and speak with the team some time soon. See where your interests lie. Check us out.'
Lisa smirked. 'I thought you were wanting to book a campaign dinner at the hotel.'
'Hey, we can do that!' Haynes said, gushing with enthusiasm. 'We can officially welcome you onto the campaign, in the same place where Charles and his beloved family survived that terrible attack … could be quite a media coup that Lisa. Kind of symbolic, don't you think? Smart thinking.'
'I didn't mean it like that.'
Geez, maybe she should work for Keefe. He deserved a lot better than this goon.
Haynes continued. 'So I'm thinking you drop by and see us some time. How are you fixed for late next week?'
Lisa was, as always, due vacation.
'We'll pay for your flights, a couple of days in a hotel, all expenses covered,' Haynes said.
'Where's the meeting?' Lisa asked.
'New York, Lisa. We'll meet you in New York,' Haynes said curtly.
XXXXXXXXXX
New York might be fun, Lisa thought, once she was driving again.
The skies had brightened considerably, and the traffic was easing a little as she passed Punta Gorda, heading towards Venice. Pretty soon, according to the map, she would have to get off the highway, and follow the signs for Sunny Springs.
She hadn't actually been to New York for some years. At least four. Maybe five. She had a close friend from college, Charley, who had moved to New York, hoping to make her way as an artist. Her exhibitions to date had been very favorably reviewed. Maybe she could stop with her for a few nights? Make a week of it? Catch a show?
Lisa was so wrapped up in her rapidly evolving plans for a New York mini-break she almost missed her exit. She skidded off the highway at full pelt, her Ford Taurus grunting in complaint at this abrupt departure.
XXXXXXXXX
Gordon Buckley's house was a grandiose white Palladian structure skirted by palm trees.
A tall, silver-haired lady in a navy blue twin-set answered the door. She gave Lisa a studied, polite look – a look Lisa reckoned was reserved for trades people.
Lisa felt a little embarrassed to meet Mrs Buckley, in view of her husband's debauched antics in Miami.
'He's at his golf club,' Mrs Buckley said in response to Lisa's inquiry. 'I'm not expecting him home until this evening. Is it urgent?'
'Pretty much so,' Lisa said. Well. It was to her. 'I really need to speak to your husband today, Mrs Buckley.'
'That's a shame,' Mrs Buckley said in low conspiratorial tones. 'I'm afraid the club is one of those horrid old institutions which doesn't take too kindly to women.'
'Could you instruct me how to get there?'
Mrs Buckley seemed to ponder Lisa's request, observing her at some length. Then she smiled broadly.
XXXXXXXXXX
The Sunny Springs Country Club was an eloquent country mansion, set amidst trimmed green lawns and high-feathered hedges. Its elegant front façade was streaked with thick green creepers, and faced a decorative red-tiled patio, festooned with terracotta vases, plump pink roses, and a small octagonal fishpond, featuring at its centre a chubby-faced Cupid spurting water. The patio was fringed by broad-leaved palm trees which seemed to whisper loudly in consternation at the sight of Lisa, her auburn hair flouncing, as she marched towards the entrance in grim determination.
The club's airy, ornate salon was thronged with men, which seemed most peculiar, Lisa thought, in view of the ideal golfing weather. There was a chorus of braying laughter and, oddly, the soft, shimmering sound of a suspended cymbal, and an accompanying low drumbeat. The men were clustered into a tight semi-circle, closely surrounding something which Lisa could not see from her position at the bar behind them. Lisa stood on tiptoe, striving to peer over their heads. She spied a small-boned, sleek-haired woman in a skimpy pearly-sequined flesh-colored costume which she was in the process of slipping herself out of, in as ostentatiously sexy a manner as possible.
So much for women being outlawed, Lisa thought wryly.
She scanned the room for Gordon Buckley, gradually becoming aware that she was attracting as much, if not more attention than the stripper, who faltered as her audience's eyes shifted away from her to the comparatively demure, red-head in a crisp, white linen suit who was standing, a little awkwardly, at the bar.
Buckley was hovering close to the stripper. He looked to see who had prompted such a fresh ripple of excitement.
He sneered contemptuously when he saw Lisa.
Then he recognized her, his face clouding in anxiety, most particularly because she was beckoning him to come outside.
XXXXXXXXXXX
'Is this still about that damned phone? Because I can assure you I've paid my bill, every dratted dime, if that's what you're after,' Buckley demanded, his face flushed puce with heated mortification. 'And you should also know young Missie that ladies aren't allowed in this establishment.'
'I won't be coming again, I can assure you Mr Buckley,' Lisa said dryly.
In fact she couldn't wait to get away. The hot air was clammy and uncomfortable, and Buckley's sweaty snarl, his eyes bulging angrily like speckled poached eggs, was not a pleasant spectacle.
'So is it money you're after, huh? Some kind of … payment?' Buckley asked gruffly. Lisa noted there was a mild tremor in his voice. Did he really think she was here to blackmail him, because of his 'entertaining' prostitutes?
'Nothing of the sort Mr Buckley,' Lisa said in her most placatory tone. 'And I'm terribly sorry to disturb you Sir, during your … recreation.'
'Well whatever it is, be quick about it,' he said through gritted teeth.
With shaking hands, Lisa pushed the folder containing Jackson's picture towards Buckley.
He shot her a surprised look, then briefly scanned the photo inside. He sniffed, then promptly closed the folder and passed it back to Lisa.
'Is this what you came all this way to show me?' he said insolently, his mouth slack and loose-jawed. Lisa noticed he was chewing gum. ''Cos I've never seen the guy.'
Lisa narrowed her eyes in disbelief. 'Are you sure Mr Buckley? Because he says he knows you.'
'Does he now? Well, I ain't ever set eyes on the fellow and that's a fact.'
'He was at the Global Finance conference,' Lisa urged. 'You might remember his name. Jackson Rippner?' Buckley looked blank. 'James Ryder?'
Buckley shrugged. 'What do you want of him anyway?'
Lisa was suddenly stuck for words.
'Suspicion of fraud,' she blurted.
Buckley's eyes widened. 'Fraud! But I might have done business with him!'
Lisa privately congratulated herself for hitting on the one topic which might jog Buckley's memory.
'You see my wife's family were in phosphates. Sold out. Made a fair packet. I was looking to invest some of it,' Buckley explained. 'Get ahead of the curve, ahead of the pack, know what I mean?'
'Were there any particular investment opportunities at the conference which attracted you?' Lisa asked.
'I checked out a few. Plumped in the end for Mellor, Rice and Cohen. More of a local concern as it turned out. None of this foreign jibber-jabber. But I gave the other guys a fair crack of the whip too, you know … kind of seemed the right thing to do in the circumstances.'
Lisa guessed that those particular circumstances involved being in the bar, whilst being plied with copious drinks by those companies touting for Buckley's business. Her mind flashed back to Buckley's alcohol-soaked breath and disheveled appearance when she had visited his hotel room.
'I guess it's kinda possible I may have spoken to your guy,' Buckley continued. 'But I can't say for sure.'
Lisa's heart was beating a little faster. She opened the folder again.
'Did … did he work for Mellor, Rice and Cohen?'
'Nah,' Buckley said. 'That was a woman.' He smirked. 'Shapely ass, nice legs.'
Lisa felt a little nauseous.
She thrust Jackson's picture into his face once more. 'And you're sure you don't remember who this man worked for? He had … he has very blue eyes. They're pretty memorable.'
She studied Buckley's face as he looked once again at Jackson. It wasn't a great picture, she knew that. Grainy. Black and white. And his face was slightly in shadow. But it was unmistakably him.
Lisa fancied she now saw a glimmer of faint recognition illuminate Buckley's face. 'Blue eyes, you say? Kind of piercing blue?'
Lisa nodded vigorously.
'You know. I think … I think he was with one of the stands,' Buckley said. 'Maybe a speaker.'
'A speaker? Are you certain?' Lisa asked sceptically.
'No, no Miss. Not this guy himself. But the speakers' companies have stands. Sales literature. That sort of thing,' Buckley explained. A large glob of sweat was dribbling slowly down his flabby cheeks.
'So what other companies did you speak to?' she persisted.
'Well, there was this wind-power company from out of California. Load of old guff if you ask me.' Buckley strived to recall any more. 'It's kind of hazy you know Miss. But I spoke to someone from Global Securities Index, that I do remember … that Gershon chap's an inspirational speaker you know. Also … . Well. De Bowens of course. And this Beauchamps outfit.'
Lisa had grabbed a pen from her purse and was writing these names on the back of Jackson's picture. 'How do I spell Beauchamps?' she asked.
Buckley spelled it out for her. 'They were a bit too adventurous for my liking,' he said. 'Same as the Gershon chap. Into all these high-risk strategies. Too much overseas stuff.'
'Well,' Lisa said with a smile. 'The conference was called Global Finance. Kind of a tiny clue in the title, don't you think Mr Buckley?'
Buckley puffed out his lip peevishly. 'Is that enough now Miss?'
'Yes Mr Buckley. Thanks for your assistance,' Lisa replied with a withering smile, desperate to escape.
Already the dank gray clouds which had dogged the early stages of her journey, presaging a storm, were rapidly scuttling across the blue skies above.
She had to head back to Miami. And fast.
XXXXXXXXXX
'You sure chose a rum day to travel upstate Miss Lisa,' Eric remarked the next morning.
Lisa was exhausted. Her return trip had been long and tortuous, beset by violent electrical storms which had churned up the skies and flooded the roads.
She had still managed to stumble blearily into work at a reasonable hour, but the long day in prospect was depressing, to say the least.
'Was the trip … worth it?' Eric asked, smiling benignly.
'I think so,' she sighed.
She felt, she hoped, she'd made a little progress.
The moment she'd got into her office she'd logged on to the Internet and googled the three companies Buckley could remember speaking with: Global Securities Index (GSI), De Bowens and Beauchamp's.
The corporate web site of GSI featured the soft, jowly features and dignified silver hair of Ira Gershon as its frontispiece, hailing him as a financial guru for our times in glowing terms. The company was registered in Delaware and professed to offer a comprehensive tracking guide to hedge funds and global investments, with a particular focus on emerging markets.
The site for Beauchamp Finance Fund Management was a little less star-struck. There was a brief potted history informing potential investors that Beauchamps was originally an English firm, but was now registered in the Cayman Islands – although how this news could possibly wow future customers beat Lisa. The site listed contact emails and a toll-free telephone number. Nothing else.
Lisa was more impressed by the De Bowens web site. She had, of course, heard of De Bowens. They were a well known family-owned merchant bank; a true stalwart of Wall Street. Their site was detailed, glossy, if a little dull. George De Bowen's tanned, patrician features, weren't splashed across the home page. Instead he was presented simply at his desk, a man at work.
Notably Jackson was not listed amongst De Bowen's comprehensive listings of key management personnel.
Why was he working with any of them? If that was indeed what he was doing. But then why else would he have spoken to Buckley? After all, Buckley was surely not a man one would choose to talk to.
Lisa still fancied Jackson was checking out a future 'job' – much as he had trailed her for eight weeks before the attempted Keefe assassination. And as the most eminent person to attend the conference, Gershon still seemed a prime candidate, which surely ruled out GSI.
Then again, Jackson might have infiltrated GSI with the sole purpose of scoping out his target at particularly close quarters. It was a long shot, but she couldn't rule it out.
XXXXXXXXXX
Lisa's next logical step, that same afternoon, was simply to call GSI, De Bowens and Beauchamps, and ask to speak to a 'Mr James Ryder.' After all, he had been using that specific alias when he was in Miami it seemed, judging by the passport she had found in his briefcase. Plus, Jackson Rippner was surely too outlandish a name to use amongst the respectable financial community. It hardly inspired confidence.
She didn't expect much, if any success from this line of inquiry. It seemed too easy, too obvious. But it had to be done.
At first her fears seemed justified. None of the receptionists she spoke to had ever heard of a James Ryder. But then there was a brief hesitation, she felt sure, from the pert young voice who answered the toll-free number at Beauchamps.
'We have a Graham Ryder, in our London office,' she had said.
'What does he do?' Lisa asked tremulously. Had she met him? Did he have startling blue eyes? A host of silly questions crowded into her head.
'I can't tell you that Ma'am. Would you like to hold one minute?'
The pert voice vanished for a moment or two, then returned, even more sprightly than before.
'He's an account executive Ma'am,' she announced.
'Ah. Good.' Lisa fumbled for something to say. Might this be yet another alias? 'Could I … might I be able to speak with him?'
'If you wish to discuss your European portfolio or are considering a new investment, then I can put you through to one of our US advisers. The London office is now closed for the evening.'
'No. No. I'd rather speak with Mr Ryder himself.'
There was a long pause, and then the faint sound of long, talon-like nails clicking on a keyboard. 'I'm afraid that won't be possible Ma'am,' the receptionist said dolefully. 'Mr Ryder's away on paternity leave.'
XXXXXXXXXX
Paternity leave?
Surely then this Graham Ryder couldn't be Jackson, Lisa thought. Paternity leave would indicate he was married, settled, and quite obviously with children. More than that, it indicated he was a responsible, caring father, which was surely impossible for a globe-trotting assassin?
It simply didn't ring true.
However, she had noticed that 'London' was a regular destination in his passport – even though that passport also called him 'James.' But then maybe he was one of those guys who preferred to use a middle name instead of his birth-name?
And he had teased her, or so she had thought at the time. His words chilled through her. 'How do you know I'm not already married?'
What if he had been hinting at the truth?
XXXXXXXXXXX
Cynthia and her fiancée Bradley invited Lisa to dine at Bradley's beachfront condo. They had planned to eat outside, on the balcony, but a gusty wind soon licked Cynthia's hair into wild disarray and sprayed them with a mound of tortilla chips, scooped straight from the bowl.
So they retreated indoors.
The dinner was a concerted effort on their part, Lisa felt, to cheer her up. Get her out. She had been working too hard, in advance of her trip to New York.
In fact Cynthia had been sweetly solicitous about her well being, ever since her trip to Sunny Springs.
Yet for all their kindness, Lisa felt cold and empty. Desperate to flee their company. Desperate to be alone with her thoughts.
What was wrong with her?
Here was her dear friend Cynthia, her round, open face busting with happiness. She was clearly very much in love with Bradley, and he with her.
Why couldn't she be happy for them?
Instead Lisa was acutely aware of the subtle body-checking touches they exchanged, the shy smiles, eyes dark and glowing with pupils the size of saucers whenever they looked at each other. She found she envied their freedom of feeling, while hating herself for responding in this fashion.
And Bradley was a great guy for Cynthia, no doubt about it, with his mop of ash-blonde hair and handsome toothy grin. Lisa had always liked him, even though he had an annoying habit of trying to fix her up with his colleagues and tennis buddies.
'We have something to ask you,' Cynthia suddenly said, halfway through the desserts. She looked at Bradley, who was grinning from ear to ear, the proverbial Cheshire Cat. He tightly clasped Cynthia's hand in his own; a small but tender act of encouragement.
'Lisa. Would … would you be our maid of honor?' Cynthia asked, barely able to suppress her excitement.
Lisa was a little taken aback.
'I don't know what to say,' she said.
Cynthia's sunny smile had faltered. 'Yes would be nice Lisa … but if you don't think you're up to it, if it's too much for you, I really, really understand.'
She patted Lisa's hands reassuringly.
'Of course I'm up to it,' Lisa said. Her throat felt dry and constricted. 'I … I'd love to be your maid of honor. Thank you so much for asking me.'
'It really means a lot to us,' Cynthia cooed. She impulsively threw her arms around Lisa's neck.
Then she hugged Bradley tightly. 'Calm down, calm down,' he chuckled affectionately. 'Your ice-cream's melting.'
'I don't care,' Cynthia said, planting a big, wet kiss on Bradley's cheek.
Again Lisa felt she had intruded on a private loving moment – even though, ironically, it was one which also involved herself.
How refreshing it would be, she thought, to just be normal. To act on natural impulses. To gleefully revel in mutual attraction.
Yet somehow she felt her own life had taken a different course, far away from the sparkling sunlight and heady romance which currently typified Cynthia's world.
Lisa sighed into her large bowl of strawberry ice cream.
Romance seemed so very unlikely for her.
Of course she'd never really loved a man.
And it had been a mighty long time since she had been truly attracted to anyone either.
Except … well, she knew that wasn't entirely true.
For one tiny moment she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander, to recall with startling, with thrilling clarity the feeling of Jackson's lips on her neck, her face, her mouth.
But no, she couldn't think like that. It was dangerous. She had to suppress the soft squibbles which churned though her tummy whenever she thought of him in this light.
It was easy enough to do.
She simply reminded herself of his innate cruelty, his penchant for violence – although even then, she wondered why. Why did he switch from tender to fierce in a split-second? What had happened to him in his life to make that man – a man of many faces she was coming to realize? Or was he just a cold, calculating sociopath, bent on destroying other people's lives? Including her own.
Of course she couldn't even be sure that she would ever see him again.
She tried to ignore the pang of regret which throbbed through her. But she couldn't. She desperately wanted to see him again, she knew she did. Why deny it?
She was inescapably drawn to his darkness and his accompanying sense of danger and unpredictability which both tormented and exhilarated her.
XXXXXXXXXX
Of course, with no new credible leads, bar scant information gleaned from the Internet about Jackson's possible employers, her hunt for the true identity of Jackson Rippner had slowed, it seemed, to a grinding halt.
Life simply proceeded as normal.
At work, Lisa engrossed herself in plans to refurbish the conference suite after the recent 'incident' as it soon became known in Lux Atlantic parlance. Anything to avoid thinking about Jackson and her failed mission to find him.
It was hugely frustrating. She had no Plan B.
Alone at home one night, Lisa pondered her situation. Tracking Jackson down would be a lot less tricky if her options were fewer. So what she still needed was more credible information about the companies Jackson might be working for, beyond a flimsy semi name-check with a British accounts executive.
She needed something more concrete.
Lisa was finally driven to call her mother in Texas, which felt like rank hypocrisy considering the dire lack of interest she had expressed in her mother's fiancée Tim. But he was a highly esteemed broker who just might know more about these companies than she had so far been able to unearth on the Internet.
Tim answered the phone and automatically called for Lisa's mother.
'It's actually you I wanted to speak to,' Lisa said coyly.
Tim seemed surprised. But pleasantly so.
'What can I do for you Lisa?' he asked cheerfully.
She explained at some length that she was considering investing the small legacy her grandmother had left her and had heard good things about three fund management companies in particular. Could he check them out for her?
Tim was all too keen to help out.
XXXXXXXXX
However, it was a good few days, which sorely tried Lisa's patience, before he called her back.
'I'm sorry to have taken so long,' he said apologetically. 'But these companies are a bugger to research.'
Lisa could believe that.
'Beauchamps is a hedge fund,' Tim explained. 'They're not obliged to disclose much about themselves at all. And GSI is not famed for its transparency. But De Bowens is bona fide. What you see is what you get.' Tim paused. 'They're registered in the US.'
'But so is GSI,' Lisa said.
'It was. Not anymore. They're based in Luxembourg.'
'Luxembourg?'
'It's a legal thing. Their offices are in New York.'
New York. It couldn't be better. She'd be there, the day after tomorrow.
'And De Bowens is in New York too?'
'For sure. Big swanky corporate headquarters.' He paused. 'Beauchamps is based out of London, but they do have a US presence. New York or Connecticut. I'll have to check. But they're registered in … '
'The Cayman Islands.'
'Nice work Lisa,' Tim said, smiling. 'Yeah. If you're gonna invest your money and want a safe return, Beauchamps is the one to avoid. Like the plague. A bit too shady, if you ask me. I mean, sure, hedge funds can be a little bit secretive – but this one. Oh boy. I've spent days chasing their tails.'
Lisa felt an unbidden surge of warm appreciation for Tim. He really had been working hard on her request.
'And to be perfectly frank Lisa,' Tim continued. 'You're not quite their type of customer. Wouldn't make the grade. Their fund is reserved for big-time high-rollers.'
'Oh, I'd just heard the name, that's all,' Lisa said.
'You're best off with De Bowens. They offer a whole range of tailored packages, for all tastes and incomes. I mean, sure, they have global spread, if that's what you're after … but Beauchamps is all about high-risk. Too high if you ask me. I mean these guys are factoring third world debt, do you know what I mean?'
Lisa didn't really, but nodded dumbly all the same.
'And they're up to their eyeballs in all sorts of perilous markets. They've a big stake in Africa … minerals, oil, you name it. Would be good if the states they invested in weren't so goddammed insecure. I mean you've heard about this Mogando business, right?'
MOGANDO. Jackson had just been to Mogando.
Lisa could hardly breathe.
'There's these democratic elections planned, right? UN observers. The whole shebang. And the opposition guy's this really good guy, with all these social reforms, gonna slam-dunk the election. Then he goes gets himself shot.'
Lisa's heart was beating so fast her head was spinning.
'An accident?' she asked.
Tim snorted. 'Not likely. Folks think Kintuti, the incumbent president and a real nasty badass, set the whole thing up. So what do you get? Civil disorder. Blood flowing in the streets. You get the picture. So Kintuti sends in the troops. Big shutdown. Now you got the goddammed US Marines picking out US Nationals, in fear of major reprisals.'
'Why … why would they kill US nationals?' Lisa asked, desperately trying to quell the fear in her voice.
'Oh you know. The usual conspiracy stuff. It all kind of snowballs, and before you know it … ' Tim drawled. 'Well. Anyway. The long and short of it is, Lisa, Beauchamps was up to its neck in Mogando. Big bucks, I've heard. Humungous bucks.'
It had to be Beauchamps. Jackson had to be with Beauchamps.
'Are they out now? Out of Mogando?' Lisa asked.
Tim sniffed. 'Dunno. Can't tell you. They sure don't say much.'
'You say they're based in London. Would most of their employees be British?' she asked.
There was a prolonged pause from Tim. 'I dunno. You been offered a job or someat?'
'No. Not at all. I was just wondering.'
'Well, I guess a global operation will have a multinational workforce, if that's what you mean. Beauchamps were traditionally very, very British, gentlemen bankers, and highly respected too; and then in the late nineties they changed tack. Some kind of MBO or takeover, if I recall correctly. Now, it's a whole different company, and like I said, I wouldn't touch it.'
'You've been great,' Lisa breathed. 'Very helpful. It's much appreciated.'
'It's a pleasure. Any time.'
'If … if I wanted to get in contact with Beauchamps, or .. or … GSI … .'
'I'll email you all the details,' Tim said.
'Please. Thanks.'
XXXXXXXXX
Beauchamps. It was Beauchamps. She'd found him. At last, she'd found him.
Lisa danced around in excitement. She was going to New York. She'd find Beauchamps. Visit their office. There she'd ask direct. Even show the picture of Jackson if necessary.
Maybe this Graham Ryder sometimes visited the US office? Maybe he was due to come back from paternity leave? Just how long was UK statuary paternity leave anyway?
Or maybe 'paternity leave' was a corporate euphemism at Beauchamps for highly dangerous, possibly fatal business trip? Maybe Graham, if he was indeed Jackson, was still stuck in Mogando?
She hoped not.
Even though she hated Jackson – and she did, of course she did – she still didn't wish him to be in unnecessary danger. She didn't want him to die.
Oh God no.
The thing she couldn't quite understand. Why would Beauchamps send in an assassin to spark mayhem in a country they had invested so heavily in? It didn't make sense.
Unless, of course, as she had suspected earlier, Jackson was only pretending to work for Beauchamps, and was secretly in league with another paymaster.
Now that did make sense.
All she had to do was find him. And prove it. And now that she was heading off to New York, this would soon become a whole lot easier, she felt sure.
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The Real Deal