Page 19 of The Triangle

“Still you, Brasil. I have no idea what you’re going on about, but my girl is gone and has been for a very long time.”

“Nice try.” He chuckles, pulling his shirt down as he grabs his stupid king-sized office throne, spins it around, and takes a seat. “She killed David. I was gonna tell you about the women this week. Give you a nice, clean escape route. Let you walk away rich, fat, and happy and let David take your place. But guess what?” He shrugs, palms up, like this is an actual question.

“David’s dead,” I finish for him. “Boo fucking hoo. Got what he deserved. And you’re gonna get yours too.”

“Do you really think you’re in a position to threaten me?” He’s got this maniacal, amused look on his face. Like this is all good fun.

“Yeah,” I say. “I do. Because I know who stole your shit. Your shit,” I say again, just to be clear. “Not mine. And if you want out of this fucked-up mess you find yourself in, and don’t want to end up with your brains splatted all over the wall of this loft, then you’re gonna shut the fuck up and let me handle this.”

“Who?” Jack asks. He’s standing right next to me now, gun at his side instead of pointing at my face. Nice, Jack. Good to know you’re not really gonna shoot me after all these years.

I think.

“Alec van den Berg.”

“Who?” both these assholes say at the same time.

“South African diamond smuggler. Old acquaintance of mine. And I know where he is.”

Which is a lie. I have no clue. But I know where he’ll be.

Here. Very soon. Because Christine is back with me and there’s no way in hell he’s not gonna show up to try to steal her back.

CHAPTER EIGHT - ALEC

YESTERDAY

Somewhere over the Atlantic, I remember that I have yet to ask the laaitie his name.

“Ou! Laaitie!”

Everyone turns to look. The laaitie’s head snaps up. He happens to be sitting up front in a seat with its back to the cockpit, facing the rear of the plane, so we make eye contact through an open doorway straight away. I crook my index finger to summon him over.

His eyes dart around to the other okes on the Bombardier Global 8000 for just a moment, as if to question if anyone has an idea of what being called up to speak with the boss might mean for him.

“Not just now, man. Now now,” I tell him as gently as I can, so as not to give him the idea that he’s in any kind of trouble. It doesn’t seem to convince him, but I try. Finally, he pushes himself up out of his recliner and makes his way back to where I’m trying to look like I’m lounging casually on the sofa, even though I don’t feel terribly casual or much like being in repose. But appearances are, as ever, important.

He’s a good-looking kid. High cheekbones and dark skin. He’s tall, and even though he’s still got the gangly limbs of youth about him, he carries himself with the sure-footed gait of a much older man.

I let him stand in front of me, waiting, as I lift a tumbler of Van Ryn’s to my lips. I take a moment to consider the golden-brown liquid inside, then close my eyes, take a sip, and allow the spill of brandy to caress my tongue and wash its warmth along my throat, causing me to forget for a moment that I’m still hours from being able to see Christine with my own eyes. From being able to make sure for certain that she’s all right.

It took ten fokken calls to get Danny to answer the goddamn phone. Everybody on the plane has a secure line and a restricted number. It’s no surprise that he would never pick up a call from a blocked line. Finally, after witnessing my growing aggravation, someone exclaimed, “I think Gerry has an unsecured mobile.”

Poor Gerry looked as if he’d been betrayed and then stared up at me with a lowered head as would the cliché puppy who just had a wee on the carpet. He shook his chin back and forth tightly once or twice until it became clear to him that in this rare instance it was an asset, rather than a liability, that he has an open line to the great big world outside.

I can’t blame him for initially resisting. Normally he would be right to panic a bit. Under usual circumstances, having such a thing would be grounds for immediate termination and dismissal. And at ten thousand meters, being dismissed from the organization would probably smart a mite upon hitting the ground. But fortunately for Gerry, I was so distracted at the time that I didn’t even bother to question what the fok he’s doing with a phone he bought at Cellucity or wherever, just grabbed it and started dialing Fortnight’s number. I assume that nine separate rings from an unknown caller, seeing the number twenty-seven country code appear on his screen, gave him a fair indication that his attention was needed urgently.

What the fuck are you doing calling me?

Until I heard his voice, I didn’t realize how long it had been since we’d spoken. He sounded different. The same. But different.

Christine, I said.

Historically, I’d be pithy or smug or insufferably charming with him, as is my custom, but I couldn’t risk the possibility that he’d hang up straight off. Or that he might, in any way, misinterpret the call as anything other than what it was: the best possible option I had to ensure that the only thing on the planet more important to me than diamonds was safe.

Christine what? he asked, the anxiety in the asking both appropriate and shared.

The rest of the call goes like this: