As the opening bars of 'Til the end' kicked in, his final moments in Cullentown came back to him: the explosion and building collapse; Lundt's escape; the fire-fight; blood, debris and then darkness. Out of nowhere had come Fredericks and Garrett. They'd returned for him and, with the help of the Malfajirian lieutenant and his soldiers, got Morgan safely to the US warship.
Consumed by his deliberations and mulling over every word from his encounter with Lundt, Morgan fell into autopilot, letting the car and music carry him north. It was not quite seven o'clock. With luck, and if the weather wasn't playing havoc with the city traffic, he'd be parking underneath the office just after eight.
His thoughts mercilessly returned him to Ari and their five unforgettable days in Spain. Everything about her resounded in his memory. Damn it! He was growing frustrated with the fact that he couldn't bury the memory of her. Couldn't or wouldn't? 'I feel as though I've known you forever.' Right.
But in the six weeks that had passed, he'cl received nothing from her. The whole thing had been surreal, almost as if it had never happened, and he had struggled ever since.
Who was she? What was it she was hiding from him?
CHAPTER 40
Cape Town, South Africa
The third and top floor was where all of the real living happened.
The private rooms were situated on that level, including a bedroom, office and living room with a small bar. Contemporary artworks adorned the walls, including works by Matisse, Courbet and Lanceley, all sharing hanging space with a catalogue of the owner's world travels.
Standing naked by a window, sipping an exquisite brandy, Turner fingered a gap between heavy curtains and gazed out upon the gardens that enclosed the villa in a cocoon of absolute privacy. Stars filled the sky, and a light breeze rustled through the Pride of de Kaap and Canary Creeper that flourished amongst the other shrubs and trees of the lush fortress. It was a perfect night; one to forget the hell of the past few months; one to celebrate the fact that he would soon be rid of this God-awful continent; one to celebrate a new life.
Above all, it was a night for recreation.
He turned back into the room and rubbed a hand lazily across the course brown hair on his fat white stomach. The meal was good. Excellent in fact, and he felt satisfied, relaxed, smug. The hand dropped. He fondled himself unashamedly, still cradling the brandy in the other hand, urging on his stimulation. Anticipation building. He was trembling slightly, excited, greedy in the knowledge that he could afford to indulge his fantasies. His guests, giggling eagerly, had run off together to change into the things he'd chosen for them to wear. He wandered amongst the remnants of the clothes they had discarded before they ran naked to his bedroom, their toned and tanned bodies in stark contrast to the glaring white of the austere decor. Turner walked to a switch on the wall and dimmed the lights, then bent down, clenched a podgy fist around a handful of underwear and held it up to his face, breathing in deeply. His eyes closed. He drew the air in through his nostrils, savouring the raw scent of the lithe young bodies.
Moments later, the two escorts emerged. Slinking provocatively back into the dimly lit room, they moved towards him slowly, groping and kissing each other along the way.
Despite a slightly restricted jaw movement, a satisfied grin broke across his round, piscine features.
CHAPTER 41
'The Pit'
INTREPID HQ, London
"Now remember, Sir," Tom Rodgers began, in his quintessential Australian drawl, "accuracy takes precedence over speed during these drills. Speed comes with constant practice. Keep your firing stroke smooth. Don't punch the pistol out. Use the pushing motion I've shown you to reduce bounce. When all else fails, align the sights and squeeze the trigger. Works every time."
Morgan looked up and shook his head with a smile. Rodgers couldn't help himself. He was a soldier through and through, and a consummate professional of the old school. Built like a middleweight prizefighter, he had close-cropped greying hair and a wry smile that gave the impression he knew something about you that you didn't. No matter how many times Morgan had invited the former Sergeant-Major to call him Alex, Tom Rodgers remained stoic in his resolve to maintain military protocol. "You officer, me enlisted swine," he would say with quasi-defiance. "It was Sir when we were in the Regiment back home and it's Sir now. It's just the way I'm wired."
And so, when Morgan joined INTREPID and discovered his old friend was INTREPID's Close Quarter Combat Chief Instructor, it had become the way of things. When it came to shooting and unarmed combat - despite Morgan's acknowledged standing as one of INTREPID's best shots, and despite the fact that they were the only two on the range - Rodgers naturally fell into his other old Regimental custom and assumed the role of master, The God of All Things; and Morgan, comfortable with the familiarity of it all, accepted the subordinate position of apprentice.