Legitimate Business by Michael Niemann

Author:Michael Niemann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: book
Publisher: Coffeetown Press
Published: 2016-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

The sight of Mansour’s assistant rattled Vermeulen. The weary feeling of being on a futile mission disappeared. Adrenaline took its place.

He crossed University Street and walked toward the city center. Nobody followed him. He stopped at random moments, looked back, continued again. Still no suspicious characters. Twice, he doubled back suddenly. No suspicious faces hurriedly looking the other way. He dashed across the street and ducked into a dark passage. From behind the stone wall, he watched people pass by, committing every face to memory. Five minutes later, he continued around the block. A man came toward him. He recognized the face. The man had walked by the passage only a few minutes earlier. They were after him. He shivered, despite the warm air. The meeting with Mansour had stirred things up. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.

Once he knew who to look for, the surveillance was obvious. At least two men followed him to the waterfront. They stopped when he stopped, even if there was nothing to see, but were careful about it and kept their distance. At one point, just a block before the corniche, one of the watchers talked on his mobile phone. As Vermeulen crossed University Street again, he saw the bald European he’d seen in Mansour’s office standing at the railing, staring at the water.

The International Club stood right on the water’s edge where the quay curved to the west. It occupied a surprisingly large area. Next to the building, a large veranda offered spectacular views of both the old port and the container port. Vermeulen went inside.

The restaurant wasn’t busy. Only three tables were occupied. Two waiters stood by the bar, looking bored. Cigarette smoke hung in the air. There were no women in the room. Vermeulen didn’t know if they were prohibited or if they had better places to go. A group of expatriates occupied a large table in the rear. Their conversation was noisy. The very people he was looking for.

Virgin cocktails dressed up like the real thing were the drink of choice as far as he could tell. He ordered orange juice.

A ruddy-looking man with blond hair and mustache joined him at the bar.

“Gimme another of these daiquiris,” he said to the bartender. “Bloody country,” he said, turning his head. “Bad enough to be reporting from such a stinking hot place. But they gotta rub it in by banning booze. It’s what’s wrong with this place, if you ask me. Wouldn’t be shooting at each other if they sat down and had a drink together.” He stuck out his hand. “Luke Waters, Evening Standard.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more. Valentin Vermeulen.” He shook Waters’ hand.

“What brings you here? Newshound like the rest of us?”

Vermeulen hesitated a moment. Should he be open about why he was here? Better not. A cover would be useful.

“Yeah. Freelancer. Doing a piece on the UN mission.”

“A bit far from the action, aren’t you?”

“Nah. Just checking the supply lines. You know, the nitty-gritty that makes everything go ’round.

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