The Most Dangerous Game by A.P. Bateman

Author:A.P. Bateman [BATEMAN, A P]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Interpol Headquarters

Lyon, France

Phil Bryce squeezed the squash ball continuously as he listened. He had broken two fingers during an arrest six weeks ago and the squash ball was not only aiding his mobility but calming his mind. It helped with concentration, but it also helped with times of craving. He had recently given up smoking and drinking and he was struggling. He had left Australia after his divorce, given up the house and had been left with minimal custody of their two children. Divorce often turned into a game of winning and losing, rather than a healthy and fair process deconstructing a life once entwined, and it had started to affect his work. With twelve years in the New South Wales police force, the last five as a detective sergeant, his boss had tossed him a lifeline of a two-year sabbatical with Interpol. His accommodation would be provided, as would a car and a ten percent raise on his police salary. He received six-weeks paid leave per year and had justified that he would break the time down into four, ten-day holidays where he would hop on a plane to Melbourne and spend the time with his children. However, with a year in he had only managed one trip. The reality of long-haul travel was that it was both extremely time-consuming and extortionately expensive.

“We have to meet,” he said into the receiver.

“I need funds…”

Bryce turned his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll sort something out.”

“It could be big.”

“Well, give me a clue.”

“It’s better that I show you.”

Bryce glanced at his watch, continuing to squeeze the squash ball. “I’ll have to get the train and the Eurostar.” He paused. “And this involves the little Belgian?”

“Belgian-Congolese,” the man corrected him. “Not him, so much, but certainly the people he has worked with. But when you draw concentric circles, there are a few correlations overlapping. And then there’s random people who have used booking references to activate airline tickets. These tickets were purchased using IP addresses and account numbers that flagged up a few questions.”

“Such as?”

“Have you heard of Carl Grainger?”

“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Bruce Corrigan?”

Bryce frowned. He’d worked the case. He’s seen what had been left of the man’s wife and her lover. Part of his career low, apart from the drink and the self-destructive casual affairs, had been Corrigan’s release because of the inept forensic scientist’s subsequent indiscretions. “I know Bruce Corrigan,” he replied tersely. “Where does he fit in?”

“Concentric circles,” the man replied. “He cashed in a flight that Dupont booked. The IP address links to traffic from people on internet watchlists monitored by Interpol. Look, get here as soon as you can. But I want ten-thousand.”

“Ten-thousand!”

“It will be worth it.”

“Give me a clue.”

“Russian oligarchs, Saudi Sheiks, American politicians, British media barons and a whole host of people in between. All linked to Pierre Dupont, all gathering online for an event.”

“What kind of event?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll keep digging. Maybe I’ll have more answers when you get here.

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