Now all he had to do was wait for the target to show.
Chapter Thirty-One:
Wilson had no idea how long he was out but when he stirred, he felt as if someone had let off a crate of Guy Fawkes Day firecrackers inside his stomach.
He pulled himself to his knees, puking the half-digested hamburger all over the floor.
Wilson pressed his hand to his stomach. Black blood oozed between his fingers but at least he was alive. It was more than he could say for the Harvey bitch, who had a four inch knife handle jutting out from between her breasts.
Zac knew he had to get out of there; that if he were caught in the room with her dead body there would be hell to pay.
She was a Harvey. Her father might have wanted her dead but he wasn’t about to admit that in a court of law.
Besides, Zac didn’t even know for sure his benefactor was her father. It was just his best guess. Who else had the money this guy was splashing around, or the connections to get him out of jail?
And it’s not like the bitch didn’t believe him when he said her Daddy wanted her dead. She didn’t even seem surprised. Just fearful.
No, Zac had to get out of there. But that in itself posed another question. Where the hell would he go?
He had the money in his pocket and the phone. He could call his benefactor.
No. Something told Zac that requests for help were a one way conduit. He was on his own.
Air. I need fucking air.
Wilson stumbled to the balcony, throwing open the doors, breathing the cold Venice air into his lungs. He coughed, retching on a mouthful of blood.
He leant over the balcony, spitting the blood into the water below.
Hank. Call Hank the Yank. He’ll help you.
He had no listing for Hank in his phone but he called the hotel reception, asking to be put through to Hank’s room.
‘I’m sorry sir. There’s been a fire. All our guests have been evacuated. Can I take a message?’
Charlotte sat up in bed, the tail end of an old nightmare merging with a new one. She had no idea what time it was but her heart tapped out a familiar Morse code.
Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc. Harvey Inc.
As if on cue, Damon looped an arm around her waist, pulling her back into his warm embrace.
The old terror rose up like a coiled snake charmer’s cobra, closing her throat and making it difficult to breathe.
She pushed Damon’s arm away, knowing the fear was irrational, knowing it was born of a scarred childhood – a childhood marred by her father’s crimes, not anything to do with the Harvey family.
If anything, they were victims too.
She lay back against the pillow, hoping sleep would return but she was so used to Highgrove’s early wake up calls that sleep-ins had become a thing of the past.
After staring at the ceiling for fifteen minutes, she decided to get up, feeling around the suitcase for some clean underwear.
All she managed to find was a bikini top and bottom. She slipped them on as best she could in the dark, hoping she hadn’t put them on backwards.
She then wrapped the warm bathrobe around herself, checking the bed to make sure Damon was still sleeping.
On the way through the saloon, Charlotte checked the clock. It was quarter to six in the morning. She had slept less than three hours.
‘Good morning, Miss Charlotte,’ the chef said as he rolled out sheets of yeasty dough.
‘Morning, Ignacio.’ The smell made her stomach grumble so loud, she was sure Ignacio would hear. She selected a ripe banana from the fruit bowl, taking it out on deck with her.
Dawn was still an hour away. A thick mist weaved its way through a forest of yacht masts and rowboats, creeping across the frigid water towards the boat.
Fishermen had already started their exodus out to sea, neither the cold nor the early morning halting their eternal routines.
Charlotte peeled the banana, the smell of tropical fruit reminding her of home.
It was a bittersweet pang.
On one hand, she loved her childhood country and longed for the warmth and sunshine, the golden sandy beaches of her youth.
Yet for all its iconic treasures and tangible experiences, Australia was a desolate wasteland housing the bones of her past, hiding the rotting corpse of her family secret, the putrefying remains of Victoria Baker – orphan, foster kid, survivor.
She rested her chin on the railing, looking down into the murky water. A small motor launch cut its motor, the boat gliding closer to the Petit Bateau. The boat’s inhabitant was dressed all in black, a dark cap covering his black face and hands.
‘Morning,’ Charlotte said, calling out to him.
The target moved into position. Campagni steadied his breathing, lining up the shot. He squeezed the trigger, the bullet bursting out of the barrel with a soft spit.
The body splashed over the railing into the water. Campagni manoeuvred the boat closer to the body, which floated face down in the murky water.
He removed some dive weights from his bag, poking them into pockets. Only when the body sank beneath the surface, the blond hair the last thing he saw, did Campagni allow himself to relax.
He turned the rudder, steering the small vessel back to the shore.
The minute he was back on dry land, the phone in his pocket beeped, as if his boss knew exactly where he would be and when.
Campagni read the message. Sydney would have to wait a little. Seemed Bill wanted him in Washington DC.
It was squally and wet outside, rain beating down on the double paned glass of the penthouse suite in London’s Canary Wharf.
A feeble sun fought the soupy clouds that settled over most of England, the climate a perfect synonym of Carl Harvey’s mood or maybe just his life – a life interspersed with brief periods of sunshine that were fewer and farther apart, and which never lasted long enough.
Carl lived a prosperous life, at least in terms of monetary wealth.
But Carl had learned years ago that he would never be satisfied with financial benefit alone.
What he wanted more than money and privilege was acceptance - the acceptance of The William S Club.
It didn’t even become known as The William S Club until Carl was seven.
Before then, it was just his father and grandfather, locked away in the basement or sequestered in a library or boardroom, out of earshot of anyone else.
Nobody cared what they did because they assumed it was just boring grown up stuff.
Besides, his father Bill was not a man any child wanted to emulate. He was cruel and sadistic and bereft of human feeling.
It was only natural that, as a child, Carl transferred his natural need for a hero to his two big brothers, three years his senior.
Damon was easy going and a great advocate for his younger siblings.
But BJ...
As the oldest of the five children BJ had a magnetic personality. You could not help but feel drawn to him. The minute he walked in the room, he commanded people’s attention. Carl worshipped the ground BJ walked on, even if BJ didn’t always return the affection.
That all changed on Carl’s seventh birthday, which just happened to fall three days after his mother’s car careened over a cliff in St Jean.
It was also the day his father had chosen for the funeral, held at their grandparents’ house in London.
The place was teeming with family, friends and people Carl had never met. But they weren’t there for him. They wore black and wept over his mother’s casket.
Carl knew his family weren’t in the mood for festivities but he hoped someone would at least remember it was his birthday.
No such luck.
Straight after the funeral, his father and grandfather did what they always did – they disappeared down into the basement for their private talks.
An hour later, when Bill emerged, the world as Carl knew it changed.
‘Come here, son,’ Bill said and for just a second, Carl thought his
dad was talking to him.
But BJ put down his Game Boy, his eyes brimming with tears and his bottom lip trembling, as full of grief as the rest of them.
BJ walked to their father, wrapping his arms around Bill’s waist, burying his face in his shirt. His shoulders shook as he cried, the rawness of BJ’s emotion bringing tears to Carl’s eyes too.
‘Wipe your eyes, son. Men don’t cry.’
‘Yes, sir.’ BJ drew a sleeve across his face.
‘That’s better. Now come downstairs. Your grandfather and I have something we want to show you.’
It was well after dinner when BJ came back upstairs – so late, Jodie had already gone to sleep and the rest of them were in the bathroom getting ready for bed.
‘What did they want you for?’ Anita said through a mouthful of toothpaste.
BJ shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’ve been down there for hours. They had to talk about something,’ Damon said.
‘They were just explaining the business to me.’
‘So what is down there?’ Carl’s overactive imagination had drummed up all sorts of exciting prospects. Pirate treasure, secret tunnels, super cool gadgets. Sometimes he wondered if his dad was a secret agent like 007. He wore lots of tuxedos like James Bond and was always secretive about everything. Maybe he was just protecting his true identity.
‘Just stuff,’ BJ said. ‘Boring stuff. Nothing you’d like.’
‘But what did they talk about?’ Anita said.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re such a liar,’ she said, poking her tongue out at him. ‘You just don’t want to tell us.’
‘Well, it’s not really any of your business,’ BJ said.
Anita placed her hands on her hips. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean? How come you can know but we can’t?’
‘Because you’re not an heir.’
Carl snorted, thinking BJ was telling one of his jokes. ‘Good one, BJ. Yeah, Nita. You’re not air.’ He had no idea what it meant but if BJ said it, it must be good.
‘He means we’re not first born children,’ Damon said.
‘That’s so bloody stupid.’ Nita knew she wasn’t allowed to swear but she did it all the time when the adults weren’t around. Probably because she thought it made her sound more grown up. ‘Just because your name is William and you have a penis, you think you are so bloody special. Nobody wants to join your stupid William S Club anyway.’
‘I’ve got a penis too,’ Carl said, wondering if that made him special.
Carl knew now that night was when the bitterness and alienation started. By inviting BJ into their inner sanctum, The William S Club created a chasm in the family, splitting them into two separate factions. Those in The Club and those outside.
BJ changed from the happy, charismatic role model to a cruel, dominating bully, just like their father.
A month after their mother’s death, Bill fuelled the flames of discontent higher, shipping Damon, Anita and Carl off to boarding school in France (at four, Jodie was still too young but she spent most of her time in the care of two full time nannies).
BJ, however, stayed in London, dividing his time between learning the family business and studying at Ludgrove and later Eton.
Even when Carl and the others were back, BJ had very little to do with them.
Carl tried hard to gain The Club’s acceptance; first with straight A’s and sporting prowess, then with self-destructive behaviour, his famous last name ensuring his public indiscretions made the media.
What followed was a revolving door of rehab centres treating him for all manner of addictions. Alcohol, drugs, sexual addiction. Even self-mutilation.
Nothing he did – good or bad – was enough. Carl was invisible.
Now, at twenty seven he had given up hope.
The mobile phone on the side table buzzed, vibrating its way across the flat wooden surface.
Carl didn’t want to talk to anyone but the caller was insistent.
Finally he reached for the phone, glancing at the name on the screen.
Anticipation burned within him as he answered the call.
‘Hello?’
Damon awoke with a start, the silence broken by the sound of water splashing beside the boat. His hand sought out Charlotte but she wasn’t in the bed. Sitting up, he looked around the room, listening to see if she was in the bathroom.
Silence.
Damon leapt out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans discarded on the bedroom floor, feeling a desperation he couldn’t explain.
The aroma of fresh coffee and warm pastry hung in the air but Damon didn’t see a soul as he hurried through the boat.
Where is everyone? Where is Charlotte?
Dread balled in his throat, refusing to go down. Damon couldn’t escape the feeling that something terrible had happened.
He moved out on to the deck. It was still early morning; the sun had only just begun its slow march into a sky tinged with pink and gold.
Fishing boats buzzed through the water like incessant mosquitoes and the Bateau rocked in the wake of their passing.
Damon listened hard, attuning his ears to the surrounding sounds and then he heard it - movement in the water around the boat.
Racing to the side, he looked over the edge to the water far below.
Fear rocketed up his throat like a volcanic eruption. Charlotte was in the water, floating, her body deathly still, her hair spread out like a golden halo behind her.
He climbed onto the railing. ‘Help. Somebody get help.’ His voice was husky with panic.
And then he leapt, his body arcing as he raced towards the water.
He’d made it through customs at LAX, no one more shocked than him that the forged documents had held up to the most vigorous security scrutiny in the world.
As he waited for his domestic flight to Washington DC, Paul wondered what his life would have been like had he never been inside Harvey’s basement? If he’d never seen the secret lurking in the shadows?
How different would it be?
Would he and Helen still be married? Would Victoria have siblings? Would he have grandchildren instead of a daughter he hardly knew? Would he still be working at Harvey South Pacific Group, blissfully unaware of the depth of depravity and deceit the owners were capable of?
It was easy to dream about the past and what could have been, but prison had taught him it was more prudent to live in the present. He had been dealt a difficult hand. You only had the cards you were dealt. Play with them or pack up and go home.
Baker knew what his cards were now and they sucked monkey balls.
He had a thirteen hour window to get to Washington, retrieve the contents of a twenty year old safety deposit box and get back to LA before his only means of transport left for Sydney.
If he managed to survive that, he then had to figure out what he was supposed to do next.
Something splashed into the water beside Charlotte. She opened her eyes, unable to feel her arms and legs any more.
The water was cold but it felt good, numbing her thoughts and enveloping her in an anesthetised bliss bubble.
She kicked her feet, swimming back towards the boat.
But hands grabbed her in the water, pulling her down and for a split second, Charlotte panicked.
‘I thought you were… I… you looked…’ Damon’s eyes were tortured and fearful. ‘Don’t do that to me.’
‘Can’t a girl take a morning swim?’
He guided her back to the landing deck, helping her out of the water. ‘Not in the middle of winter. People will think you’ve got rocks in your head.’
As if to illustrate his point, the wind picked up, hitting her wet body. ‘Holy shit, that is cold.’ Her teeth chattered together and she was sure she was sporting the latest shade of blue lips.
Where is everyone?’
‘They went into town,’ she said. ‘Why? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘You scared
me…’
‘I’m okay, I swear. Cold but perfectly okay.’
Damon took two towels, wrapping one around her shoulders. He steered her towards the warmth of the cabin.
‘What’s wrong? You seem agitated.’
‘I had a terrible dream. When I couldn’t find you, I was frightened something bad had happened.’
But even holding her in his arms, he didn’t relax. His body was coiled like a spring, as if he was waiting for evil to descend.
They moved back into the galley, sipping hot coffee and eating piping hot rolls straight out of the oven, slathering them with fresh, creamy butter.
A telephone rang and Damon went to answer it.
When he returned to the room, he had tears in his eyes and a resigned look in his face that told Charlotte the evil had found them.
‘What? What is it?’ The bread lodged in her throat.
‘There has been an accident in Venice…’ He seemed unable to finish his sentence.
‘Who?’
‘I’m so sorry Charlotte. Miranda was killed last night.’
Sobs racked Charlotte’s body but Damon didn’t look as if he was finished. ‘There’s more,’ he said, looking more anguished than she had ever seen him. ‘My sister…’
He could not finish his sentence.
Chapter Thirty-Two:
By the time BJ’s plane touched down at the Marco Polo International Airport, his father’s simple plan had become a full blown comedy of errors.
For starters, BJ’s moronic assistant had faxed through his hotel rider last night before Anita had even been attacked.
To make matters worse, they’d expected the staff to call the Head Office with news of Anita’s demise. That way, nobody need ever know that BJ’s plane had technically taken off prior to his sister’s death.
Nope – the fools had called Damon instead. Now Damon was on his way there. He’d definitely want to know how BJ had arrived before him.
All he’d have to do was check the flight logs, see that BJ’s flight was already on the ground when the call came through...