Free Spy Trade by Matthew Dunn Page B

aphrodisiac.”
    “So you pretended to be a millionaire. A property developer, I would imagine, because that would give you legitimacy to inquire about KapSet. Perhaps you told Nadia that you were looking to do business with Gorsky’s company but wanted KapSet checked out first. You wined and dined her, became intimate with her; she fell for it and wanted to ensure you were doing business with the right people. Giving you that information was harmless, as far as she was concerned. At least, to begin with.”
    “That about sums it up.”
    Will was certain he knew the answer to his next question. “And when did the death threats to you start?”
    Eddie Lanes glanced at the outside police car, needing reassurance that the cop was still there. “A couple of months after I started probing into KapSet. I can’t prove Gorsky was behind it. They were letters sent to my London address. All I was told to do was stop looking into affairs that weren’t my business.” Lanes looked edgy. “The letters also said that if I ignored their advice, I’d be shot in the head.” Water continued to pound the dishes on the floor and other surfaces. “That’s everything.”
    “Not as far as I’m concerned.”
    The hostility returned to Lanes’s face. “I swear that’s all I know!”
    “I’m sure it is, but there’s more to know, and you’re going to help me find out what it is.”
    Lanes looked incredulous. “You can’t be serious! You want me to hit the streets again? Put my investigative-reporter hat back on? No way. No fucking way!”
    Part of Will was conflicted. He could see that Lanes was terrified. But he also thought it was probable that if Lanes stayed here in hiding, he’d drink and smoke himself into an early grave. More importantly, right now, Lanes was Will’s only hope of getting closer to Bob Oakland. He could have threatened him again with taking away his safe existence in the Hebrides, but that seemed wholly unfair. Instead, he said, “You can end this. Whether you stay here or return to London, I’m sure you don’t want to live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. I believe I know a way for you to get your life back. But I can’t do that for you. Only you can.”
    “Maybe there’ll be no life if I go back on the payroll of The Independent .”
    “I’m not asking you to do that.” Will stood and handed Lanes a scrap of paper. “That’s my cell-phone number. Only you have the number. Call me day or night. I’ll pay you very well plus cover your expenses. Tonight, I want you to have a bath and a shave. Take it easy on the booze. Beer or wine is okay, but no hard liquor. And tomorrow, I want you to make yourself look once again like a property tycoon, get on a plane to Dubai, and meet with Nadia.”

 
    C HAPTER T WELVE
    T he Emirates airbus was due to touch down in Dubai in one hour. Inside the business-class section, Eddie Lanes felt resplendent in the peaceful and roomy confines of the cabin. It was, he mused, much like a reading room in a private-members club. People could read, watch, or listen to what they wanted as long as they didn’t disturb the person next to them. And there were hostesses on hand to ensure that their passengers’ introspective activities were washed down with champagne or other drinks of choice. Lanes could have gotten slowly pickled on the flight. He didn’t. He was stone-cold sober. Perhaps it was feeling good and wearing a fine suit that made him decline the offers of booze. The body that normally craved a buzz to get away from reality now felt contented and with purpose. Groves had given him that direction. Lanes didn’t buy that Groves was his real name; he also suspected that the man wasn’t truthful on any level. That didn’t matter. Groves had briefly entered his life, told him what to do, and put him on a plane. It seemed odd it was that simple. A pin bursting a balloon of self-loathing and escapism. Sometime later today, Lanes would have a