THE BLUE MEN IS THE FOURTH BOOK IN THE HOTEL ST KILDA SERIES. HERE’S A BIT OF A TASTER...

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PROLOGUE

January

The two men approached the darkened building, their feet crunching across the gravel driveway. A solitary light shone in the curtained window to the right of the entrance. The single-storey property, a legacy of the 1960s with its rendered walls and metal-framed windows, looked bland and functional except for an open, rustic-brick porchway sheltering a carved wooden door that hinted at the possibility of grandeur within.

The older of the two men pressed the bell on the wall next to the doorway. A shadow passed across the window curtain and footsteps sounded inside. The door was pulled open by a tall, slim man in his thirties, wearing a white work-coat over a pale-blue shirt, grey trousers and black tie, who waved them inside with a sweep of his arm. He clicked a switch on the wall and two chandeliers lit up a long, high and ornate entrance area that had one oak-panelled door off to the right, two to the left and another directly ahead of them. The one on the right, leading to the room where the light had been visible from outside, had the word ‘OFFICE’ painted on it in gold, inset lettering. ‘RECEPTION’ and ‘KITCHEN’ announced the functions of the two rooms on the left. The walls were panelled in dark wood up to a dado rail, with textured wallpaper above it in pale green. A patterned rug edged with gold tassels covered almost the whole of the polished floor, leaving just a few centimetres visible around the perimeter. Except for the absence of a wide, curving staircase leading off from it, the room had the appearance of the entrance hall of a stately home.

The man introduced himself as Sergeant Glen Crompton and the two visitors showed their ID badges.

“This way, please,” he said, and led them through the untitled door in the end wall. Another light switch revealed a small area with a pair of full-length, heavy curtains pulled across wall-to-wall in front of them. A deep-pile carpet felt soft under their feet and the walls were draped in dusky-pink velvet fabric. Sergeant Crompton pressed a button near the switch and the curtains drew apart to reveal a glass partition separating them from the rest of the room.

“This is where we would normally conduct the viewing, sir,” he said, addressing the older man. “And we can arrange that, if you wish, or…”

“Lead on, Sergeant, we’re big boys, y’know?”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant smiled. He closed the curtains and led them out through another panelled door to the left. A strip light came on automatically, illuminating a square windowless room, devoid of furniture, with bare walls and a tiled floor. Its starkness was accentuated by comparison with the rooms they had just passed through.

“This way, please.”

Through another door, the descent from opulence to functionality was complete, and with it a distinct drop in temperature. The brightly lit room they entered was a large working area, approximately ten metres square with a terrazzo floor and a pair of exterior double doors at the far end. To the right a metal-and-glass partition wall, with a single door half-way along, ran the full length of the room, screening off a separate area, currently in darkness. To the left was a line of ten two-metre-high stainless-steel refrigerators. The sergeant took an electric scissor-jack trolley from a line of four, then led them to the far end of the room to the fridge closest to the outer wall.

“All the fridges are kept at a temperature of two degrees Celsius, except this end one,” he said, as if he were addressing a group of trainees. “This is maintained at a couple of degrees lower, around freezing, and used in cases where we might need to keep them longer or where there is advanced decomposition.”

He pulled open the fridge door, releasing a gentle flow of colder air into the room and revealing five shelves, each holding a metal tray on rollers. He adjusted the height of the trolley to align with the second lowest shelf and guided its tray onto it. He walked around to the far side and pulled the white sheet down to the cadaver’s waist.

“Male, mid-forties, ninety kilos, one metre eighty-five – that’s half an inch short of six foot – B-negative.”

“Tattoo?”

“This side.” The sergeant pointed to the right shoulder and the two visitors leaned over to see the image of an upward-pointing sword with the words ‘BY STRENGTH AND GUILE’ on a banner around its hilt. The older man nodded towards the white sheet.

“Please, if you wouldn’t mind.” The sergeant removed the sheet. “Thank you, could you give us a few minutes?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The sergeant left the room and the two men stood in silence, their eyes fixed on the body, their breath condensing above it in the dropping temperature.

The older of the two men was in his mid-sixties, tall and barrel-chested, with a huge moustache and mottled red highlights to his cheeks. He wore a mustard-coloured tweed jacket with a matching waistcoat, and a yellow-and-blue striped tie over a cream shirt. His trousers were light brown with razor-sharp creases and rested neatly on gleaming tan brogues. He looked altogether too bright and flamboyant for this place of death. His companion was twenty years his junior, the same height but slim and broad-shouldered. He wore a long, black leather jacket over a dark polo shirt and jeans and clutched in both hands the black baseball cap he had removed as he entered the building.

They studied the body for a long time before the older man spoke.

“So, what do you think?”

“I think yes.”

“Right, let’s go.”

Five minutes later, they stepped outside into the moonlit night and crunched again over the gravel to the Range Rover in its camouflage livery. They climbed into the back.

“Take us home, Corporal,” said the man in tweed.

          “Yes, sir.” The young woman in the driver’s seat started the engine and pulled onto the narrow country road. “I take it you don’t mean all the way, sir.”

He snorted a laugh. “Perhaps not, Vicky. I think we’d better stick with Plan A.”

She drove a few kilometres to where a collection of temporary floodlights lit up the corner of a field. They entered through a farm gate and stopped beside a silver-grey Cessna Citation passenger jet. The two men and the woman got out of the Range Rover and climbed the four steps up into the cabin, where the co-pilot awaited them.

“A success, sir?” he asked.

“I think so, yes.”

The co-pilot pulled up the steps, sealing the cabin door, and tightened the locking wheel before joining his colleague in the cockpit. They taxied towards another lighted area a few hundred metres away across the field before turning through 180 degrees.

“Seatbelts, please, lady and gentlemen.”

The Cessna sprang forward and made a smooth take-off over the lights around the Range Rover.

CHAPTER ONE

Sunday, 9 July

The two women peered up at the skyline high above and behind the cottage, both shading their eyes with a raised hand from the low sun over to their right.

“How did you manage to see something that far away?”

The speaker was the older of the two; tall, slender, in her early forties and beautiful, with golden-blonde hair.

“I was watching a group of red deer through the bins just below the ridge, and they suddenly scattered, shot off in all directions.” The younger woman was similar in height and build to her companion but more than twenty years younger and with hair that was white-blonde and straight, hanging loose behind to the middle of her back. “When I looked where they’d been without the bins, I just spotted two heads – silhouettes – right on the skyline, sort of bobbing up and down as they dropped out of sight.”

 “So, they were walking away from us, that’s why they dropped out of sight. Right?”

“But where would they be walking from? This is the only place for miles. We’d have seen them climbing the hillside. They must be on this side of the ridge heading towards us.” She raised the binoculars again. “We just can’t see them against the rocks and heather.”

“So, who…?”

“Hold it,” the younger woman interrupted. “I’ve got them. Dropping down along the edge of the burn.”

She passed the binoculars to her companion, pointing to where a rough track ran parallel to the course of the waterway.

“Yes, I see them. Two people, can’t make out any detail. Could just be walkers, of course.”

“Unlikely. There are no trails around here that I know of. Do you?”

“Well, no, but freedom of access and all that… and they’re as likely to be walkers as anything else.” She lowered the glasses and frowned. “Aren’t they? I mean, what else could they be?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t feel good about this at all after what’s happened. Perhaps we’re next and someone’s come to finish the job.”

The older woman gave a little shiver. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“What have we got, a shotgun and a hunting rifle, right? Are they loaded?”

“Just what exactly do you have in mind?” The other was wide-eyed with horror.

“We’re not going to make this easy for them if I’m right.”

A baby cried and they looked towards the cottage.

“I’ll go,” a voice from inside shouted.

CHAPTER TWO

Six weeks earlier

Friday, 26 May

Even at 5.30 in the morning, the public areas at Gardermoen Airport to the north of Oslo were thronged with people. Holidaymakers getting an early start for Mediterranean resorts, and others boarding connecting flights to further destinations, mingled with business people on day trips to European capitals and other major cities.

A group of seven men was occupying a seating area close to the moving walkways as they waited for their flight to be called. The six who were travelling had already checked in and had their luggage routed through to their final destination. They were all in their twenties, olive-skinned and wearing business suits, shirts and ties. Each carried a laptop case and small shoulder bag. The seventh man was in his forties, tall and striking-looking, and dressed casually in jeans and a white linen jacket. He was the focus of the others’ attention.

“One last time,” he spoke quietly in Arabic. “Your scheduled arrival time at Schiphol is 8.15 and you have a layover there of four hours and twenty minutes. Do not go through passport control but stay air-side for that period before boarding the onward flight. You are in Amsterdam to attend a meeting and will go to the business reception desk to be escorted to the meeting room.

“There, you will be joined by Amir and Fawaz, who will provide you with documents you may need. These comprise detailed agendas, reports and sets of data for the separate meetings you are supposed to be attending in and around Chicago. Hopefully you won’t need these, but if you get the wrong officials on Passport Control at O’Hare, the papers will help you explain your visit. Any calls to verify your stories made to contact numbers which appear on the documents will be answered by our people posing as representatives of the fake companies. You already have the booking details for the separate hotels where you will stay the first night if they want to check them.

“Your flight to O’Hare leaves Amsterdam at 12.35 and arrives at ten past two in the afternoon, Chicago time. That gives you nearly nine hours on the flight, which I suggest you use to make yourselves familiar with the documents then get as much sleep as possible. You are travelling business class, but not together so as not to attract attention from other passengers.” He looked around the group and smiled. “Six handsome studs all sitting together would be just too memorable.” The others relaxed into smiles and laughter. He turned to his left. “Ahmed, take us through what happens next.”

The young man leaned forward in his seat, speaking without hesitation.

“When we disembark at O’Hare, we stay separated for the rest of the day. After we get through immigration and customs, we take the monorail out of Terminal 1, three of us to Terminal 3 and three to Terminal 5. At these terminals we will each be met by different drivers, who will display our names, hand-written on a board which will also show the name of the company we are supposed to be visiting. They will drive us to the separate hotels and provide us with details of where we will be meeting up the following day.”

He stopped at the sound of the announcement requesting passengers for their flight to go to the boarding gate.

“Excellent – word perfect, Ahmed,” said the older man, holding up his hands for them to remain seated. “You will each dine in your hotel and get an early night. You will need it; remember, Chicago is seven hours behind us, so it will already be after nine in the evening, Oslo time, when you land.” He stood up and his six companions collected their bags and got to their feet, reaching into their jacket pockets for their boarding passes. “Any questions before you leave?”

The six young men exchanged glances. Ahmed smiled. “Just one, please. We would like to know why they call you ‘The Shadow’.”

The others shuffled their feet with some muted chuckles of embarrassment. The man smiled.

“It’s the name they gave me in Turkey after the attack in Istanbul. There’s an ancient Turkish belief that, if a man is evil enough, his shadow alone can bring death and disaster. It doesn’t make any sense, of course, because for the shadow to be present the person casting it has got to be there as well, but the world seems to like the title, so I’m stuck with it. Although we are not evil, are we? We are soldiers.”

 He shook hands with them, looking from one to the other, his eyes resting on each.

“You cannot fail, my young friends. You are the best.”

He watched them walk away for their short flight before the long haul to their final destination. He shook his head, knowing that, if things went to plan, it really would be their final destination.