Authors: Isla Whitcroft
Dave leaned against the wall and gestured for Cate to sit down. As she did, Cate suddenly realised she was totally shattered, the adrenalin that had kept her alert over the last hour finally
deserting her.
She stared blearily up at Dave, forcing herself to concentrate. His dark slicked-back hair gleamed in the harsh light, his grey-eyed gaze never wavered from her face.
And then she remembered. It was in Australia a few months ago. She was in her diving gear, onboard a small rubber dinghy, headed out towards the island where the Cotian criminals were hiding
their kidnap victim and plotting their assault on Snapper Bay. The diver next to her gave her last-minute instructions on her equipment in the same soft Californian drawl – and had later
dragged her exhausted body back out of the dark water and wrapped her in a blanket whilst Henri lectured her on her recklessness. There could be no mistake: Dave was no LAPD cop. He was an IMIA
agent.
‘How’s Marcus?’ she asked him suddenly. ‘And Henri?’ I haven’t heard from them in a while.’
Dave looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I wondered how long it would take before you recognised me,’ he said quietly. ‘Marcus said a few hours, Henri reckoned a day. They send their
regards by the way.’
‘Thanks!’ said Cate sarcastically. As usual the IMIA always seemed to be one step ahead of her. ‘And what about you? What was your estimation of my brilliance – or lack
of it?’
‘Me?’ Dave smiled then. ‘I honestly thought you had me rumbled after ten minutes in Johnny James’s office. After all, your reputation does go before you.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it!’ she exclaimed. Her tiredness was gone now, replaced by a growing indignation. ‘I come to LA for a holiday, a proper holiday for
the first time in ages, and before I know it I’m locked in a bunker and then some maniacs in a pick-up truck try to kill me. To cap it all, I end up bumping into an IMIA agent. Talk about a
string of bad luck. No offence,’ she added hastily.
‘None taken,’ said Dave gravely. ‘I can quite understand that after the last investigation you might want a break from IMIA. You did a fantastic job. Well, you and Arthur both
did, and as much as we would love to have you working for us full time, we appreciate you may not feel quite the same way.’ He paused and then sighed. ‘However, Cate, things
aren’t quite what they seem. What you may think are amazing coincidences, well – let’s just say we’ve been keeping an eye on you ever since you arrived in LA. For a very
good reason.’
His phone rang. ‘Hold on,’ he said as he took the call.
Cate’s mind was a fuzz of random thoughts. As Dave muttered into his phone, she tried hard to concentrate. Why would IMIA be keeping an eye on her? She was on holiday for goodness’
sake. And what was Dave doing undercover in LA – and at Johnny James’s house?
The call over, Dave stared at Cate, a serious expression on his face. ‘They’ve traced the owner of the truck. Am I right in thinking that the name “Burt Tyler” means
something to you?’
Cate lay stretched out on the large bed, watching the early-morning surfers playing like dolphins out in the ocean, marvelling as they swooshed and swooped over the
silvery-blue swell before gliding in to the white sand.
For a few minutes she allowed herself to be drawn into their acrobatics, fantasising about taking a walk to the surf school and signing up for lessons.
She grinned wryly to herself. Fat chance of that now. After the events of the previous day, a laid-back fun-filled holiday seemed even further away than ever.
Dave Osbourne had dropped Cate off at the hotel with an ominous, ‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ and while she had been way too tired to even query his remark she knew exactly what
that meant. He – and IMIA – weren’t finished with her yet.
She checked her phone. There were several texts from Arthur telling her to call him and one from Ritchie which very sweetly asked if she was OK, making no mention of his own head injury. Cate
smiled. She was beginning to really like that guy. She had a message too, a number she didn’t recognise. She dialled voicemail and then sat up in shock as Johnny James’s silkily smooth
tones purred into her ear.
‘Cate, Ritchie told me about your awful experience last night. I am so, so sorry that this happened to you after you left my house. Thank God you are safe. Novak has had to make an
emergency family visit to New York, but as soon as he gets back I assure you he will be on the case and I promise we’ll leave no stone unturned in looking for the culprits. In the meantime,
please, please, if you need anything – anything at all – don’t hesitate to call me on this number.’
Wow, thought Cate, a girl really couldn’t ask for a better start to the day. Johnny James being concerned about her! Unable to help herself, Cate listened to the message four times before
catching sight of her stupidly grinning face in the mirror and pulling herself together. She pushed back the soft linen sheets and headed for the bathroom where, for a good ten minutes, she soaked
herself under the power shower, listening to the local radio, smiling at the cheery, upbeat style of the presenter.
Back in the room, she pulled on her soft tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, and rummaged around for her tablet in her rucksack. She juiced up a mango, a banana and a punnet of blueberries she
found in the fridge, pouring in a tub of natural yogurt to complete her breakfast concoction.
Perfect, she thought, taking an appreciative slurp as she carried the tall glass out on to the already-warm balcony.
She sat down in one of the deep wicker baskets facing the sun, flicked on her tablet, and headed for Amber’s Facebook page. It was time to do some research.
For twenty minutes or so, Cate scoured Amber’s page. She had around two hundred and fifty friends, but as far as Cate could see they were mainly fellow students and some eco-warriors. Cate
also had a friend request from Ritchie on her page, which she accepted. She noted, with a strange feeling of satisfaction, his status was single.
Next, Cate looked at Amber’s wall. It seemed to be made up of the usual gossip, personal messages to friends, the odd snippet of news about the dig and how hard, yet satisfying, it was.
Cate kept looking for something – anything – that would give some clue about what had led to the students’ disappearance. Then she noticed that on Monday there was a posting
saying,
The best day EVER, yesterday. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.
Ritchie had said she’d been very excited when she texted him. What had happened on Sunday?
She logged on to Twitter. The last tweet by Jade had been on Tuesday at nine p.m. local time, just a few hours before she disappeared, Cate reckoned. It was nothing special, just a happy
birthday message for a fellow tweeter and before that a mention of a fab fish meal she had cooked. Cate scrolled back down through the tweets. Jade had been reasonably prolific, sometimes tweeting
up to six or seven times a day – mostly on mundane matters: the weather, the wildlife she had seen, the things she was missing about home. Nothing stood out and Cate was just about to give up
when suddenly one tweet, posted on Sunday, caught her eye.
Thor was so wrong, yet so right. All will be revealed shortly twerps.
Cate stared at the message, trying to make sense of it. And who – or what – was Thor? He was the Viking god of war, Cate knew, and it was a common Scandinavian name. But how did that
relate to anything? Or was it even mistyping?
Cate blew out her cheeks and switched off the tablet. It was time for a break. She drank the last few drops of her smoothie and sat back in the chair, feeling the sun on her face. She breathed
deeply, enjoying the sensation of the fresh ocean air in her lungs and felt herself relaxing, drifting slowly back to sleep.
She woke with a start. A screeching, bellowing noise roared through the powerful speakers and out on to the balcony.
For a few crazy seconds she was convinced she was hallucinating. Then she jumped to her feet and, hands over her ears, stumbled back into her room. Perched on the white leather stool behind the
mixing desk, his dark face framed with the Beat headphones, glowing with pride and sporting a grin from ear to ear was none other than Marcus, her handler, the man who had introduced her to
IMIA.
Cate paused, marched over to the mixing desk and, without a word, leaned behind it and pulled out the plug. As the silence fell on the room, Marcus’s face took on a hurt expression.
‘Hey, Cate,’ he said mournfully. ‘You trashed my sounds. Just as I was getting into the swing of it as well.’
Cate shot him a withering look. ‘I’d like to know just what you think you’re doing breaking into my room? It’s illegal, in case you didn’t know. And how on earth
did you know I was here, anyway? Ohhh, I get it. Did Dave Osbourne call you?’
Marcus pulled off his headphones reluctantly. ‘Cate! So many questions. And not even a “Hello and nice to see you, Marcus” first.’
He got up slowly from the desk, walked over to the balcony doors and shut them.
‘Marcus, I’m on holiday – visiting my mum, who will be here to pick me up any minute now.’
‘No, she won’t,’ Marcus said calmly. ‘Right now she’s sitting waiting for a rescue truck on the road just north of San Diego. Her van has had a puncture. Or rather
two. Just to be on the safe side.’ He chuckled. ‘We wanted to make sure we had enough time to talk to you. If you check your phone you’ll probably find a text from her telling you
that she’s been delayed for a couple of hours. Oh and how are you enjoying the Erin? It’s where all the cool kids hang out, by the way – that’s why we chose it for
you.’
Cate sat down on the bed and frowned, remembering the Asian woman in the restaurant. Of course. That was IMIA all over, always one step ahead of her, making her feel like a complete pawn in
their games.
She fought back a sharp retort. She knew that it was a waste of energy to try to fight them – it was far better to go along with them, listen to what they had to say and then find other
ways of asserting herself.
There was a quiet knock at the door and Dave Osbourne came into the room. He nodded at Cate and perched himself on one of the high stools by the kitchen bar. Behind him, his familiar, solid bulk
filling up the doorway, was Henri Sorenzi, former CIA, Mossad and MI5 agent and now the much revered and rather scary head of IMIA.
Whatever this is about, it must be important, thought Cate, as she watched him check out the room, his dark, piercing eyes swooping and searching around. Henri didn’t usually make personal
calls – people mostly came to him.
‘Good morning, Cate,’ Henri said finally in his perfect English accent and then, without waiting for a reply, added, ‘Is the room clean, Marcus? We need to be completely sure
before we talk.’
Marcus nodded. ‘No bugs. Checked everywhere. Cate, here, slept through it all like a baby.’
Henri shook his head, tutting loudly. ‘Bit careless, Cate. Letting Marcus walk in like that. Making sure your accommodation is secured is pretty much basic stuff for any of my agents. Must
try harder.’
Cate stared at him crossly. ‘Er, Henri, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m actually on holiday. And since when was I one of your agents again?’
There was a silence. Henri and Cate eyeballed each other. Cate could hear Dave Osbourne shuffling uncomfortably behind her and then, as he had done so many times before, Marcus stepped in to
break the impasse.
‘Hey, guys.’ He juggled some oranges in the air. ‘Fancy a juice while we catch up? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a pretty good chef.’
Henri grunted and dropped his gaze.
‘Cate, I thought you might want to know,’ Dave said, ‘we didn’t find the thugs at Topanga beach, but the picture you took on your phone looks very similar to a mugshot we
have of one Gabriel Montanez. His piercings alone gave him away. He’s a nasty piece of work, well known to the cops here. Local, a hired thug, been in and out of prison since he was a kid.
He’s currently on probation for car theft with extreme violence. I’m told he’s also a hired gun. That is, he’ll do pretty much anything for money. He’s not stupid,
either.’
‘Have you arrested him?’ asked Cate.
Dave shook his head. ‘He was brought in early this morning for questioning. Unfortunately he has an alibi. Well, his girlfriend said he was at home with her all evening.’
‘What about the other guy? The one wearing the mask. Any news on him?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. To be fair we had very little to go on and Gabriel wasn’t helping.’ Dave looked annoyed. ‘He knows how to play the game. Forensics are going over the
pick-up, but haven’t found any fingerprints. They’re looking for DNA traces, but until then we only have your word and your picture of him as evidence. I’m afraid his lawyer made
light work of those. Said the picture didn’t give a clear location and could be fake, and that you would have been too traumatised by the road rage to be a reliable witness.’
Cate felt her hackles rising. ‘So you let him go? He tried to run Ritchie and me into the ocean and you let him go?’
Dave grimaced. ‘Not exactly. He’s out on a pretty large bail and we’ve taken his passport. Don’t worry, we’ll get him. It may just take a little time that’s
all.’
As he spoke, there was an almost imperceptible tap on the door. Marcus opened it to the receptionist, her blond dreadlocks glowing in the sun that was flooding in behind her.
Cate got up. ‘Sorry about the noise,’ she said hurriedly. ‘And, erm, these guys are friends of mine. They were just in town and popped in to say hello. They’ll be going
very soon.’
Behind her Henri let out a snort of amusement. ‘Come in, Rosie. I would introduce you to Cate Carlisle, our youngest IMIA agent, but I believe you two have already met.’
Cate stared in amazement as the receptionist stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. Cate was still staring as she shook hands with Marcus and Dave, then sat down on the bed.
‘Sorry, honey,’ she said to Cate. ‘I simply couldn’t let you know who I was until I got the word from Marcus. I have to say it was a bit of a thrill to learn that I would
be helping out on a case with Cate Carlisle! I’m Rosie Collins, by the way.’