Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

the injury and the fall from the cruise ship, Fabienne began to track Sebastian. It had taken her two days of hacking for her face recognition software to identify Sebastian at the port, entering Sicily.

With Gottschalk dead, and blamed for the deaths and carnage in the Akbuk villas, she turned her attention to tracking Sebastian down.

Fabienne saw no valid reason to keep Cutler up to date with what she was undertaking. The trail had gone cold for over a fortnight, and Cutler would have been on her back hourly for updates. Fabienne had confirmed two facial images of Sebastian at petrol stations. By backtracking the CCTV she hacked, she discovered the car and number plate Sebastian had driven down the spine of Italy. She had traced it as far as Sicily, but then the trail went cold.

A month later, Speedy software identified a woman going into a bank to withdraw a cash sum. Except it was not a woman; the software gave an indicator reading matching several of Sebastian’s features, but not a positive reading of Sebastian. She crunched the numbers; it was only a forty-five percent positive match.

Fabienne hacked into the bank in Catania, and traced the deposit back to an account in Geneva. The account had no name, but was accessed with a passcode. If it was Sebastian, and it was a big ‘if’, he must be out of money. “Do I tell Cutler or not?” she pondered aloud.

If it is him, he probably thinks he’s safe. He would have no idea that we might have the capability to track him through satellites and close circuit cameras throughout Sicily, she thought.

Fabienne waited another week. She wrote a programme to access the motorway and street cameras in Sicily. Once she gained access, it took Speedy less than an hour to locate the 1975 battered Fiat van. Now it was time to tell Cutler. She had a rough location of his sister’s killer; he could do the rest.

Cutler was euphoric at the revelation. He had not felt this good since before he had the tragic news of his sister’s disappearance. He shared the data with the other members of MIDAS.

Robert Stahmer was recovering from the loss of his eye, and now wore a patch over the missing organ. He had insisted on accompanying Cutler to Sicily. Tuck said he would resign if he were not involved. Ghislaine also insisted they would need an interpreter. Cheryl booked the flights and all four arrived in Sicily two days later.

A further two days of inquiries, and the crossing of many a palm by the four MIDAS operatives, proved fruitful. They identified three new leases for properties in the area, but only one new face.

It was 3 pm on a Friday afternoon as they approached the farmhouse. The sky was blue, only scarred by the small, billowing plume of ash and gas rising from the volcano. Even from that distance, Cutler, Stahmer and Tuck could see the lava flow was a trickle compared to some previous eruptions; the blackened landscape on the mountain bearing witness to past eruptions. The tinge of sulphur in the air caught the back of their throats.

They parked the hire car out of sight, and approached the isolated farm from the south. The land was arable and fertile; vegetation had overtaken the land where crops had grown previously. Cutler guessed that the farm had not been a working farm for several years.

Stahmer broke away and veered right, heading some fifty yards away before turning back towards the farm. As he progressed, he used the vegetation to mask his advance. Stahmer was to be the rear-guard at the back of the property, just in case Sebastian decided that flight was better than fight.

Stealthily Tuck and Cutler edged forward. They could see the battered Fiat that Sebastian had fled in, parked at the side of the property on the stony and unkempt lane.

The heat of the day was at its peak, and both men were sweating in their denims and loose shirts. Cutler carried a haversack on his back. He advanced, looking forward at the farm, while Tuck scanned the ground ahead of them. Suddenly Tuck clamped onto Cutler's shoulder and held him rigidly. He pointed a yard in front of him; Cutler looked down but could not see what Tuck was concerned with.

Tuck knelt and picked up a small branch that was to his side. He whispered to Cutler “the ground has been disturbed.” Tuck pressed the branch just forward of their position and forced it downwards. The ground gave way and the stones fell several feet into a small pit, big enough to take a man. The trap door was hinged on both sides and gave way in the middle. Cutler could see the welcome surprise at the bottom of the pit would certainly incapacitate a man, if not kill him outright.

One inch in diameter, sharpened bamboo canes had been cemented into place, pointing upwards awaiting its catch.

“Old Viet Cong tricks,” Tuck whispered.

As they circumnavigated the trap, Tuck scanned the area for any other traps that had been constructed. There were two more beneath the downstairs windows looking into the property.

Cutler and Tuck could hear an old piano being played. It may have been ancient, but Sebastian had tuned it the previous day. Wagner’s Ring Cycle rose to a crescendo, the sound masking their approach, they hoped.

Tuck kicked the door with force, and it gave way first time. Neither man was armed, as they had not wanted the added risk of trying to buy weapons in the country.

The bald Sebastian sat at the old piano in the corner of the unkempt and tired room. The windows, bereft of curtains or blinds, kept the sunlight at bay with the amount of grime that had built up over the years.

The room stank of wood rot, and smoke from a