Crash Course by Derek Fee (freenovel24 .TXT) 📗

red-blooded man could stand. She stood out even in the roomful of ‘divine creatures’.

“Even the Italian sunshine can’t blunt your rapier-like tongue.” Morweena turned to face the two older men. “You’re looking very distinguished, Tom.”

Kane smiled as a blush spread over the older man’s face.

“And even Doc looks like a marina Romeo,” Morweena continued.

“And you, Morweena, are the prettiest sight I’ve seen for a very long time,” Tom blurted out.

“I’ll drink to that,” Doc added.

Kane turned to Morweena. “You seem to be well acquainted with the great and the good in these parts.” He nodded at the assembled masses. “Why don’t you fill us in?” As soon as he had entered the restaurant, he had turned on his ‘villain detector’. However, his ability to smell out a villain had been totally overcome by the smell of money. Money hung off every shoulder and was wrapped around every wrist and finger. Money shone from the tans, fake or real, and sparkled from the shine on the designer shoes. It was a universal truth that most people who made ‘real’ money had little or no regard for the laws of either their own or anyone else’s land. They acted on another plane to the ordinary working stiff. They wheeled and dealed money and lives. Opening a factory or closing it without a thought for the social consequences. They paid taxes only when they were forced to and stole with a smile, a signature on a contract, or the soft tap on a key of a computer terminal. They were not like his usual prey and the tools he had developed to trap scumbag drug dealers operating from ghettos would not work in the rarefied atmosphere in which he now found himself.

“I’ll do better than that,” Morweena said and took his arm. “Okay. Let’s start with the tall blond man by the door…” She led him towards the large glass doors that separated the restaurant from the terrace. “His name is Harry Hakonen,” she whispered. “Number three in the championship last year. Harry is seventy per cent of Finland’s shipping industry.”

“Hello, Harry.” Morweena hugged the portly Finn. “You’ve added a little weight.”

“Morweena, dear, as always you look fabulous.” Hakonen’s English had a heavy Nordic flavour. His arms tightened around her. “I think you may have lost a few kilos.” He released his grip and laughed. “One of the highlights of the new season is the chance to see you again.”

“Thank you, Harry. I’d like you to meet our new driver Mark Kane.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mark.” Hakonen’s handshake was vice-like.

“Harry,” Kane held the handshake. Both men were feeling the pain when they broke off. One hell of a start. The Finn looked larger in person than he did in the photographs he’d seen at Europol.

“There are a lot of people in this room who envy you, Mark.” Harry beamed a smile at Morweena. “Most of us would die for the chance to spend a couple of hours alone in a confined space with such a wondrous woman.”

“Be careful, Harry,” Morweena said. “You’re making me blush.”

Hakonen reluctantly returned his gaze to Kane. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy racing as much as the rest of us.”

“That’s what everybody keeps telling me.” Kane stared at Hakonen and wondered whether he was the man he was seeking. There was no brand on the Finn’s forehead which said, ‘I am a drug-runner’ and there was nothing in his demeanour that would indicate that he ran with the criminal classes. Perhaps he used cocaine or ecstasy as a recreational drug but then so did thirty-five per cent of the great British public.

“I hear your boat could be a challenger this year?” Hakonen addressed the question to Morweena. Kane understood immediately that the number three in the World Championship obviously didn’t need the opinions of a novice. “Anything with the Penhalion name on it is to be treated with a great deal of respect.”

“Dad’s put a tremendous amount of work into the boat and our backers have thrown lots of money into the project. With a bit of luck, we’ll do fine.” She smiled at Kane and winked.

Hakonen looked beyond them. “My team manager looks lost.” He smiled. “I’d better go rescue him. Best of luck in the race, Mark.”

“Likewise, Harry.” Kane forced what he considered his most charming smile. So far it was all jolly hockey sticks, hope you race well, old boy, and see you for a bottle of champers as soon as the flag falls. This would be a damn sight more difficult than either Davenport or the Eurocops in The Hague could have guessed. He reminded himself that it was early days. There was a lot of sniffing to do. But the powerboat racing season was short.

“Harry’s dripping with money,” Morweena said. “Offshore racing’s his only passion. Or so he says.” She linked arms with Kane and steered him towards the door before nodding at a group of three Japanese speaking with a handsome European. “The tall one in the centre is Yukio Tadeka, the chairman of the Matima Investment Trust. This is the first full year for the Japanese on the circuit and Honda’s thrown their weight behind the Matima team. Tadeka took part in two races last season, no placings. The man they’re talking to is Angelo Tardelli, the playboy of the circuit. I understand he co-owns Sardinia with the Aga Khan.”

Kane and Morweena stood before the quartet.

“Mr Tadeka,” Morweena said rather formally, “I don’t know whether you remember me, Morweena Penhalion.”

“Once having met you, Miss Penhalion who could ever forget.” Tadeka took Morweena’s hand and kissed it, then he nodded at his colleagues. “My team members, Mr Watanabe and Mr Fukio. Of course, you know Angelo Tardelli.”

The two Japanese bowed.

Morweena returned the bows and smiled at the Sardinian.

That smile was Tardelli’s signal to throw his arms around her. “Morweena, cara mia,” Tardelli attempted to plant a kiss on her lips but had to be satisfied with the cheek which she presented him. “Twenty times