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

Cutler had used his contacts in the American embassy to find him secluded cottages in the rural area not too far from Glasgow. He had picked the area as an unusual place to put an informant. They had found a cottage on the outskirts of a small Scottish town in the highlands, called Newtonmore. The town was busy enough to have a good transport network. The population was small in the winter but increased through tourism in the summer. The cottage lay on the road leading to Aviemore, and his nearest neighbours were a mile away.

It was a week Cutler could have done without, but he had to stay with Richter to mentor him in his new identity. He accompanied Richter to the local pub, and generally ensured that he was accepted. For all intents and purposes, Richter was Karl Smitt, an immigrant from Dresden, who moved there after the fall of Communism. He was a technical author, someone who drew up plans for buildings, and thus could work from his home.

Richter was uneasy when Cutler finally left, but with the rent paid for three years and enough funds to keep him in sufficient comfort for several years, he was not that unhappy. Cutler had promised more funds later if he kept his nose clean and his head down. For now, any thoughts or plans involving Werner and his delegate partner would have to be put on hold.

Cutler had been given permission to use any surplus funds from the Werner operation as needed, to bring the gang down; pay informants, hire in specialists as required, etc. Nobody asked how much that was, as they wanted the deniability on the operation should it turn sour. Cutler never offered the information that he had put twenty-four million dollars in the bank. The money he had paid Richter had more than been made up by interest payments.

Four months after Elisa had gone missing, four months since that horrendous flight back from Germany, he arrived back in Seattle. With Richter settled in Scotland, he had to move forward. Cutler felt like he was walking through wet mud, and he needed to feel lighter if he were to get on with finding his sister’s killer.

In all that time, his only comfort had come from Cathy, the stewardess on the awful flight back from Germany, hours after he had heard of Elisa’s disappearance. Cathy had been pleasantly surprised by the phone call from Cutler, and even more so when a couple of days later he was true to his promise and visited her in her apartment in Seattle.

Cathy lived in a spacious, second-floor apartment on Westlake, near the Space Needle. Due to its location near the landmark tower, Cutler had found it quite quickly, and was able to park his rented sedan quite near to the building.

Cathy had just completed a flight back from Moscow and, although tired, outwardly she looked stunning when Cutler arrived. She wore a starched, crisp white blouse and a short, navy blue skirt and she looked every inch the glamorous flight attendant. Cutler felt guilty as, for the first time in months, he had looked at a woman and had immediately had the subconscious conversation with himself; the answer was yes, he definitely would like to get closer to her.

He initially had set about visiting her for some additional information. The conversation Cathy and he had on-board the flight back from Gander had played on his mind ever since. She had been a revelation, although he did not know it at the time. The comments about the number of missing persons from cruise ships had become more profound as time passed; maybe she would be able to tell him more.

Ever the gentleman, Cutler took Cathy to the local bistro, where they ate and exchanged small talk. Cathy flirted with Cutler; she was attracted by his strong outer shell, and she had seen the soft centre on that flight several months previous. She looked at him in a new light. Although apparently coping with grief, he still radiated energy and made her feel safe. He was good-looking, tall, and boyish; he would turn heads wherever he went.

Cathy had changed from her work outfit to go out. She had dressed to attract; a short, snow-white dress, which accentuated her long, black hair as it cascaded down onto her shoulders. Her almond skin was faultless, and there was not a freckle or spot that Cutler could see on her exposed skin. She was twenty-eight years old but had the skin of a sixteen-year-old; he could see her cheeks redden when he complimented her on her beauty. While he drank his Jack Daniels, he could not break contact with those enormous, oval brown eyes.

It was inevitable. For the first time since he had heard Elisa had gone missing, Cutler felt something like his old self. Her skin was magnetizing for him; he wanted to touch her, touch her anywhere, as long as he could feel that silky skin beneath his hands. She wanted to press her lips tightly around his, to connect with him, to feel more excited than she already was.

They had half-undressed each other by the time they had got through her apartment door. The lamp on the table just inside the door fell to the floor and broke into several pieces as they meandered blindly backward towards the bedroom. Cutler had pulled the straps of the white dress over her shoulders, and this now lay on the floor beside the shards of glass from the lamp. Inexpertly for a woman of her age, she struggled with the belt on his Chinos. Her bedroom was on the same level, and she steered Cutler blindly toward the door while still locked in a passionate embrace. By the time, they fell on the oversized bed he was left in his stretched Pierre Cardin white boxer shorts, and