‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to come? It would mean a lot if you were there.’
‘I’ll catch up with him some other time,’ Saul replied in a voice that suggested he wouldn’t.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Jim said, knowing that time was ticking. ‘I’m on a flight that leaves in two hours.’
‘Tell your father I love him, all right?’
‘Now you’re getting mawkish.’
‘I mean it.’
Jim nodded and left the apartment, glad that he had made the time to visit.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jim hesitated for only a moment as Gregor Bentley parked outside a large white villa on the outskirts of Baruda’s main town, St Sebastian.
‘Right, I’m going in,’ he said with more confidence than he felt, turning to Gregor and unfastening his seat belt, knowing that now was as good a time as any.
‘Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?’ asked Gregor, turning to the two burly men sitting in the back seat.
Jim still hadn’t been introduced to them properly. Gregor had described them as security. They hadn’t said a word on the journey over to Marshall Roberts’ house, and Jim didn’t doubt they were both carrying guns hidden in their socks or underpants.
He wondered if his younger self might have seen some sort of glamour in this situation, imagined he was in Ocean’s Eleven, but the truth was he was frightened. Here he was, about to go and negotiate with a known mobster, a dangerous and ruthless man who thought nothing of extortion and violence when it was a means to his own ends.
Even an hour earlier, he had felt calm, had seen it merely as a problem he had to get efficiently out of the way. Perhaps his night with Jennifer had buoyed him, given him a little armour plating. But standing here in the hot Caribbean sun, he realised the folly of what he was about to do. He was about to go into Marshall Roberts’ house, and there was the possibility that he might not come out again.
Just as life was getting interesting, he thought grimly, thinking of Jennifer in his bed, a montage of images flashing suddenly in his head, a realisation that he was happy and content and at peace.
He slammed the car door shut, hearing the gravel drive crunch underfoot. Taking a deep breath, he pressed an intercom button on the gate, which opened after a second, a CCTV camera turning and focusing on him, like a beady eye following him as he walked up the path towards the house.
Marshall Roberts’ home was not as grand as Jim might have imagined. It was large, but in a poor state of repair; the many millions he had extorted from businesses such as RedReef had clearly been ploughed into a Swiss bank account rather than his home.
Jim was met by a maid, who led him out to a porch that overlooked both the town and the sea. Baruda was almost completely flat, unlike the more rugged and luscious islands like St Lucia, but Roberts’ house must have been at its highest point. Jim stood with one hand on the rail, consciously not turning his back to the house but keen to get some fortifying sun on his face. After a minute he heard footsteps padding through the property.
He had imagined a man with presence, perhaps with a gold tooth or some Prohibition-style fedora, flanked by sinister-looking henchmen. But Marshall Roberts was alone. He was an unremarkable-looking man, slim, of average height, in suit trousers and a pale blue short-sleeved shirt. His black hair was cropped close to his head and was flecked with wiry silver strands. He had a big gold signet ring on his finger and sandals on his feet, where the dark skin had cracked and paled around his toes.
‘Sit down, Mr Johnson,’ he said simply in a deep voice that carried more gravitas than his appearance. ‘You wanted to discuss something with me.’
Jim nodded and perched on the edge of a wicker sofa.
‘I’m impressed you had the balls to come and discuss things with me directly. So many don’t.’
‘I’ve dealt with people like you before, Mr Roberts,’ Jim said. In fact he had never been at the sharp end of hotel management. His only dealing with gangsters was the time he’d played a gig at a pub in Manchester and some scallies had asked him for protection money. He had ended up buying them a pint and they were friends by the end of the evening. He wasn’t sure it would go that way with Marshall Roberts. ‘I generally find that we can both reach a mutually beneficial position.’
‘I think I have what I want from you and your predecessor,’ said Roberts with a low laugh. ‘Although since the new owner of RedReef is one of the richest men in the world, maybe it’s time to renegotiate. A small uplift in the financial compensation for our services will be pocket change for Mr Desai.’
‘Men like Simon Desai didn’t get to where they are without watching every penny, Marshall. And without being ruthless. Extremely ruthless to anyone who tries to take advantage of them.’ Jim tried to get the right note of threat into his voice. His palms had become clammy and his heart was beating twice as fast as normal, but he willed himself to stay cool and in control. ‘Contributions to your business from RedReef will be stopping from this moment on. New management, new policy. I thought I would do you the courtesy of telling you that in person.’
‘It’s a shame,’ said Marshall, lighting a cigarette. ‘I heard RedReef was going to be the flagship hotel for your new chain. I thought you’d want to make it work. It has such potential, given the right conditions.’
‘Simon Desai isn’t Connor Gilbert, Mr Roberts. As you say, this hotel is important to him. Fuck with him and it will be the worst business deal you ever make.’ Jim got to his feet decisively.
‘You obviously don’t realise how things work around here, Mr Johnson.’
‘I think I do,’ said Jim, edging towards the door.
‘I control the people who control this island. And that makes me very powerful. More powerful than your boss Mr Desai, despite his billions.’