Blood Money (chapters seven and eight.) (standard:Suspense, 2600 words) [4/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 17 2011	Views/Reads: 2258/1670	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

You saved the lives of some of them by helping them to safety, ignoring 
the obvious danger to yourself.” 

Manaf shook his head. “Although I would have helped them, I did not.
Everything happened so fast and my family were my immediate concern.” 

“Yes, I understand that,” said Schofield, his attention now interrupted
by the sight of three nearly naked men, squatted on the cold marble 
floor of a pavilion they were approaching. Their bronzed faces were 
daubed with red and yellow ochre, and small bones hung from their 
noses. Dancing in front of the men was a beautiful Balinese dancer, 
fluttering her fingers daintily, her eyes moving from right to left. 
The girl who was attired in a scarlet red, sequined gown was dancing in 
time to the beat of the gamelan music. 

Schofield was entranced by the vision of the girl, his gaze unrelenting
as he continued his dialogue. “A little white lie, Manaf, a little 
white lie would go a long way to reconstructing Lambada Lhok.” 

“But why?” probed Manaf. “I mean, what do you get out of this?” 

Schofield's eyes were now locked with those of the smiling girl. “I
won't lie to you, Manaf. I'm no saint... I'll make a great deal of 
money out of this... All you have to do is to convince someone you 
trust to verify that you helped them survive during the tsunami... 
You'll be expected to meet the man who is kindly offering you this 
money, but you must not reveal to him my identity.” 

“I am most confused.” 

“When you meet this man, he will hand you a cheque for one million
pounds.” 

“One million...” 

“The money will be placed into your bank account, and after a
prearranged period of time, you will pay me nine hundred thousand 
pounds, leaving you enough funds to provide for your village.” 

“I have no bank account, Dean.” 

“One will be opened for you... Listen, I can see that you're troubled by
my offer, but think how much this money could help your people.” 

Manaf walked on and Schofield reluctantly followed, his eyes still
digesting the beautiful, dancing girl. They came across a group of 
young girls, dressed in traditional, coloured Balinese costumes. They 
danced gracefully, each of them holding a silver bowl containing 
fragrant flowers. 

“Dean,” began Manaf. “Are you a thief?” 

“Hell, no... I prefer to be called an opportunist... Listen, Manaf, if
it's any comfort to you, the man who is donating the money is not the 
kind, charitable person you think he is. He has a dubious, dark past 
and it is believed that he has funded terrorist groups. Also, he killed 
a young girl whilst driving his car in a drunken state. This sham 
benevolent gesture is merely a way to present himself as a saint in the 
eyes of the public.” 

“You said that I must not reveal your identity. Why?” 

“Because, Manaf, I was approached by somebody who devised this scheme,
and he asked me to approach you with his proposal. You see, I am not a 
greedy man and the money we swindle from this monster is to be divided 
by many.” 

“So why me?” asked Manaf, sucking on a piece of watermelon he had
purchased. 

“Why not you? Our mystery benefactor wanted three such heroes, so you
won't be alone. I needed someone who was poor and had actually survived 
the tsunami... The fact is that I discovered you on the Internet.” 

“I will need time to think this over.” 

Schofield stared into the brown eyes of the youth. “And if you refuse my
offer, can I rely on your discretion?” 

“Of course.” 

“And your Australian friend? It is vital that you don't tell him.” 

“Mr Adams will not learn of this.” 

The pair shook hands. “I think I trust you, Manaf. You can contact me on
this number.” 

Schofield departed and headed for the exit; his fantasy about courting
the dancing girl now dismissed. On reaching the gate, he heard a 
familiar voice from behind. 

“Dean, Dean, wait.” 

Schofield turned to face Manaf. 

“I have made up my mind... I have decided.” 

8 

LONDON 

The three men had decided to meet once more in the flat of Jack Pepper.
The eager host poured out the drinks before Sam Chaplin opened up. As 
the original deviser of their scheme, the solicitor felt obliged to 
take the lead. 

“Jack, prepare yourself for a shock. My client is none other than Mr
popular himself, the great Morris O'Hara.” 

“Oh, shit. Stealing money from O'Hara is not good for your health. I
presume you've heard the rumours about him?” 

It was Schofield who spoke. “Rumours, Jack, only rumours. Now are you in
or not?” 

“I'm sweet man, I'm sweet. Count me in.” 

Chaplin nodded his approval. “Even though we have managed to recruit two
of our heroes, we still need to move on swiftly. I met with O'Hara 
yesterday and he's growing impatient by the day. I of course informed 
him that to find three potential beneficiaries so quickly was not easy. 
I even asked if I could employ the services of someone to help me in my 
search, but as expected, he declined the offer, stating that security 
was paramount.” 

“Do you trust this Mukhtar, Sam?” asked Schofield. 

“As a matter of fact, I don't, but he's in now like it or not... If we
decided to ditch him, he would no doubt betray us... What about this 
Manaf? Can he be trusted?” 

Schofield poured himself another glass of Jack Daniels. “I think so. His
people are not greedy and I propose we throw in another fifty thousand, 
seeing as his witnesses do not need to be paid. His only interest is 
his village, but one thing that worries me is how he'll react when 
facing O'Hara, not to mention the press.” 

“Okay,” said Chaplin. “So we need one more. I have a list of...” 

“I have someone,” butted in Pepper. 

Schofield and Chaplin glared at the redheaded reporter. 

“What?” mumbled Schofield. 

“I said, I have someone.” 

The usually mild-tempered Chaplin spoke. “I was under the assumption
that you were here merely to provide us with bogus news headlines, 
Jack. Even you yourself said...” 

“Hear me out, please... I recalled from a past edition of the Mirror,
reading about a pilot who on a flight from Athens to Rome in 2003, 
somehow managed to land his Boeing 737 safely after running into 
difficulties.” 

“And?” prompted Schofield. 

“During the flight there was a decompression explosion that tore off a
large section of the roof. The entire top half of the aircraft skin, 
extending from just behind the cockpit to the forewing area was 
missing. Three of the passengers were killed by flying debris, but 
through the skill of the pilot, one-hundred and eighty four passengers 
and crew survived.” 

Chaplin intervened. “An airline pilot could hardly be deemed as
underprivileged now could he?” 

“Let me finish,” urged the journalist. “Darius Kannellakis, the pilot in
question never flew again. Investigations claimed that pilot error may 
have contributed towards the fated flight, but Darius was later cleared 
of all blame. It was too late for him and he had a nervous breakdown 
and then turned to alcohol. His employers, Apollo Airlines tried to 
help him, but he declined their offer. He now lives above a taverna in 
Athens, and although he no longer drinks, Darius is penniless after 
refusing to accept  payment from his employers.” 

“So why the sudden change of heart?” asked Schofield. 

“Because for my part, I will be paid an extra one hundred thousand
pounds.” 

Schofield seized the startled reporter by the throat and pinned him
against the wall. “You greedy bastard.” 

“No, Dean,” demanded Chaplin. “Let's hear what he has to say.” 

Schofield released Pepper and reached for his drink. 

Pepper massaged his sore throat before explaining. “The fifty thousand
you were going to pay for a bogus witness, you no longer have to pay. 
In fact, you have no witnesses to pay. Also, I did all the leg work and 
feel it's only fair that I receive a bonus.” 

“And you assume that this Greek fellow will accept our offer?” quizzed
Chaplin. 

“He will.” 

“How can you be so sure?” 

“Because, I've already asked him.” 

“Fuck!” screamed Schofield. “I told you it was a mistake letting this
parasite in on the scheme.” 

“So do we have a deal?” grinned Pepper. “I receive four hundred grand.
Still not as much as you two, but I can live with that. Well?” 

Chaplin lit up a cigarette and opened the window. “So our three heroes
receive one hundred thousand each, four hundred thousand to you and 
fifty thousand bonus to Manif's group. That leaves...” 

“Two million, two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” interrupted
Pepper. “And don't give me all that bullshit about expenses, because 
I'm certain that O'Hara will pick up the tab. So, I'll be picking up 
about a third of what you two are getting, but life's a bitch. Again, 
do we have a deal?” 

“And you can still supply the false newspaper cuttings?” quizzed
Chaplin. 

“I don't believe I'm hearing this,” moaned Schofield. 

Pepper ignored the protests. “I need only to manufacture a story in the
archives concerning Manif. Mukhtar and Darius are genuine heroes and 
their stories were well documented at the time. I foresee no problem. I 
gather you have data for me on Manaf?” 

Schofield reluctantly handed over the folder. 

Chaplin cleared his throat. “There are a couple of points that I must go
over before I approach O'Hara with our candidates. Firstly, there is no 
guarantee that O'Hara will accept our selections, though I think he 
will agree with a little persuasion from me. Secondly, it is vitally 
important that once the money is deposited into the bank accounts, our 
cut must stay there for a prolonged period. To transfer funds into our 
accounts would be too risky just yet.” 

“How long?” probed Pepper. 

“As long as it takes for our three heroes to vanish into obscurity. Once
the media grow tired of them, then we'll consider the transfer of 
funds. It may take three months or three years.” 

“Three years?” moaned Pepper. 

Schofield filled his third glass of the whiskey. “You heard him, Jack.” 

Chaplin stubbed out his cigarette. “I'll need this newspaper article on
Manif as soon as possible.” 

The three men were each left to ponder over a new future. They went
about their daily routine, dreaming of the rewards on offer; the perils 
of dealing with Morris O'Hara the last things on their minds. 

Jack Pepper waited until the majority of his colleagues had left the
Daily Mirror offices before making his move. He entered the archives 
room and as expected, Helen Trewin was sitting at her desk. Pepper was 
familiar with the girl's stringent routine and knew she would have to 
leave to catch her tube to Baker Street at any moment. 

The dark-haired, bespectacled girl turned to face Pepper and offered a
half smile. She regarded the bearded man as a bit eccentric, if not 
downright weird. Although they had been working together for four 
years, Helen had never socialised with Pepper. She realised that he 
lived alone, and the fact that he had never been seen in the company of 
a female augmented the rumours that he was homosexual. 

“Got no home to go to, Helen?” 

“I could say the same about you... I'm almost finished here. So what
brings you to the archives department?” 

Pepper sat behind a PC and his fingers ran speedily across the keyboard.
“Oh, I'm just checking out a story from a few years back.” 

“Anything exciting?” 

“Not really... Actually, I need to add a page to one of our earlier
editions.” 

“And why would you want to do that?” 

Pepper smiled and his eyes lit up. “For a practical joke... I had a
wager with a friend of mine, were I told him that an old school friend 
of ours appeared in the Mirror after he mooned at the Queen. Of course, 
I won't take his money, but I want to see his face when I produce the 
article.” 

Helen checked her wristwatch and swivelled her eyes. “How childish.
Anyway, you won't be able to amend the archives without a password.” 

Pepper ceased typing. “Damn. Couldn't you...” 

Helen put on her coat and hat before heading for the door. “You'll get
me shot, Jack Pepper.” 

Pepper sunk to his knees and put his hands together in prayer. “Please,
Helen. I'll take you out to dinner.” 

“Do I look like the type of girl who can be easily bribed?” Helen closed
the door behind her and Pepper cursed. The door opened once more and 
the petite girl appeared. “Winter. Anagram of Trewin. Clever, eh?” 

“Cheers, Hells bells, you beauty.” 

The eager reporter was left alone and turned back to the PC. He typed in
WINTER and he grinned as the password was accepted. Removing the 
documents from the folder, he browsed through the information and noted 
the date of the Asian Tsunami. He removed his jacket and prepared to 
rewrite a piece of history. 


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