Blood Money (chapters nine and ten.) (standard:Suspense, 3442 words) [5/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 20 2011	Views/Reads: 2242/1685	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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completed, but for you, Chaplin I'll make an exception. I can trust you 
can't I?” 

“Of course, Mr O'Hara... Wouldn't a cheque have been more suitable?” 

“I don't deal in cheques, boy.” 

“And the three subjects? Surely you...” 

“Cash, Chaplin. They'll be paid in cash. I trust you have no
objections?” 

Chaplin shook his head. “Of course they will be safely escorted to a
bank?” 

“Whatever?” mumbled O'Hara. “Well, that concluded our business,
Chaplin.” 

“About the leak to the press, Mr O'Hara. I think an immediate release
could prove to be most influential.” 

“Really? Then go for it, boy. I'll await the press release with eager
anticipation... A good day to you, Chaplin.” 

Pauline Chaplin had dined at some of London's finest restaurants, but
nothing as grand as the China Tang restaurant in Mayfair. Even her 
exquisite red dress and diamond necklace that her husband had purchased 
that very day could not disguise her paranoia. Although her husband, 
Sam often treated her, this evening, he had excelled himself. A lavish 
feast was to be followed by a trip to Her Majesty's Theatre to see Les 
Miserables. 

“Is there something wrong dear?” asked Chaplin, tucking in to his Peking
duck. 

Pauline blushed. “Have you won the lottery, Sam? I mean, this place;
well just look at it.” 

The oriental antiques and the thick carpets exemplified the 1920's style
restaurant. Mirrored pillars, wooden fretwork frames and upholstered 
banquettes added to the ambience. 

“Let's just say that my efforts have been rewarded at last... Lighten
up, Pauline; you're entitled to use this restaurant just as much as the 
so-called celebrities and the rich... More Chablis, dear?” 

Pauline, at the age of thirty-five was three years older than her
brother, Dean. Her striking pale, grey eyes like those of her sibling, 
complimented her finely chiselled features. Her long brown hair was 
brushed immaculately, and only her thin lips and slightly uneven teeth 
prevented the woman from being portrayed as beautiful. 

She waited until the uniformed waiter left their table before speaking.
“Sam, this doesn't make sense.” 

Chaplin chewed vigorously on his Peking duck. “I've told you I...” 

“No!” Pauline glowed even more after realising that she had spoken
loudly. “Sam, I've seen the credit card bills.” 

“You've been through my mail?” 

Pauline put down her knife and fork and dabbed at her mouth with a
napkin. “There were several bills that haven't been opened. Okay, so I 
was curious and for good reason. How could you have..?” 

“Forget the bills. They'll be history soon.” 

“How can you say that? Just what have you been spending money on?” 

Chaplin's appetite was ruined. He took a swig of his Chablis before
responding. “I made mistakes, Pauline. I invested in some dodgy 
property and the credit cards were just so convenient. Christ, haven't 
you ever made mistakes before?” 

Pauline glared at her husband. “And just what do you mean by that?” 

“That bloody florists you bought. Not exactly a goldmine was it?” “The
florists, I purchased with my own money, Sam... Damn you, how could you 
have gambled with David's future?” 

Chaplin reached for his wife's hands. “Listen, Pauline, I swear
everything is going to be just fine, believe me... I cannot tell you 
the details, but we're going to be wealthy very soon.” 

“Oh, and so Hector and Bullard are going to increase your salary tenfold
are they? I don't like the way you're talking, Sam, it scares me.” 

“Trust me that's all I ask. Trust me, dear.” 

Pauline was lost for a moment, eyeing the couple who were being pampered
by the waiters. She searched her mind in an attempt to put a name to 
the tanned man. She turned her attention back to her husband. “You said 
you couldn't tell me the details. Please don't tell me what you're 
about to do is dishonest.” 

“I swear to you, Pauline, everything is above board... That cruise you
were speaking of in the Caribbean. I'll buy you your own yacht if 
that's what you want.” 

Pauline smiled falsely. Even though her husband's words were meant to
please her, she felt scared. She noticed a drastic change in her 
husband; a change for the worse. 

Chaplin unconsciously felt the bulge in his inside pocket. The bonus he
had received from O'Hara, he was not about to disclose to his brother 
in law. The Irishman had been generous with the expense money and the 
solicitor was dining on the surplus. Greed was a dangerous emotion to 
possess and avarice now flowed freely through his veins. 

10 

Jack Pepper, as promised had leaked information about O'Hara's
charitable donations in his newspaper. The names of the three 
recipients had also been added, hence the interest of the media outside 
the Landmark Hotel in Marylebone. 

Chaplin, Manaf, Kannelllakis and Mukhtar dashed through the mid-morning
drizzle towards the waiting limousine. Each of the alleged heroes was 
suitably attired, courtesy of their benefactor, Morris O'Hara. 

Having briefed the three, Chaplin was still a nervous man. His main
concern was Manaf, who looked like butter would not melt in his mouth. 
The fresh-faced youth, even wearing a smart suit, still managed to look 
like a lost schoolboy about to face his headmaster. Chaplin had drilled 
into the Indonesian to keep his dialogue to a minimal. Under no 
circumstances was he to mention Dean Scott. 

Chaplin turned his attention to the Greek, Darius Kannellakis. The
middle-aged man looked older than his thirty-eight years; access 
alcohol having taken its toll. The craggy-faced man looked like a 
typical Greek, his droopy moustache hinting towards his nationality. 
Chaplin noticed that his hands were shaking as he chain-smoked. 

Mukhtar Ahmed smiled a lot, his arrogance plain to see. Chaplin secretly
despised the cock-sure man. Racial prejudice did not enter the 
equation; it was Mukhtar's manner that deemed him untrustworthy. 

The edgy solicitor looked over his shoulder to see the fleet of the
media following. Mr O'Hara would be pleased, he thought. The limousine 
came to a halt outside O'Hara's mansion, and as expected, 
representatives from the television media were present. 

The four men left the limousine, amid a barrage of flashlights. The
media soon turned their attention to Morris O'Hara, who made an 
appearance on his doorstep. Wearing an immaculate Armani suit and 
sporting a broad smile, the Irishman milked the attention. He ushered 
his guests inside, ignoring the questions that were being directed 
towards him. He posed once more for the cameras before retreating 
indoors. 

Chaplin and the three bewildered subjects followed the butler to the
lavish dining room and were seated accordingly. The quartet marvelled 
at the extravagant surroundings. The long oak table was covered with 
the finest silverware, and the roaring, open fire added to the medieval 
environment. A coat of arms was displayed above the fireplace and 
several knights in armour were dotted around the dining room. The 
landscapes of Ireland that were such a focal point of his study and 
entrance hall were missing, replaced by several portraits, including 
O'Hara's own. 

O'Hara joined his guests and wandered around the table, shaking each of
their hands. “Gentlemen, I am in awe of each of you. To save so many 
lives without a thought for your own welfare makes you supreme, and you 
rightly deserve to see out the rest of your lives in luxury.” 

The Irishman took his place at the head of the table before speaking
again. He clapped his hands and a cluster of waiters entered the room, 
carrying several serving salvers and an assortment of wine. 

“With regards to your nationality, you will be treated to a delicious
feast of various cultures. On offer are mystical curries and spices 
from Pakistan and Indonesia, and a selection of Greek delicacies. Feel 
free to sample the British cuisine. Gentlemen, eat, drink and be 
merry.” 

Chaplin opted for the roast beef and watched each of the foreigners as
they tucked into their food. Manaf appeared to be unsettled by the 
grandeur lauded upon him as he devoured his boiled chicken in coconut 
sauce, rice, peppers and salad. That Manif refused to make eye contact 
with his host, worried Chaplin, who attempted to start a conversation, 
once the catering staff had departed. 

“This is most delicious, Mr O'Hara.” 

“I agree,” followed Mukhtar, feasting on his mutton pulao. 

Manaf remained silent and sheepishly nodded his approval. 

“And you, Mr Kannellakis? Is the food to your liking?” 

Chaplin was impressed that the Irishman had remembered the name of the
ex-pilot, although it did not surprise him. O'Hara was a thorough and 
knowledgeable man. 

“The food is fine,” answered Kannellakis. 

“Splendid... Manaf, I read your story with interest. It can't have been
easy watching your family perish, but you still persisted in helping 
more of your people to reach the high ground.” He now read from a file. 
“One family in particular owes you their lives, Hasyiny, Samsiah and 
their daughter Naula.” 

Chaplin's heart beat double time as he watched Manaf being scrutinised. 

“It was nothing, Mr O'Hara. They were my friends. You see, everyone in
my village is my friend. Hasyiny would not have hesitated to do 
likewise if he found himself in my position.” 

“Perhaps,” mumbled O'Hara. “You speak splendid English, Manaf. Your
uncle must have been a great teacher?” 

Again, Chaplin was impressed by O'Hara's thoroughness. 

“He was. My uncle and his family also died on Lambada Lhok.” 

O'Hara was now studying the news cutting manufactured by Pepper. “One
thing that baffles me, Manaf.” 

The young Indonesian glanced at Chaplin, who narrowed his eyes. “What is
that, Mr O'Hara?” 

You see, although I don't use these darned new-fangled computers, I had
a friend do a check on you. Don't look so worried, Manaf; I checked 
each of you out. I mean, you canno be too careful nowadays can you? 
Anyway, going back to my friend. He found a website that featured the 
story of you and how you lost your family in the tsunami, only there 
was no mention of Hasyiny and his family.” 

“Mr O'Hara,” began Manaf. “Modesty is an attribute I inherited from my
father and so many of my people. I did not wish to portray myself as a 
hero, which I certainly am not.” 

O'Hara smiled. “You're right, Manaf, you are modest, but how did the
press pick up on your story?” 

“There were many foreign reporters at Lambada Lhok after the tsunami.
Obviously, someone exaggerated the truth.” 

The blood now drained from the face of Chaplin. 

“But it was true was it not?” asked O'Hara. 

Manaf paused. “Yes, it was true, but there were many real heroes that
day in my village, so why I have been singled out by you, I do not 
know.” 

O'Hara seemed to be pleased with the answer. “You showed great courage
that day in tragic circumstances... Tell me, Manaf. If I agreed to 
donate one million pounds to you, what would you do with it?” Manaf 
sipped his fruit juice before responding. “The money would go towards 
rebuilding my village. Also, a monument would be erected in memory of 
my people.” 

O'Hara nodded his approval and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
“Chaplin, you have indeed made a fine choice. If you're finished 
gentlemen, we'll retire into my study.” 

O'Hara led the way and Chaplin grasped the arm of Manaf and smiled. “You
did well,” he whispered. 

The solicitor was now relaxed after the inquisition of Manaf was
apparently concluded. Reaching their destination, O'Hara invited them 
to be seated in the comfortable, leather armchairs. The Irishman was 
perched on his throne and looked down on his subjects. 

“Help yourself to cigars gentlemen, and drinks are freely available at
the bar. I realise that your religion may prevent you from savouring 
alcohol, so I've taken this into account with a selection of soft 
drinks.” 

Chaplin poured himself a large Irish whiskey and opted for one of the
large Cuban cigars. Kannellakis clamped one of the huge cigars between 
his teeth and poured himself an orange juice. The reformed alcoholic 
resisted the temptation to sample the alcohol on offer. 

Surprisingly, Mukhtar poured himself a liberal measure of vodka and
plucked one of the cigars from the container. Manaf, as expected 
declined the offer of tobacco and opted for a pineapple juice. 

O'Hara puffed frantically on his cigar and turned his attention to
Mukhtar. “How the world is changing. I wouldn't have thought that you 
had acquired a taste for alcohol, given of course your upbringing. I 
could find little about you, Mukhtar. According to your file, you live 
in Islamabad, and after hearing of the earthquake in Muzaffarabad, you 
made your way there, naturally worried about your parents. You have no 
brothers or sisters?” 

“That is correct, Mr O'Hara.” 

O'Hara turned back to the file. “On reaching Muzaffarabad, you learned
of the death of your parents, but stayed there for several weeks, 
helping to rescue your stricken people. This newspaper article bears 
out your story, but I'm curious, Mukhtar.” 

“Curious?” 

“Why were you living in Islamabad?” 

“My parents were very poor and so I went there looking for work.” 

“And did you find work?” 

“No.” 

“O'Hara sipped on his brandy and continued his probing. “So where did
you live in Islamabad?” 

“With friends, mostly in squats, Mr O'Hara.” 

“Friends? And how did you meet these friends?” 

Mukhtar seemed unmoved by the questioning and smiled. “I met them when I
was begging on the streets.” 

“You were begging? I'm a little confused here. You went looking for work
to help with the welfare of your parents and resorted to begging?” 

“I could not find work and so had no choice.” 

O'Hara was now teasing his subject and puffed profusely on his cigar.
“It says here that Lance Peebles, a Red Cross worker helped to find you 
accommodation in Islamabad.” 

“He did find me lodgings.” 

“You seem like a well-educated young man. I find it difficult to believe
that you could not find work.” 

“It is true, Mr O'Hara. I made a pittance from shining shoes, but
finding decent work in Islamabad is difficult.” 

Chaplin added his support. “Every penny that Mukhtar earned he sent to
his parents, Mr O'Hara.” 

“Rupees Chaplin,” gloated O'Hara. “He earned rupees not pennies.” 

O'Hara stroked his bulbous, red nose and turned his attention to
Kannellakis. “Darius, it was because of your skill in the art of flying 
an aircraft that one hundred and eighty-four lives were saved. Your 
heroic deed differs from that of Manaf's and Mukhtar's, given that you 
had an incentive to land your aircraft safely. Your arse Darius, you 
wanted to save your own arse, which in the circumstances is 
understandable. However, it must have taken great courage to land that 
bird, and the way you were treated by your employers was disgraceful. 
You turned to the bottle and refused to accept payment from Apollo 
Airlines. I admire that. It's good to see that you've given up the 
demon drink... Tell me, Darius, would you be willing to accept my 
donation of one million pounds?” 

The trembling man loosened his tie. “I have no quibble with you, Mr
O'Hara and you never ridiculed me as my employers did.” 

“I assume that's a yes?” asked O'Hara. 

The former pilot nodded. 

O'Hara left his throne and his three guests rose to their feet, such was
the dominant presence of their host. “Chaplin, would you come with me 
please? Gentlemen, refresh your drinks. We'll return shortly.” 

Chaplin followed in the footsteps of O'Hara, who led him to a secluded
garden. The rain still fell, but O'Hara was oblivious to the horrible 
weather. He stepped into a huge greenhouse and proceeded to water his 
plants. 

“Manaf and Kannellakis I like. This Mukhtar is too cocky, and if he's
deprived, then I'm a blind man... This Lance Peebles the Red Cross man; 
how well do you know him?” 

“I went to school with him... Lance is as straight as...” 

O'Hara raised his hand and Chaplin knew he had said too much. 

“Chaplin, I have a knack of knowing if someone is lying to me. Now look
into my eyes and tell me that Lance Peebles knew nothing of the money I 
was donating.” 

The solicitor felt intimidated by the Irishman. “Lance knew nothing of
the money. Mukhtar was brought up in conversation and I realised the 
opportunity he presented.” 

“So a mere coincidence, eh? You were looking for a hero and Lance
Peebles offered you one on the plate.” 

Chaplin felt his bulging Adam's apple growing. “I swear to you it was
just a coincidence.” 

O'Hara stared menacingly into the eyes of Chaplin and took a long draw
on his cigar. “If I agreed to pay Mukhtar, and I did find out that this 
was a scam put together by you, Peebles and the paki, you do realise 
the consequences you face, I gather?” 

“I resent your accusation, Mr O'Hara. If you wish to terminate my
services, then I'll gladly return your fee.” 

“Implications, Mr Chaplin, not accusations but implications. A learned
man such as yourself surprises me by the misuse of grammar... I believe 
you're telling the truth, Chaplin... Prepare for a press conference 
Monday morning will you?” 

“You accept the three applicants?” quizzed Chaplin. 

O'Hara grasped the shoulders of the solicitor. “You're learning,
Chaplin, by God, you're learning. 


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