thought that was Disneyland Paris.’
‘Kids’ stuff, literally. Let me send you our prospectus. I’ll include a share application form because you’ll be hooked as soon as you see it.’
‘Let me tell you something, dear.’ I laid on the Scottish accent. ‘I’ve never bought anything off the page in my life, not so much as a pair of knickers. Your website’s full of nice pictures but, with respect, it tells me little more than bugger-all.’
I could almost hear the wheels as the sales pitch was cranked up. ‘We don’t have anything on the ground yet, Ms More, but I can assure you that the authorities in Sevilla are co-operating with us fully. As of last month, we have all the necessary licences and permissions in place and we’ll be ready to begin the construction phase soon.’ She paused. ‘Of course, once that’s under way, the investment opportunities will either dry up or become much more expensive.’
‘I told you before; cost isn’t an issue, but timing might be. My partner and I have money we need to get invested soon, if you get my drift. The UK isn’t an option for us; your operation might be, but I need to see something more attractive than a pile of bullshit.’
My obvious hint at money-laundering didn’t faze her in the slightest. ‘Then come to Seville,’ she invited. ‘I’ll show you models, I’ll show you the ground where the complex will stand, and I’ll take you up to the mountains and show you where the ski-lodge will be. I’ll even take you to the town hall and introduce you to the people we’re working with there.’
‘Okay. Now you’re saying what I want to hear. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. Where’s your office?’
‘Let’s meet somewhere more interesting than that,’ she proposed. ‘Let’s say the San Fernando Bar, in the Hotel Alfonso Thirteen. Two thirty in the afternoon, yes?’
‘Fine.’
‘Dress light when you come. It’s very hot here at this time of year.’
‘I’m used to heat. I’ve lived in Vegas.’ I hung up on her, leaving her pondering, no doubt, about a Scotswoman with a Las Vegas background, a partner and a pot of money that needed investing in a hurry.
That left me with two things to do, before I was ready for my trip. The first was to find a hotel. That was easy: I logged on to a travel site, searched for hotels in Sevilla and found one called Las Casas de los Mercaderes, in Calle Alvarez Quintero itself, and so not far from the house where Lidia Bromberg’s land-line phone was located. I booked myself in for three nights, Monday through Wednesday, as Primavera Blackstone, not Jan. I had - still have - an unexpired MasterCard in that name, but the hotel would almost certainly have wanted to see some back-up ID.
My second task took me back to Google, where I entered the name ‘George Macela’. I came up with two footballers, nothing more.
Another faceless mystery man . . . but maybe not quite.
I called Cinq Pistes again, and was put through to Susannah. ‘When your guests check in do you ask for their passports?’
‘Of course.’
‘By any chance, do you photocopy them?’
‘No, but we scan them.’
‘Do you still have an image of George Macela’s passport?’
‘Sure. That’s where I checked the spelling of his name.’
‘In that case, would you be breaking any Swiss laws if you sent me a copy as an email attachment?’
‘Probably, but I’ll do it anyway, for Frank’s sake.’
I gave her my email address, and four minutes later it hit my in-box. I can’t read Lithuanian, but the numbers are the same. George Macela was forty-eight years old, and one metre seventy-four tall. The photo showed a man with an oval face, a sallow complexion and brown hair that was either greying, or so greasy that it had reflected the flash. I opened some software and edited Susannah’s scanned image, isolating the picture and blowing it up as much as it would take without losing clarity. When I was done I printed myself
‘Kids’ stuff, literally. Let me send you our prospectus. I’ll include a share application form because you’ll be hooked as soon as you see it.’
‘Let me tell you something, dear.’ I laid on the Scottish accent. ‘I’ve never bought anything off the page in my life, not so much as a pair of knickers. Your website’s full of nice pictures but, with respect, it tells me little more than bugger-all.’
I could almost hear the wheels as the sales pitch was cranked up. ‘We don’t have anything on the ground yet, Ms More, but I can assure you that the authorities in Sevilla are co-operating with us fully. As of last month, we have all the necessary licences and permissions in place and we’ll be ready to begin the construction phase soon.’ She paused. ‘Of course, once that’s under way, the investment opportunities will either dry up or become much more expensive.’
‘I told you before; cost isn’t an issue, but timing might be. My partner and I have money we need to get invested soon, if you get my drift. The UK isn’t an option for us; your operation might be, but I need to see something more attractive than a pile of bullshit.’
My obvious hint at money-laundering didn’t faze her in the slightest. ‘Then come to Seville,’ she invited. ‘I’ll show you models, I’ll show you the ground where the complex will stand, and I’ll take you up to the mountains and show you where the ski-lodge will be. I’ll even take you to the town hall and introduce you to the people we’re working with there.’
‘Okay. Now you’re saying what I want to hear. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. Where’s your office?’
‘Let’s meet somewhere more interesting than that,’ she proposed. ‘Let’s say the San Fernando Bar, in the Hotel Alfonso Thirteen. Two thirty in the afternoon, yes?’
‘Fine.’
‘Dress light when you come. It’s very hot here at this time of year.’
‘I’m used to heat. I’ve lived in Vegas.’ I hung up on her, leaving her pondering, no doubt, about a Scotswoman with a Las Vegas background, a partner and a pot of money that needed investing in a hurry.
That left me with two things to do, before I was ready for my trip. The first was to find a hotel. That was easy: I logged on to a travel site, searched for hotels in Sevilla and found one called Las Casas de los Mercaderes, in Calle Alvarez Quintero itself, and so not far from the house where Lidia Bromberg’s land-line phone was located. I booked myself in for three nights, Monday through Wednesday, as Primavera Blackstone, not Jan. I had - still have - an unexpired MasterCard in that name, but the hotel would almost certainly have wanted to see some back-up ID.
My second task took me back to Google, where I entered the name ‘George Macela’. I came up with two footballers, nothing more.
Another faceless mystery man . . . but maybe not quite.
I called Cinq Pistes again, and was put through to Susannah. ‘When your guests check in do you ask for their passports?’
‘Of course.’
‘By any chance, do you photocopy them?’
‘No, but we scan them.’
‘Do you still have an image of George Macela’s passport?’
‘Sure. That’s where I checked the spelling of his name.’
‘In that case, would you be breaking any Swiss laws if you sent me a copy as an email attachment?’
‘Probably, but I’ll do it anyway, for Frank’s sake.’
I gave her my email address, and four minutes later it hit my in-box. I can’t read Lithuanian, but the numbers are the same. George Macela was forty-eight years old, and one metre seventy-four tall. The photo showed a man with an oval face, a sallow complexion and brown hair that was either greying, or so greasy that it had reflected the flash. I opened some software and edited Susannah’s scanned image, isolating the picture and blowing it up as much as it would take without losing clarity. When I was done I printed myself
Similar Books
