Aston grinned crookedly. “And yet you found me out here in the middle of the bloody sea.”
The man nodded. “My name’s Greg. I represent a businessman by the name of Ellis Holloway. Have you heard of him?”
Aston frowned, trying to recall why the name was familiar. “Holloway? Oh, he’s that lunatic who mounted the failed Sasquatch hunt last year. Made all the papers for a little while.”
Greg shook his head. “The papers made him out to be a bit of a nut job, but he’s actually a smart guy, Mister Aston. And a very wealthy one, too. He’s a successful entrepreneur who built his own multi-billion dollar fortune from scratch.”
Aston had no interest in the guy’s life story. “If you say so. What does that have to do with me?”
“Mister Holloway is putting together a team of experts for a new venture and he really wants your help. Your reputation is global, you know.”
Aston grimaced. “Not always for the best reasons.”
“Maybe so. But Mister Holloway wants to buy your expertise for a while and he’s willing to pay you well for your efforts.”
“I don’t know, man…”
Greg held up an envelope. “In here are some details and a letter from Mister Holloway himself. The letter, in part, promises you a base payment of twenty five grand, US, for your services, payable upon completion of stage one of the enterprise. And that’s only the beginning. Plus all expenses paid from day one, of course.”
“Of course.” Aston looked down into the water, and watched the large shadow of the tiger shark cruise by again, down near the sand. He imagined scouring the seabed for coins, keeping one eye out for that predator. He looked up, eyes narrowed. “Twenty five grand, eh?”
Greg smiled, probably knowing that if he hadn’t yet hooked his prey, he at least had Aston nibbling at the bait. “First payment. More to come.”
Aston moved to the gunwale, leaned over, and held out a hand. “Let me have a look at that letter.”
Chapter 3
Aston moored up and strolled slowly along the pier toward the Pacific View Restaurant & Bar. The late afternoon sun cast the rustic venue in a deep, golden glow, lending it an undeserved dignity. It wasn’t a bad little place at all; it just wasn’t for the sorts of fellow who walked around with a wad of cash in his pocket and a stick up his arse. Right now, neither applied to Aston. The cool, salty breezed ruffled his hair, but was no balm to his ire.
He needed a cold beer and time to think. He’d told Holloway’s messengers to leave him alone, refusing to be pressured into anything. They’d pressed a business card featuring nothing but a cell phone number into his hand, assured him they knew they’d be hearing from him shortly, and motored away. Their confidence irritated him. He hated to do anything people told him, or expected him, to do. That was always his way and had often worked to his detriment, but considering his current predicament, perhaps a change of course was in order. He was a grown up and could take his time making a decision. He’d read the letter once on his boat and wanted time for its contents to sink in.
“G’day, Sam. Usual?” Kylie, the bartender, greeted him with a warm smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She was all tanned skin, long blonde hair and never wore more than shorts and a bikini top. How Aston loved Far North Queensland. She was smart and funny too, and they’d fooled around a few times when he was in town.
He flicked a grin her way and nodded. “You busy tonight?”
She put a glass of Cooper’s Pale Ale on the sticky wooden bar, cool beads of condensation already forming on its smooth surface. “You know how it is,” she said, flipping her wrist in a loose gesture.
“What time are you finishing?” Aston hooded his eyes a little, confident in his skills as a player, especially with a girl who already liked him.
Kylie laughed and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. “Why don’t you stick around and have a few beers and see what happens? Who knows what time we’ll close. Midweek, so it’s not likely to be late.”
He lifted his glass and toasted her. “I just might have to do that.”
She winked and turned to serve an elderly couple, obviously tourists, who had wandered up. He spared a moment to admire her in profile before turning his attention to his ale, taking a long, slow drink of the rich, frothy brew, letting it slake his thirst and praying it would calm his nerves. “It’s going to take more than one of these,” he muttered.
He turned and strolled across the shiny floorboards, past crude tables consisting of plywood circles nailed to the top of old wooden kegs. Fishing nets with plastic crabs and fish entangled in their strands draped the walls in sagging arcs like holiday bunting. Stiff-looking stuffed gulls perched here and there on wooden pommels, some sticking out at absurd angles from the ceiling support columns. A jukebox in the corner crooned the Whitlams’ distant hit single, ‘No Aphrodisiac’. Aston hated the maudlin whine of it, yet it seemed to persist through the years. Some songs were musical herpes; every time you thought they’d finally gone away, they flared up again.
He found a table under a lazily turning fan, hopeful for at least some relief from the close humidity. One day this place would get air-conditioning. Then again, they’d only had a sealed parking lot for the last year, so he didn’t expect much any time soon. The further north you went, the deeper into the past you traveled.
He took out the letter again and scanned through the salient points: Discovery of a prehistoric lake creature in Finland. Holloway sinking millions into tracking it down, all kinds of solid leads. A TV crew on standby to make sure everything got recorded for the world to see. Guaranteed fortune for all involved.
He grimaced, shook his head, and took another drink. He sorely needed the money, but it all sounded too ridiculous to be possible.
But there was that twenty five grand down payment and a trip to Scandinavia regardless of whatever else happened. Aston tried to think of other ways he could settle his immoral debts with Chang and, while there were plenty of options, none were as clean cut as this. Aston was a man with many fingers in many pies. The sovereigns had been a gift, but they weren’t his only out; he had several other interests underway in Australia. Could he really afford to abandon everything for the sake of one wild goose chase, even with a good down payment? Would he become a laughing stock in his chosen profession just for entertaining a loony like Holloway? Plus he was booked for an expedition with the CSIRO in three weeks’ time. That was government-funded, proper scientific research on Orca in the seas off South Australia. It was a golden opportunity, even if it didn’t pay brilliantly. No, he certainly couldn’t give that up. And with all the other bits and pieces going on in his life, some of which he could follow up right away, he would be happy to tell Holloway to find another sucker.
That only meant he had to evade Chang’s heavies for another few weeks while he collected on those alternative sources of income. He just needed a little more time. It would all contribute to keeping his life interesting, which suited Aston; he was a man who bored easily.
He screwed the letter up and jammed it into his satchel, drained the last of his ale, and stood to go see Kylie for another when a voice said, “Mister Samuel Aston.”
The Chinese accent made his blood run cold. He turned slowly to see three men standing right inside the door. Tension ratcheted up as silence descended. The handful of patrons — locals and tourists alike — all turned to watch. The old couple at the bar hurried away to the safety of the bistro out the back.
“Can I help you guys?” Aston said, trying for bravado that sounded anything but.
The man in the middle of the three, a tall, lean fellow with his head shaved almost bald, took a step forward. “Mister Chang is not very happy. We’ve come a long way to find you.”