OUR story reaches its dramatic conclusion early in the morning at a quiet beach on the Spanish coast. Hollywood Producer Jack Levy arrives expecting to be reunited with his diamond ring.
Jack Levy stepped out of the police car and pulled a face. “This? This is the place?”
Lagos lay in a nondescript bay between Malaga and Nerja. The morning air was warm but the sea was rough. It rolled in diagonally, grouchy, as though it hadn´t slept well.
Dan Sánchez tried to look positive. “He´ll be here. Let´s get your wife´s ring and get this whole thing finished up.”
The bar was locked so they clambered over a wall near a children´s playground and dodged a smelly, grinning tramp who walked past and bade them good morning.
The tide was high and the uneven beach played hell with Levy´s bad knees. He cursed loudly, moreso when Sánchez led him up the narrow, stone steps to an empty terrace bar.
As Levy screamed in frustration, Sánchez spotted a note flapping on one of the tables, weighed down by an empty beer bottle.
Your real enemies are not aliens, terrorists or armies, Mr Levy, the note read. Your real enemy is Monsieur Olivier Bouche of Aix-en-Provence. The ring is false. The love of your wife is real.
Half an hour earlier Costa had finished his beer and the note and stretched in the blustery wind. His limbs were bruised, one eye half-closed, cheek purple.
Walking down the steps he´d shouted in surprise, pointing into wet sand where the waves were retreating, calling out to the sad old Scot. “Look! Look what I´ve found.”
Leaving the tramp staring at the ring like it was his wife herself, Costa del Sol gunned his launch and set off across the rough, rolling waves.
Mr Rabinovich would be waking up now, bound and gagged.
Costa would make him tell him where that woman was if it was the last thing he´d ever do.