The Sister(199)

‘I’m not sure.’ Her fingers twisted into knots.

‘Please, Stella,’ he said, not wanting to press her too hard. ‘I’ll be at the office in the morning. I could do with your help.’





Chapter 153



Early the next day, Miller let himself into his office. Although he’d seldom worked from there over the past year, the cleaner still came in once a week to keep the dust and cobwebs at bay. Paperwork in unsorted piles covered every available spare desk space. Jesus, this place, is a mess. Coffee, that’s what I’ll start with.

In the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, he wondered if Stella would show. Images of other secretaries came and went; he smiled at the memories.

The worktop rumbled as the water boiled; the button clicked off. About to pour the contents into his cup, the sound of the entry buzzer jarred him into almost scalding himself.

On the way to the door, he glanced at the CCTV monitor. His heart lifted. Stella had arrived.





In the weeks that followed, she re-established herself quickly, reminding Miller of why he’d once considered her his finest secretary. She glanced up and caught him looking at her.

‘What?’ she said, with a bemused smile.

‘You look happy, and I’m glad. Want tea?’

The telephone in his pocket vibrated urgently. ‘Excuse me,’ he withdrew it and answered as he advanced down the corridor to his office.

‘Carla, any news?’ He’d taken to ribbing her with newspaper-style clichés. ‘Anything to report?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have. While you’ve been playing nursemaid, I’ve found out something very interesting.’

What she’d just said managed to irritate and intrigue in equal measure. ‘Come on, Carla, that’s unfair—’

‘It’s the truth. You should be here in Amsterdam with me, but it’s okay,’ she sighed. ‘I do understand, but this is your job. Kale is paying you, not me,’ she said her voice dropping, ‘what if I went to him directly?’

Miller laughed, ‘If I don’t get paid, neither will you. So, what have you found?’

‘Carlos, that’s not his real name.’

He detected something other than pride in her tone. ‘That doesn’t surprise me much,’ he said, with an air of nonchalance. ‘What is it?’

‘Come over here and I’ll tell you.’ Click.

‘Carla, are you still there?’ She’s put the phone down on you.

Sunlight slanted across the window, finding its way into his office, the slab of light it cast onto the wall adjacent widened perceptibly as he watched it, warming the room as it grew. She’s right. You should be there. He’d get Stella to book him a flight for this afternoon.

‘Who’s Carla? I don’t think I’ve met her…’ Stella’s eyes gave little away, but her voice was too measured, unnatural. ‘And I haven’t seen any paperwork concerning her…’

‘I’ll explain. She’s working with me in an unofficial capacity. She’s a reporter, but no ordinary one…’

When he’d finished explaining, Stella said, ‘I’m not sure about this new direction you’re taking, it sounds dangerous.’

‘I’ll be back before you know it, and anyway,’ he held his mobile phone up and shook it. ‘If you need me just call.’





The hotel was a former canal house, arranged over three storeys. Inside, the décor was a sumptuous blend of modern and traditional furnishings, light streamed in through arch-top windows. This must be costing a packet. She’d booked him a room opposite hers. They met in the bar.

‘I’m impressed, Carla. You’re doing well to afford to stay in a place like this.’

Her eyes sparkled in the light. ‘It’s all on expenses, Miller. Remember?’

‘Jesus Christ, what on earth makes you think—?’

‘Shush, silly,’ she looked around furtively. ‘He’s staying here. On the top floor.’

Speaking in hushed tones, she brought him up to date. ‘…As far as I can establish his real name is Jubal Khan. His bodyguard Hasan got himself into trouble in Afghanistan; Khan did a deal with the Taliban. In exchange for killing a high ranking official, they would help get Hasan out.’

‘Jubal Khan… Sounds familiar to me, now where have I heard that name before?’ Two men of Middle Eastern appearance entered the bar. Miller flashed a warning with his eyes.

‘Not them,’ she whispered, grabbing her drink. ‘Let’s carry on this discussion in my room.’ She slid off her stool, winked and gestured with a tilt of her head. ‘Come on.’

Miller drained the rest of his glass and followed her.





Once in her room, the conversation continued; she seemed to have acquired a thirst for alcohol and raided the mini-bar with a regularity that astonished him.

‘As the story goes, he got himself into Kandahar prison just so that he could get Hasan out. His contacts blew a hole in the outer wall near the guardhouse, stormed in, machine-gunned the few guards that had survived the blast and set half the prisoners free, mainly to hide the fact that they'd orchestrated the whole thing just to get those two out.’