THE FARM!

Chapter 8

The Imperial Hotel lay just across the narrow promontory and a little over a mile from the location of The Farm. To all intents and purposes, and allowing for a variant layout, it was a very similar hotel in terms of class and style and both had been built to attract the summer tourist trade.
The marble clad atrium was quiet at this time of the morning, with most of the guests enjoying a bountiful breakfast in the luxurious surroundings of the main dining hall.
A waiter glided across the vast open space to the small, comfortable seating area overlooking the front gardens and main entrance. He carried a tray containing a coffee pot and a basket of freshly baked rolls, croissants and pastries.
A man of around sixty, dressed rather shabbily in a beige suit that had seen better days, looked up as the waiter approached and moved his laptop out of the way. The waiter set down the breakfast tray, nodding to the man's muttered thanks, before gliding off again.
Closing his laptop, the man in the beige suit paid full attention to his breakfast. Within minutes, however, his peace and calm were savagely interrupted by a furore coming from the reception desk.
It would appear that a figure covered in blood and speaking in a drawl, was kicking up a stink and demanding to speak to the Manager. On being told that the Manager was not available he started rattling on about somebody trying to kill him.
The smarmy receptionist, dressed impeccably in black, remained unflappable and was quietly explaining to the man that if he had been attacked then he should call the local police.
The man in beige looked up, doing his best to listen to whatever was being said. Loud though the conversation was, the speech of the man was garbled and difficult to pick out from the reverberating echo of the atrium.
"You – don't – seem – to – un – der – stand," the man was emphasizing, syllable by syllable, as if by this means he could somehow make the receptionist comprehend. "There is somebody out there trying to kill me. I'm a British citizen and need to contact the authorities in the UK... either the British police or the Embassy... "
"I'm sorry sir, but we are not authorized to dial international calls for nonresidents and I repeat what I say. You must report the incident to the local police. Now I'm afraid I must ask you to leave or we shall have you escorted from the premises." Then noticing the man in beige looking up at them, added. "You see – you are upsetting our guests."
The man in beige then suddenly stood up and on approaching the desk, extended his hand to the dishevelled man, exclaiming, "George... how the devil are you? I must say I've seen you looking better. What on Earth have you been up to?"
"Excuse me Mr. Fitzwilliam, but do you know this gentleman?" The receptionist said looking rather bemused.
The dishevelled man stood rigid – lost for words. With his mouth slightly open he looked at Fitzwilliam with an expression of utter confusion as he ransacked his memory banks, trying to work out if he should recognize this stranger in the beige suit.
"Know him, good God, he's like a brother to me..." Fitzwilliam continued with some enthusiasm. "I'll stand by him. Anything he wants just put it on my tab. Now George come and sit down here and let me buy you a drink, you can tell me all about it – whatever it is you've been up to." After which he put his arm around him, pulling him towards the sofa, leaving the receptionist baffled but relieved.
"I'm sorry – but do I know you?" The dishevelled man whispered, looking very uncertain."
"Don't you worry about that old chap – you know what they say. Strangers are but friends you haven't yet met. Now what is this all about. What exactly has happened to unnerve you so, and what on earth have you done to that leg?" He gazed with horror at the dried blood and ripped trouser leg.
The man recovered his wits enough to request a whisky. Just to calm his nerves.
"Of course," The stranger replied signalling to a passing waiter.
A few minutes later a bottle of Jack Daniels arrived with two glasses; large measures being poured into both.
"A little early in the day for me, but hey, looks like you need it and if there's one thing I hate, it's to see a man drink alone. Allow me to introduce myself. Fitz Fitzwilliam at your service – freelance investigative journalist. Please call me Fitz. And you?"
Gus introduced himself but was cagey about telling his story before knowing a little more about this man who called himself Fitz.
"Well the thing is..." Fitz continued. "I only flew in a few days ago. There have been some very odd stories coming out from this locality from my bloke in the field. Only I haven't been able to find out very much as yet. It seems there's a bit of a clam-up by the locals and when I tell you what the reports are, you'll see why."
Gus looked intent, now paying full attention.
"Okay..." Fitz went on. "I'll tell you what I know if you tell me what happened to you, and don't worry, I can get in touch with any authorities in the UK on your behalf; so you don't need to worry on that score."
Gus nodded his assent.
"It all started about a week ago." Fitz continued. "When my local contact pointed me in the direction of some obscure local rags that started printing some very low key, but nonetheless, curious stories."
"What, sort of stories?"
"Well, as you know, this resort's popular with the tourists. They fly them in – Brits' and Russians' mainly – bit of a break from reality you see. A chance to pick up a suntan and put on a few pounds. All inclusive see – eat 'till you puke. As much as you can stuff down your throats all included in the price. Obscene really, when you think about it."
Gus nodded.
"It appeared that there were a handful of pop-up hotels' appearing here and there along the coast. These hotels had been shut-down during the recession of last year then suddenly re-opened towards the end of this season, filled with tourists; then closed down within a few months."
Gus sat rigid, observing Fitz closely.
"The thing is, I didn't pay too much attention at first. It's a volatile economy and Hotels spring up from time to time in these tourist areas, usually on a lease basis, then close down. But, the odd thing was, there was no sign of the guests afterwards."
"What do you mean exactly?" Gus queried.
"That's just it, see. According to my contact, tourists were flying in, but not home again. Then there were stories of night-time convoys of trucks moving from the coast up into the interior. Then the stories vanished overnight – nothing more. And suddenly my contact was uncontactable."
Gus took a very long draft of his Jack Daniels.
"So when it was clear that the story had been killed off, I decided to hop on a plane and have a sniff around."
"And what did you dig up?"
"Absolutely nothing so far, and my local contact of fifteen years – vanished from the face of the earth. Even his wife doesn't know where he is. Just didn't come home one night. Baffling, don't you think? And the really strange thing is that when I approached the 'local rags' in the various flea-bitten rat holes where they print this shit, nobody knew a damned thing. And to top that, there are apparently no back copies available for that date. For any of the publications in fact. So you see, the clam-up by the locals tells me that there is definitely something afoot. Don't you agree?"
"So what do you make of it all?" Gus asked pouring himself another stiff slug of whisky.
"Well, it's crystal clear my friend. A local retrenchment. A cover up. Any adverse publicity would kill off the already enfeebled tourist industry and the very silence proves there is something they are trying to bury – but what? Also, at this stage, we can't really determine how widespread this is. Maybe it's just some poor overworked sucker desperate for a scoop picking up on some uncorroborated hear-say. We have, after all, no detailed information on the numbers involved on any confirmed eyewitnesses of these so called, convoys."
Fifteen minutes later, with the bottle three quarters empty Gus had told his whole story to date. Fitz sat ashen-faced and visibly shaken, with few doubts remaining as to the likely scale or seriousness of the situation.
"Holy shit! Fitz exclaimed. If this is as we suspect, it will be a biggie. It shouldn't be too difficult to verify if we can get the information from the airlines back home. But that won't be easy. We haven't got much to go on at the moment but just maybe, it's enough.
Fitz sat and thought things through, calculating how best to deliver a scoop before any of this leaked out. He reckoned he had enough to get a front page in tomorrow's papers back home. It would then almost certainly develop into something much bigger; trigger a full investigation – but he would have broken the story – and that's what he cared about more than anything in the world.
He eyed Gus and suddenly saw him, not as a fellow countryman in trouble, but as a means to an end. Firstly as a means of providing corroboration when he needed it. Secondly, and more worryingly, as a potential leak to the UK before he had considered the evidence and filed his story. He had to keep Gus quiet and out of the way, just long enough to get the story out.
"Have another drink Gus, it sounds like you've earned it," Fitz said pouring another very large slug into his glass. "You just rest and I'll take care of everything. I have all the contacts back in Blighty. Police – Embassy – the whole malarchy. I'm going to get you a room and some medical attention for that leg. You just recover yourself and leave all the rest to me."
Gus ordinarily might have objected to this, but as it was, he was already sleeping like a baby on the sumptuously comfortable sofa. Fitz smiled and a close observer might have detected a slight gleam in his eye. This could just turn out to be the big scoop that he had been waiting for.
"Come along old chap," he said, more to himself than to the semi-conscious Gus. "You just lean on me and I'll take you to your room where you can have a good long sleep."