The Eden Inheritance Read Online Free

ambition to hooking you. You’re a confirmed bachelor, aren’t you, Guy?’
    â€˜You could say that. I like my freedom, certainly.’
    â€˜And what are you doing now – workwise, that is?’
    â€˜Flying the mail five nights a week. And getting a bit fed up with it.’
    â€˜So why don’t you go after the job I’m jacking in – especially if you want to escape from Wendy’s clutches? It would suit you down to the ground. All the sunshine you could wish for, and the money wouldn’t bother you, would it?’ Bill was glancing enviously around the flat, noticing that whilst it was rather untidy and certainly not the height of luxury, Guy certainly managed to live in a style way above that which most freelance commercial pilots could afford. The where withal for that did not come entirely from flying the mail, he knew.
    â€˜I was thinking about going to the States, I have to admit. Or maybe Australia.’
    â€˜The Caribbean is better. St Lucia, St Vincent, Mustique, Union Island … need I go on? I was based on an island called Madrepora. The work is mainly island-hopping, a sort of glorified taxi service from one tiny little airstrip to another, and all surrounded by sea so blue you wouldn’t believe it. Sometimes you get to fly celebrities, too. They like their holiday homes in the sun, do the beautiful people.’
    Guy drained his glass and reached for the bottle to refuel it.
    â€˜I’m not interested in celebrities, Bill. They bore me. And right now, if you don’t mind, I think I’m ready for bed.’
    Bill, however, full of the bonhomie that came not only from Guy’s whisky but from all the others he had drunk earlier in the evening, was not ready to take the hint.
    â€˜There are some amazing characters out there, you know. Nobs and snobs and pop stars, all with their own little hideaways. And they’re not the only ones taking advantage of the seclusion, either. I reckon there’s a few international criminals living in luxury on their ill-gotten gains, and some still operating. It’s a haven for them.’
    â€˜Sure, but … another time, eh, Bill?’ Guy stood up. His back was aching and a dull throb of tiredness had started in his temples. He hoped he was not going to have a migraine.
    â€˜There was one I thought was particularly odd,’ Bill continued, unabashed. ‘A German geezer who owns Madrepora, I think. There’s nothing much there except his mansion and a hotel. I used to have to fly the guests in sometimes. They were all Germans too, and highly suspicious, if you ask me. Of a certain age, if you get my meaning.’
    â€˜No, I don’t,’ Guy was beginning to be irritated by Bill’s persistent garrulousness and regretting his own impulse to offer him a bed for the night. ‘What are you getting at?’
    Bill stretched comfortably.
    â€˜War criminals, my son. At least, that’s what I think. A lot of them escaped to South America, didn’t they, and I reckon that’s where these hotel guests come from. Even war criminals living in exile need a holiday sometimes and where better than a hotel on a remote island owned by one of their own? If some of them didn’t have a previous existence as high-ranking Nazis then I’m a Dutchman. They all have new identities now, of course, but they still like to keep a low profile. The last thing they want is to be recognised and brought back to face trial. The bastards.’
    â€˜Well, if the job includes playing chauffeur to a load of Nazis I certainly don’t want it,’ Guy said shortly. ‘I’m half French, remember? A lot of my countrymen – not to mention my own family – suffered too much at their hands for me ever to be able to forgive them.’
    â€˜Christ, yes. I had forgotten. Didn’t they kill your father?’
    â€˜They did. My father and my uncle were both shot for resisting.