I preferred the version of Martha Rodby that I met the night of the opera. Now I could also understand why Rodby spent so much time at the office.
Yes, I had met her before when I was with Violetta and she was a much more amiable person then, but that was probably because of Violetta. She had that effect on people.
Maybe she was simply angry that Rodby’s work life had impinged on her private life, but that was one of the downsides of being involved with an intelligence agent.
It was a lesson I learned and why I gave it all up for Violetta. I wanted her more than I wanted that other life, that one I once thought was exciting. Perhaps this would be the excuse he needed to retire and have a peaceful rest of his life with her.
Or not.
Rodby was staying at the same hotel I was in, and by the time I arrived back there from Rome, Cecelia and the others were about a half hour away, and Rodby was there to greet his rather dishevelled wife in the lobby.
It was not a tearful reunion.
She had barely spoken on the entire four-hour drive, and any chance of Giulietta striking up a conversation was stopped dead by an icy glare in her direction.
As for myself, I was unimpressed by her attitude, and Rodby for that matter, though the circumstances were quite odd.
I waited an hour before I could no longer hold it in.
“Quite frankly,” I said, “I find it quite astonishing that you were able to hide the fact you had a stepsister from one of the top intelligence officers and research departments in the country. He had me investigated to the point he could tell me I was related to one of the seamen on James Cook’s Endeavour. But you, nothing. How is that possible?”
I gave her one of my icy stares just for good measure.
“He chose not to. I told him if he couldn’t trust me, then it would never work.”
Love trumps common sense. Yes, I could see how that would never be in his playbook.
“I live in a world of lies and deceit. Now your dirty little secret is out, welcome to my world. It’ll never be the same, you know that.”
She didn’t answer. Perhaps she was not used to the rabble talking to her in such a manner.
“Answer one question, did Heidi have a twin?”
She looked at me very strangely. “What?”
“I thought it was a pretty straightforward question.”
“No, she did not.”
“Was she incarcerated with you?”
“No. We were both snatched off the street and separated. I’ve been held by a bunch of thugs since.”
“Were they going to ransom you?”
“No one said anything until yesterday when I was handed a paper and shoved in front of a camera.”
“Did you see any of your captors?”
“No.”
“Would you recognise them later by other means?”
“Maybe.”
“Just one more question. Do you get together with Heidi often?”
“No. I hadn’t seen her for quite a few years, she called me saying she was in London for a few days, we went out, and that’s all I remember till I woke up in a dark room. That’s it.”
The look from Juliet in the back of the car was fascinating.
I had no doubt she was putting two and two together and coming up with anything other than four.
If there was no twin, then the woman who was pretending to be the countess was the countess pretending to be a twin. Convoluted and confusing? Yes. Make any sense, no.
Has she been masquerading as a pretend twin to Dicostini so that she could have an affair, or were they always having an affair, and she was going to … No, don’t go down the rabbit hole. None of it made any sense, and as Martha Rodby said. That’s it. Enough.
An hour after he had taken his wife up to the room and got her settled, Rodby came to see me.
“What the hell happened?”
It was not the polities of tones.
“Take the win.”
“I want to know what happened? One minute I’m getting information that tells me one thing, then next something else entirely.”
“Lies and deceit. It’s the world we live in.”
“Is that what you’re going to run with?”
“It’s all I know. You ask Mrs Rodby for the details. I’m sure she knows a lot more than all of us. Just the fact the Countess was her step-sister should be ample proof that no one is ever going to get to the bottom of this affair. So, like I said, take the win.”
Of course, I could see it in his face, the man who would make the world’s best poker player. Maybe once. He’s known all along about her secret. Had he been hoping it wouldn’t come out?
I shook my head. “Go away, Rodby. I’m done for good this time. I’m going back to Venice, and spending the rest of my days waiting for the canals to clear up.”
“With Juliet?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You ask her, her story before you do anything else.”
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.
I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.
Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.
Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.
The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.
I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.
The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.
I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.
Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?
Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.
There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.
The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.
As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.
There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.
With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.
A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.
He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.
Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.
I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.
The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.
“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”
Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”
“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”
He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.
Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.
“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”
“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”
“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”
I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.
“Name of guest, sir?”
“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.
She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”
Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”
Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”
An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.
“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”
Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”
Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”
I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.
“No.”
“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”
She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”
“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.
“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.
The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”
“No. You have more than you can know.”
“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”
“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”
Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.
I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
We flew north at low altitude, crossing the border into the Sudan, then ran along the border, heading back to the landing field we’d arrived on in Uganda.
It was basically a two-hour flight that in the end was eventless. After everything that had happened over the past 24 hours, it wasn’t hard to doze off, leaving Davies to get us back.
I was woken suddenly by a thump on my arm.
“Need your help landing this crate,” a squeaky voice in my ear said.
I could feel the plane losing altitude, and the engines not making the same noise as they had just before I’d dropped off to sleep. It seemed like it was only a few minutes ago we were taking off.
She leveled the plane at 1000 feet, and flew over the airfield, the landing lights on, and I could see the strip from start to end. It looked a lot longer than the one we’d taken off from.
Turning sharply, I could hear the landing gear being activated and saw green lights come on one the dashboard. Down and locked I assumed.
She then went through a series of landing checks and told me what she wanted me to do to assists, and then everything seemingly OK, we came in to land.
This landing was a lot bumpier than that in the C130 earlier, but she got us there, throttled back, and slowed the speed before heading for the terminal buildings.
Once there, she let the engines run for about a minute or so before switching them off.
Once the propellers stopped turning, the silence in the cockpit was strange. At the rear, the door was opened, and everyone was getting off, the Colonel first to make sure none of his men shot anyone by mistake, and then the rest of the team.
Davies and I were the last to leave. I got the impression she would have stayed, just a little longer, and it was telling that she patted the dashboard in what I would call a loving manner, thanking the aircraft for its service.
“I can see you like flying these old planes,” I said, still seated and taking in the moment.
“There’s something about them. You have to fly them, they don’t fly you, not like the F15’s or any of those other jets that have autopilots. No, this comes from the days of real flying.”
“You said your Dad has one?”
“Yep.”
“Then the art of flying is not lost on you. Perhaps one day when I get lost, somewhere where this plane lives, you can take me up.”
“Any time.”
She dragged herself out of the left seat and headed towards the rear of the plane. I took a moment longer, then followed her.
Maybe she could teach me how to fly.
Or maybe not.
I keep forgetting I hate flying in planes.
As I stepped off the plane onto terra firma again, I could see just inside the range of my peripheral vision, some activity by the terminal building.
Suddenly, a man was running towards us. He was also yelling out, words to the effect, ‘they’re coming’.
Who?
The Colonel looked up just as the man, almost hunched over out of breath, reached him.
“They’re coming. A helicopter, heading towards us.” Several more huge breaths, then, “An hour at best.” He looked at me. “You have to go.”
Then he handed the Colonel a sheet of paper, and he quickly scanned it.
Then he said, “Your friendly militia decided the ransom wasn’t enough and they’re coming to take them back.”
“How is that possible? Can they just cross borders like that?”
“This is Africa. Anything can happen. By the time their mission is done, it’ll be too late for us to scramble anything to attack them. You need to go.”
Davies had come back, assuming it had something to do with the plane, and after taking in what the Colonel had to say, said, “We need more fuel. Not much, but it’ll take time.”
The fuel truck had already come out and begun the refueling.
“Go tell the driver how much you need. You’ve probably got a half-hour, a little more before you take off and go before, they get here.”
She headed towards the fuel truck, muttering under her breath.
I yelled out to Monroe, “Round up everyone and get them back on the plane. Wheels up in half an hour.”
I could see her mouth the word why.
“Seems we’re about to get a visit from some very unfriendly people.”
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact that his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence are about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
I always had a sneaking suspicion that Benito the solicitor was playing both sides of the fence. He knew the countess was never going to see a Lira, or was it a Euro of the inheritance so he devised another plan.
He of all people would know the countess had a twin so what could be harder, knowing the countess’s movements to have her kidnapped and substitute her with her twin.
He would know of Dicostini’s desire to purchase the estate, so get it in the hands of the fake countess, sell it to Dicostini and make commissions on an exponential number of transactions. When the counties had no further ruse, kill the real one, leave the fake one in place, somewhere preferably a long way away, and relax in the expensive apartment with the expensive wife.
The trouble is foolproof plans are never foolproof when fools are involved. Dicostini was a bad-tempered impatient fool, the fake countess was an impatient and understudied fool who would fool no one who mattered, and fools of kidnappers managed to pick up an extra body.
At least there was a financial payoff waiting there to correct a wrong that shouldn’t have happened, but an opportunity to make a profit. Especially when the rest of the scam went west. This was going to be the only profit he would make, or so she thought.
Roma Termini, track 15, at the peak hour when there would be a lot of foot traffic in the corridor. I got there early with Giulietta, when he called with the details, I told him her attendance was non-negotiable because I had to make sure no one stole the money. I knew it wouldn’t be a deal breaker because just as I arrived, Anthony sent me a balance sheet of Benito’s financial affairs and he was awash with debt.
A young beautiful wife was very, very expensive. Giulietta said she would never be that expensive, but I was not sure why. I said she was not young and beautiful, and she hit me, quite hard. I probably deserved that.
But it was the cue for Benito to make himself known, saying that he was acting as an agent for the real kidnappers because they knew he was the countess’s solicitor and there would be consequences if he didn’t.
There were going to be consequences one way or another.
My first question. “Where is Mrs Rodby so I can verify she is alive and well.”
He was smart. He had a cell phone and a link to a camera where she was sitting on a chair in a cell holding a piece of paper that had today’s date on it. It was like a scene from a bad movie.
“And where is this cell?”
“Nearby. I get the money and get away, and you get the address.”
“No. It doesn’t work like that. I said I needed to see her in person. You take me there, open the door, I give you the money, and then you can leave.”
There were a dozen scenarios I’m sure he worked out that I would try, all of which demanded two-way trust. He was a liar, and having dealt with lowlifes, I’m sure he knew all the dirty tricks in the book. I didn’t bother countering the next scenario he was offering, the same as the last, just with fancier window dressing. I went for the jugular. Giulietta dialled the number for his apartment, and Cecelia answered.
I asked him to look at my feed. It was better than his. It was his wife’s meltdown over the fact that she had a silenced gun to her head, and also one of his children. Both were terrified.
“Pick one.”
“What do you mean?” He was starting to get the idea. This exchange was not going to work.
“Pick the first one to die when I count to ten, and you haven’t accepted my counteroffer.”
“You haven’t told me your counteroffer.”
“True. We had to get the threats out of the way first. How about you take me to the cell, open the door, take a reasonable payout, I’ll release your family, and you can go away and talk about your failings as a husband and a father.”
He looked at the screen, at me, and then I started counting down to one. He caved at four.
Benito got a hundred thousand Euros for his trouble.
Cecelia told me she didn’t like the idea of threatening his wife and children unless they were thoroughly bad, which Mrs Benito and the children were not.
Giulietta said that if this was the depths I sank to, she didn’t think I was worth knowing, an assessment of hers I could agree with, mainly because of the distress it caused Benito.
It didn’t matter to her that he was party to a kidnapping and, by proxy, to a murder. I hadn’t read about a suspicious death at the Dicostini house, so I wondered if Benito had it sent under the carpet.
Mrs Rodby was argumentative and belligerent when we rescued her. In her mind, it was one lot of thugs replacing the other thugs until I got Rodby on the phone, and he spoke to her. I was not surprised to discover he was almost in Sorrento.
It didn’t help her demeanour or attitude, so I told her she could find her own way home and left her with a burner phone with Rodby’s number outside the building where she had been locked up for weeks. It was five minutes before my phone rang, and she apologised.
It’s quite remarkable to discover that your children are not unique.
For years, I thought that we had spawned monsters that had quite likely come from another planet because the other children in the family seemed so different.
I didn’t realise that the parents had issued death threats if they so much as looked sideways while out.
It was where I suddenly realised that parents of children, if taken at their word, could be mass murderers, or at the very best, the worst kind of bullies.
The threats of violence that they used, in any other circumstances, would elicit a rather lengthy jail sentence.
I was guilty of it myself, and such threats had come to roll off the tongue so easily that you didn’t really know you were doing it.
If you don’t do this, I’ll kill you. There’s no thought to the significance of this statement or the consequences if you were to actually do it.
No wonder the children just look at you like you’re deranged.
Of course, there are fewer murderous ways of dealing with the problem, but the sad fact is they have probably driven you into a blind rage and just past into that zone where you really have no idea what you’re saying.
Been there too.
But the revelation that all the other parents are the same, that you see them threatening their children with death or worse.
Then, after they’ve grown up and moved on as all children do, they return on odd occasions for Sunday lunch, and there you begin to learn the stuff they did when they were younger that you never knew about
It seems a rite of passage for all children, and it’s odd to hear others discussing it, especially when you hear someone else referring to their children the same way you do.
Did they come from the same planet, too?
That’s when a friend told me the truth of the matter. All children are the same; they just live in different houses.
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and the question of who a friend is and who is a foe is made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
I spent another hour trading stories of Army life, none of mine bearing any resemblance to the truth before the party started.
I said to him, several times, that in my estimation, a part would start at a particular time. He seemed intrigued by how that could be possible when all my men were locked up and guarded.
The captain, it seemed, was a man of limited intellect.
Or just plain overconfident that he had quelled the incursion and attempted to take the prisoner’s home.
I was under house arrest, just not in the house with the rest of the men. The captain decided, being the ranking officer of our group, that I should be accorded facilities befitting my rank. It didn’t change my opinion of the captain, but it did raise the respect level slightly.
As an officer and a gentleman, as he described himself, he was also a student of Army procedures and practices, not only of his own army but that of others. I admired his hobby outside of working hours.
We were just discussing aspects of the First World War, and the part Africa played in it when both of us suddenly heard gunshots. So did the guard picked up his gun and carefully went out the front door.
The captain pulled his pistol from out of the top drawer and made sure the magazine had bullets in it. Just in case he needed to use it. All the men, suddenly increased to six, armed and dangerous, in that room had a gun, like the captain. They were commanded by another soldier dressed in fatigues, perhaps a Colonel or higher.
I’d notice some African countries had a higher proportion of Generals, to say Lieutenants, and deduced from that, field promotions were a regular thing. That was not my experience here. So far.
I heard another gunshot, this time closer to the hut. Was it my people, mounting their attack? Or was it the Commander, back to retake what was his?
There would be no love lost between the captain and the commander, and if was a betting man, in a fight, my money would be on the commander.
The sounds of gunfire continued for about ten minutes, then it became sporadic, then none. There were footsteps on the boards at the front of the hut, and then a cautious entry, gun barrel first, “if you have a gun pointed at the door, I suggest you put it down.” Monroe.
Having caught the captain’s attention from the front, the Colonel came in the rear and had his gun barrel pointing to the small of the captain’s back. “Drop it now.”
The captain did as he was told.
“You had more men on the perimeter?” he said with a sigh.
“Yes. I thought it prudent to have more than one sniper, a fact that the Militia commander hadn’t given a thought to.” I looked over at Monroe. “Have we secured the airfield?”
“Yes. 10 surviving soldiers, some of them in a bad way, are in the second barracks. They won’t be mounting a counterattack.”
I heard an engine; a large plane engine being started.
“That will be Davies playing with her new toy. Someone is on the runway lights; the rest are heading for the plane. Where are the hostages?” She glared at the captain.
He shrugged.
Shurl burst in the door. “Out, back through that door,” I said. “Be careful there isn’t a guard waiting for you.”
Monroe looked at me. “Can I shoot the insubordinate bastard?”
A look of surprise, not terror, crossed the captain’s face.
“Just take him back to the cells and lock him up.”
Shurl came out with the two hostages, just as the second plane engine fired. Monroe took the captain back to the cells and returned a minute or so later. Shurl had taken the hostages to the plane. Baines would be waiting to switch on the lights at the last minute, and hopefully, the rest were on board.
They would be waiting for Monroe and me.
Both engines were running smoothly, and Davies was testing the rudder and flaps. Suddenly the runway lights came on, and Baines came running towards the plane. Monroe and I jumped aboard, and then Baines followed, pulling the door shut behind him.
I heard the engine noise increase, and then we were moving.
I headed up to the cockpit and joined Davies. She was now in her element, her face a picture of concentration. We were slowly moving to the end of the runway, and I could see her working her way through the preflight checklist.
I tried to speak to her, but she couldn’t hear. She had headphones on. There was a pair near the co-pilot’s seat. I sat down and put them on.
“Everything OK?”
“Nearly. Be quiet for a minute.”
We were at the end of the strip and she turned the plane. She would have checked the wind, not that I’d felt any, and adjusted the take-off direction accordingly.
Then, after what looked like a deep breath and slow exhale, she pushed the engine controls to maximum, and we started moving, slowly gathering speed. The runway surface wasn’t exactly flat, but it was enough not to impede forward motion. Not long after the rear of the plane rose, and then in what seemed effortless, we were in the air.
Odd then, when we passed through 2,000 feet, I wondered who this plane belonged to.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 