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.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is a foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look, sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.
I had to wonder if Lallo had already called the number on the phone he had handed Jacobi, and then considered, if that was the case, there would be no need for Jacobi to call anyone. Or Lallo had got an answer, just not the answer he was expecting.
Jacobi looked at the phone, and I got the impression he was weighing his options. The first was how long Lallo would hold him in custody. That I think we could both assume to be forever if necessary. There was, no doubt, a cell at a black site with his name on it already. The second, if he did call his contact, would that contact cooperate, though it was hard to say what it was that Lallo was expecting Jacobi’s cooperation for.
But there was no doubt Lallo had a plan.
Jacobi took a moment to consider any further options I hadn’t thought of, and then made the call. We were only going to get one side of the call.
A raised eyebrow indicated Jacobi had an answer on the other end.
“It’s me.”
Why did everyone say it’s me when asked to identify themselves, or, as in this case, announce themselves?
“No. An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a gross breach of our agreement. I am supposed to have autonomy of operations at home. These bumbling idiots may have blown my cover.”
Somehow, the fact that he was sitting in a small room told me his cover was more than likely a myth. If this was our supposed point man in the failed operation I’d been on, then I could see why it cost a lot of good men their lives.
He had been playing both sides of the fence and sold us out.
“You would have to ask them.”
A moment later, he handed the phone to Lallo. “Prepare to die,” was all Jacobi said.
It didn’t move Lallo in the slightest,
He took the phone and asked, “Whom am I speaking to?”
The expression change told me that it was most likely none of his business.
“This man is responsible for the deaths of a good many men.” A minute’s silence, then, “I doubt that would be the case, considering the number of phones and their credentials. He had been playing you, and perhaps many others.”
The silence was a lot longer, but the expressions changing by the minute told me that Lallo was not going to get what he wanted.
“No, that is not going to happen, not in the circumstances you describe. I will be sending him back, yes, but for another mission. I think it’s time you realised he’s been feeding you false intel for some time.” Silence again, then, “By the time you do, he will no longer be here, there. I’m sorry.”
He disconnected the call and put the phone back in the plastic evidence bag.
Then he sat and gave Jacobi a long, hard stare.
No effect.
“What is happening?” Jacobi finally asked.
“You’re going home.”
“Good. I expect once I get back there, you will leave me alone.”
“On the contrary, Mr Jacobi, you will not be going back alone. In fact, I’m sending you back with my team, and we are going to extract the same people you were supposed to help us extract the last time.”
“I had nothing to do with that. It was simply your incompetence.”
“Be that as it may, you will do as I ask.”
“You are a fool. Why would I do anything for you, and especially since they are both probably dead now, or, if not, past the point of saving?”
“You will then want to hope that isn’t the case, simply because if they are, then three members of your family will be executed. You can say goodbye to them before you leave, or tell them you will see them again; it’s your choice.”
Lallo, it seems, was no fool and had ensured he had the necessary leverage. There was no mistaking the shock on Jacobi’s face.
“You lie.”
Lallo got up from his seat and knocked on the door. It opened, and two men brought in a large screen connected to a computer on a trolley. They moved it to the vacant wall and left. Lallo pressed several keys, and a picture came up on the screen. A woman and two small children, and judging from the expression on Jacobi’s face, exactly who he was hoping he would not see.
There were two hooded soldiers on either side with guns loosely pointing in their direction.
“One word from me, and they will be shot. Considering the treachery you have perpetrated, it’s taking a great deal of restraint for me not to give the order to kill them.”
He took a few seconds to regain his composure. “This serves no purpose,” Jacobi said in a rising pitch, “your people are most likely dead. It has been a long time.”
“I don’t think so. We have word from a different source, a more reliable source, that they are still alive. Barely, but alive, serving a life sentence for treason. And helping the General with information. All you need to do is get a small team of mine in and assist them to effect an escape. They come home alive and, well, your family lives. They don’t come back alive, well, I don’t think that’s an option, is it?”
Jacobi was in an invidious position of being damned if he did help us, or damned if he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t guarantee his co-operation or assistance. Painted into a corner, sometimes people like Jacobi chose the easy road, sacrificing everything to stay alive. No doubt, until this predicament, he was well in favour with Bahti, and from what I’d heard, Bahti was not a man to cross. There was a graveyard in the prison that was full of the remains of his enemies. And people who were once his friends.
I knew firsthand what it was like to be between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and unfortunately, there was no upside. No doubt the team leader of this new folly would have orders to shoot Jacobi once his work was done. Lallo would not be able to leave a man in his position alive because of what he knew.
And from my perspective, I felt sorry for the team Lallo had selected to go on what could quite possibly be another suicide mission.
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.”
I called Juliet, then had Cecelia run interference while I left the hotel. No point in having unwanted guests when I was talking to her.
We met at a café not far from the small hotel where the three women were staying. I was reminded when I saw her approaching on foot that she was still as attractive as she had been before her troubles, and there could have been something between us if the circumstances were different.
There was no furtiveness about her movements as if she didn’t have a care in the world. And that, for a woman who had already had one attempt on her life, was odd. To me, at least.
I waited until she had seen me before I ordered coffee and cake.
When she sat, I waited until she was comfortable, then, with just a small hint of annoyance in my tone, said, “For a person whose life might be in danger, you don’t seem to care.”
“Not if they don’t know where we are.”
“Do you believe that? The place where the inheritance documents are going to be signed is a fact everyone seems to know. I was followed here, as far as Pompei, but they will know exactly when I was going. In fact, I was just speaking with another person who was following me, and I brought her with me. She was very interested to know you were in Sorrento.”
The look of smugness disappeared. “Are you mad?”
“Then why should I worry when you said you were here to protect me?”
“That was before I knew what I know now. Have you got anything to tell me that would be useful to know before the shooting starts?”
There was now fear in place of smugness. If she didn’t think she was a real target, now she did. But the question had to be, was she really the daughter of the Count, or someone else? A photo of her in the gardens of the Count’s residence meant very little. The fact that the count had told people he had an illegitimate daughter didn’t mean Juliet was that daughter.
People kept telling me she was, but were they trying too hard to push what could be a lie? It bothered me that I hadn’t spent enough time to find the truth myself.
The coffee and cake arrived.
So had a suspicious man who had so far made three circuits of the block, walking a dog. If he was surveillance, he was going the extra mile to make himself fit into the landscape. There were three others walking dogs.
“What could I tell you?”
“Tell me about your mother, Vittoria?”
“I have vague memories of her when I was little, then a few more when I was a teenager, and we went to Italy. Like any young girl, I was in awe of the surroundings. Having not seen her for a long time, I was surprised when she turned up on my doorstep. There was no mention of a fortune in the beginning, and I was happy to see her.”
‘Now you’re not so sure?”
“You’re here, and when you arrive, trouble follows. Very bad trouble.”
“I didn’t ask Larry to involve you in any business between him and me. That was on Larry, and not that he’s paid the ultimate price. I didn’t kill him, by the way, someone else did that. That’s why I ask. If Vittoria is another of those strange business partners of yours that had some hold over you, best to tell me now, and I’ll deal with it.”
“Do you think you have a legitimate claim on the Count’s estate?”
“Based on the birth certificate, and what I’m told, yes.”
“Birth certificates can be forged, and people tell lies to further their own ends. Has your so-called mother asked you to negotiate a deal in which you will forsake any claim on the estate for a princely sum, say a million euros?”
She didn’t have to. Rule number one in an inheritance scam. Make it real enough so the real heirs can see competition, and then make a demand that’s not too outrageous that they will settle. And quickly, before they have time to scrutinise the proof.
A what-if had just come into my head. Do a deal with the fake Countess, verify her identity, renege on any rights to the estate, and, in turn, when the fake Countess gets the inheritance, get the payout promised. Win-win-win. Who better to verify the countess’s identity than her biggest rival?
“If only that were true, Evan. I’d be rich for the first time in my life. But we both know that will never happen. For the record, I’m not interested in the inheritance. That’s my mother’s issue. She says she was treated badly, but she got a lot of money from the count for my upkeep. I don’t want to be in the middle of this, but what choice do I have?”
I shrugged. She had choices, but kept making bad ones.
“Well, just keep a low profile until I come and get the three of you, and we go to the signing. You might want to tell the countess that three separate parties are looking for her.”
“Are you not coming to protect us in person. Or your friend?”
“No. I don’t want to be killed in the crossfire. Stay where you are. We are the only five who know exactly where you are. Don’t tell anyone, and you’ll be safe.”
And if she knew the countess staying with them wasn’t the real countess, she did a very good job of hiding it.
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.
“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?
What happens when your past finally catches up with you?
…
Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.
Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.
This time, however, there is more at stake.
Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.
With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.
But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved, there are going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.
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.
…
I was escorted to a small room that adjoined the interview room, and I was separated from the main event by a one-way mirror.
It was a cliché, but not surprising.
The interrogation room was much the same as an office, with a table, two chairs, and on the side, a cabinet, closed up, an interesting addition to what might be called a boring room.
It was currently empty, and I was the only one in this small room, sitting at a counter, looking in. In front of me was a stack of writing pads, pens and pencils. I wondered if I was the only party that was about to observe Lallo and the new arrival.
Five minutes passed before the door to the room next door opened and a hooded man was led in. His hands were cuffed, and his legs had chains, standard prisoner gear.
From the man’s manner and body language, it appeared to me as though he was surprised he was being treated so badly, and was not forcefully resistant, but wasn’t making it easy for his captors.
He was asked to sit, and when he didn’t he was forced to sit, with some force, and then his hands were locked onto the metal bar at the table. His legs were locked to a lower bar. A precaution in case he decided to attack his interrogator.
One thing I knew for sure, this man would not give up information willingly.
Once he was secured, one guard took up station inside the door, and the other left. That’s when Lallo made his appearance. He came in, put a file on the desk, nodded to the guard who remove3d the hood, and then he sat.
I’d expected to see Lallo in full uniform. He was not. He was, if anything, dressed casually. The man on the other side was in a cream suit, very crumpled and slightly stained as if he had not changed during the entire journey from capture to this room.
No doubt part of his conditioning.
“Mr Jacobi, that is your name isn’t it?”
The man stared at him sullenly. I got the impression he was usually the one asking the questions, not the other way around.
The man lifted his head and stared straight at Lallo. It was not a look I’d want to be on the end of, but Lallo, I suspect, had been on the end of a lot worse. And a closer inspection of his face, and features, I noticed that someone had already started the harsher form of interrogation.
“You know this already. I am an employee of the United States Government, your Government, and you will regret treating me like this.”
“That may be so, but you have failed to define what part of the Government it is you work for. Is it the CIA?”
Another withering stare, followed by, “You people are so incompetent, the left-hand does not know what the right hand is doing. I require a telephone so that I can contact my liaison, and this farce will stop, and you will be reprimanded very severely.”
“I seriously doubt anyone knows you are missing yet. Maybe after a week or so, but we know you keep to yourself, and very few people know your business, a situation, I assure you, benefits us more than it benefits you. So I will assume you are Jacobi.”
There was a knock on the door, and Monroe came in with a small box, handed it to Lallo, and then left again.
Lallo looked in the box, then pulled out a plastic evidence bag with a mobile phone in it, and put it on the table. “This is the phone you use to call General Bahti, your contact inside the current government. It seems it is not registered with a telephone network in your country, but another, shall we say neutral, country.
He reached into the box and pulled out another plastic evidence bag also with mobile phone in it. “This phone,” he held it up, “is the one you use to talk to the, shall we call them the local resistance. It’s so much nicer than calling them rebels.”
The man’s eyes followed each bag from the box to the table. He was almost expressionless.
Then Lallo pulled out another bag, with another phone, “This is the phone which you make and receive calls from your American contact. It is what we call a burner phone, and was given to you, we think, on a recent visit to this country, by that contact. I am assuming this is the person you wish to call and who will stop this farce.”
If Lallo was expecting the man to break down there and then, he was sadly mistaken. There was little if any movement in his expression, perhaps just enough for Lallo to assume he’d got the men behind the phones correct. That he was basically unmoved at Lallo’s revelations told me this man had a resolve Lallo was going to find hard to shake.
Lallo took the third phone out of the evidence bag and pushed it across the table towards the man. “You can call your contact now, and you can tell him I would like to speak to him.”
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.
We didn’t have to wait that long to see what our tail did, he simply sped up and drove off, perhaps satisfied he had been made, and knew we were going to ditch him before we got to our eventual destination.
It would be hard for him to guess where we were going, so that meant that he would arrange for someone to pick us up as we came into the city, or after.
After all, he knew what car I was travelling in, and he knew what we looked like. Which is why we stopped briefly in Naples and changed cars and clothes.
Then, by a quirk of fate, we saw him again, parked on the side of the road, near Pompei, waiting. He had been hidden behind several trucks, but at the last minute on of the trucks moved, and I saw the car.
And there he sat, not assuming we would be smart enough to change cars. What was it Rodby said from time to time? Good help is hard to find.
I had no doubt the moment he reported in, that other arrangements were not already underway. If they were smart, they’d know what my destination was, the home of the Burkehardt’s up in the hills that overlooked the Mediterranean, with billion-dollar views, nestled in among the exclusive and very expensive resorts.
Cecelia had booked on and it was where she had been relaxing in what time she had away from surveillance. She was at the hotel when I called, and we arrived there a half hour later.
I’d already forewarned her about my new shadow.
She met us down in the foyer, gave Francesca her ‘don’t mess with me, or else’ scowl, and then took us up to the room. It was amazing, and I would probably never be able to afford to stay in a room, or place, like it if I had to pay for it myself.
Francesca was suitably impressed. “How much had you got on your expense account. I can barely buy a sandwich with mine.”
“Normally we don’t either, but this is a ‘by all means available’ mission.”
She gave me a blank look, and I didn’t have the time or inclination to explain it to her. We would not be seeing her again after this.
“I trust your charges are behaving themselves selves and remaining anonymous,” I asked her, after sitting down with a bottle of wine and three glasses, and we’d all taken a separate chair each.
“No. You didn’t expect them to stay in the room, despite the fact someone is trying to kill them. I’m not their nursemaid. They want to get killed they can.”
I frowned at her. We were supposed to be keeping them alive. I suppose learning they were fakes didn’t help. Vittoria and Juliet weren’t, or at least I hope they weren’t, but the jury was still out on that.
I was going back to see them after I spoke to the Burkehardt matriarch. Or maybe I would talk to Juliet again. I couldn’t believe that everything I did seemed to involve her, and I was hoping the universe wasn’t trying to tell me something.
“Who are these people again,” Francesca asked.
“Didn’t you tell her?” Cecelia looked at me.
“No. Relevance?”
“None,” she looked at Francesca. “A woman called Vittoria who was a maid at the house I’ve been watching for that last day or so and her daughter Juliet are supposed to be keeping a low profile. It appears Juliet might be another direct descendant of the Count’s. I’m surprised your employers didn’t tell you of her?”
“They mentioned the possibility of another heir. They just didn’t know who or where she was. She’s here, you say?”
“Yes. I hope they’re safe, and, no, we’re not telling you where they are. Not until we know your employers, whom I’m assuming are the Burkehardt’s, are not trying to kill her.”
“I assure you that neither am I, and I work for the investigations company, not the Burkehardt’s. I can only take orders from my boss. He was very clear about that.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to shoot you because you lied.”
I could see she meant what she said. I hoped Francesca did too. She seemed to brush that threat aside.
“What about the countess?”
“That’s the bigger question, where is she? We’d like to know so if you have any ideas, please share. For this dynamic to work, you must be willing to share information. It’s not going to be a one-way street.”
“So, you don’t know where the countess is?”
Cecelia looked at me.
“Inquisitive little bugger, isn’t she? Don’t make it so obvious you want to know. Didn’t your boss tell you; that you must be subtle when approaching people like us, people with more experience, and less of a conscience.
Francesca looked at me.
“Don’t think I won’t stop you if you get in the way. You can stay while it is useful to us, but don’t ask questions you know we’re not going to give you answers for.”
“Then I’ll assume you don’t know where she is, other than most likely in Sorrento, waiting for the meeting.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 