No way to run an operation
…
Cecelia called me when she was in place, waiting.
“Who’s there?”
“A woman, two small children, and a maid.”
“No man of the house?”
“No. She spoke on the phone about an hour ago and didn’t look happy. Who is she?”
“Someone you might have to shoot, so don’t get attached. Wait till I call you first, then invite yourselves in. Does it look expensive?”
“She does, and yes. It’s very posh. Why?”
“Curiosity.”
We were back in the hotel room. Francesca was working her way through a bottle of red wine.
“I can go now if you like. Cecelia told me the countess was dead. My work is done,” she said morosely.
“Not yet. Can’t have you telling people information I don’t want them to know yet. We still have people to catch.”
“OK. Does your current squeeze realise this one has feelings for you?” She nodded in Juliet’s direction, stopping her in her tracks.
“It’d be misplaced affection. Right now, she’s at the top of my shoot first and asks questions later list.”
“You know, if you don’t want to end up grumpy and lonely, you are going to have to work on your small talk. I don’t think women go for this shoot first thing. Whatever; just thought you ought to know.”
I glared at Juliet. “Is that what this is about, you being here?”
“Why on earth would you think that. You’re probably the snarkiest person I’ve ever met. She’s right, you need to work on your small talk.”
Then proceeded to turn around and go into one of the rooms, slamming the door.
“Exactly,” Francesca said.
13 minutes after that the call came.
Male voice, distorted.
“You are looking for an Englishwoman, Martha Rodby, yes.”
“Yes.”
“We know where she is, and once the money is transferred, we will tell you.”
“Nice try. You get the money, in a duffle bag, when I see her with my own eyes. No mirrors, no magic, no obstacle courses, and multiple phone booths and time limits. You tell me where and when and I’ll be there.”
“Alone?”
“If you’re not stupid, and I don’t think you are, there will be plenty of people around. Dark alleys and dank tunnels are not my thing.”
“I’ll call you back soon with the details.”
It was a quick call, so he was worried about me tracing it. I was not, or at least I wasn’t, but Alfie might.
A message popped up, after making a dinging sound. “Call came from Rome, can pin it down to a half kilometre square.”
I typed in, “Don’t bother. I know who it is.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Who?”
I ignored it.
“Your kidnapper?”
“A concerned citizen.”
“Your kidnapper. Do you ever say anything that means anything?”
“I try not to. You do know my shadowy world consists of nothing by lies and deception, and smoke and mirrors?”
“Do you actually get anything done?”
“Mostly not, but at least this time I haven’t got to kill anyone. Yet.”
“You should tell your girlfriend that?”
“Which one, according to you?”
“Juliet. You want to tell her you don’t have feelings for her.”
“Are you trying to annoy me?”
She gave me one of those looks, yes, I’d known her long enough to be able to classify them.
“How did your wife actually put up with you all those years?”
“I’m sure it made interesting reading?”
“What?”
“My file.”
She smiled. “It did. My boss thought if I stuck close enough, I might learn something. I did. Stick to Art History. By the way, I like you too, but I’m not going to compete with those other two. Oh, and I assume you have a plan or will have a plan by tomorrow, on how to take this guy down?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Good. Do I get a gun?”
“No.”
“Just when relations were improving. Do you want anything from room service? I’m getting some pasta.”
I sighed. This was no way to run an operation.
© Charles Heath 2023
