by R J Bailey
She must be cheap.
I heard the voice in my ear, a sneering hiss.
Fuck off out of my dream.
Cheap.
I tried to ignore it, but it came again with a banging, rhythmic sound this time: cheap, cheap, cheap.
That wonderful, translucent light faded, replaced by something flat, cold and enervating. I was enveloped in beige. The banging, though, was still there. Someone was at the door. I wasn’t in some Sapphic temple after all, but a hotel room. A very cheap hotel room, appropriately enough, with the blinds drawn and fissures of daylight leaking around the edges.
I tried to bring myself back to full reality, to slough of the memories of that temple, to ignore the peevish woman speaking in my skull. You didn’t even let me come.
Oh, that was me.
‘I’ll get it.’
I moved up the bed, pulling the sheets with me. I wasn’t naked. I had on a T-shirt and . . . yes, knickers. It was Myles going for the door. Myles who had been sitting in the armchair next to me. Watching me sleep?
Christ, what sort of noises had I made during that dream? I didn’t want to give the boy the wrong idea. I felt myself redden as Bruno and Jules stepped into the room. I had the feeling I used to have as a child – what if they could read my mind? What if they know my every thought? What if they could see from my expression that I had been pleasured – well, almost pleasured – by some strange race of Amazonian women who only lived to serve the goddess Inanna?
Seeing Bruno and Jules gave me some clarity and reassurance that my frazzled brain was working again. I checked and the memories of the money, the market, the clothes, the shower, the photographs they had taken and how they had repaired to a second room to produce my new passport were all present and correct.
I blinked away the feverish dream, trying to ignore what spin Freddie might put on it. You didn’t have to be Freud to get to the bottom of that. All I knew was, I needed another shower before we went on our way.
‘Sorry, how long was I out?’
‘About ninety minutes,’ said Myles. ‘I’m sorry. You were making some strange noises, so I thought I ought to stay.’
‘Iraq dreams,’ I lied. ‘Bit of PTSD.’
‘You were in Iraq?’ He pronounced it Eye-rak.
‘Yeah. Long story.’ One I didn’t feel like sharing at that moment. ‘It comes back now and then.’
‘You OK now?’ asked Jules.
I was, but I felt hot and sticky here and there. Again, I had the sense that I was missing something, a fact or facts that were important. Was the dream trying to tell me something? I would go mad thinking that. It was just a mildly horny dream. That was all.
‘You OK?’ Myles repeated.
‘What?’
‘You just zoned out on me.’
‘Yes . . . sorry.’ I licked dry lips. ‘Myles, can you get me some water? And open the window.’
‘They don’t open.’
‘Turn up the air con, then. Thanks.’
I moved my feet as Bruno sat on the bed. ‘The Colonel wants you to call.’
‘The Colonel wants to pull me,’ I said.
Bruno shook his head in a way that wasn’t entirely convincing. ‘He just wants a chat.’
‘About what?’
‘Your situation.’
‘Not my daughter?’
‘He didn’t mention that, no. Just a review of the facts, he said.’
‘No, he wants to pull me off this,’ I said, taking the water from Myles and gulping it down. I handed it back for a refill. ‘Look, she’s my Principal. I lost her. It’s up to me to sort this mess out.’
‘The Colonel said it might be in your best interests to speak to him.’ The words had a cold, devious undertone I knew only too well. ‘Best interests’ my gold-plated arse.
Was he threatening me with withholding information about Jess? The devious, octogenarian fucker was capable of anything. Part of me was screaming inside that I should call him, just in case he had any news. What was Mrs Irwin to me?
Nothing.
Except professional pride. If I returned to Zürich empty-handed, then I’d never get a Grade-A security or PPO job again. You only get to lose one Principal and that’s it. No second chances. And I had lost mine.
There was something else. There was a time when I would have seen straight through Konrad. Well, maybe I wouldn’t have been that prescient, but some instinct would have alerted me to him being ‘off’. This time: nothing. Why? Because my attention, my concerns, were split between the job in hand and Jess. Turns out I couldn’t multitask after all. So it boiled down to this: I make it right by going after Mrs Irwin and Konrad and then I turn my full attention to Jess.
Sorry, darling. But I am coming for you. Right after I’ve gone up against the man who left me naked and humiliated. And amnesiac, I mustn’t forget about that. ‘You tell the Colonel I’ll come up there and dangle him from the thirty-sixth floor of his power eyrie if he tries to screw me over.’
‘That is between the two of you,’ said Bruno diplomatically. ‘I am only passing on the message.’
‘Pass that on and then this: I’ll call him when I have Mrs Irwin safe and sound. In the meantime, he is to continue doing his utmost to locate my daughter. You got that?’
He spread out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘As you wish.’
Jules tossed some keys on the bed. ‘There’s a Renault Megane downstairs. Silver. Four-door. Automatic. It says it’s an Expression on the back, but it’s a GT Nav. Everything you requested is in the boot.’ He winked to show me this included the address of a certain bike shop in Rennes.
‘And the passport is finished,’ said Bruno. ‘I am not sure you’ll fool homeland security with it, but a French traffic cop? I think so. You sure about the Colonel? He doesn’t like bad news.’
There was the outside chance that he had some news about Jess. Maybe his pet troll had tracked down the images from Snapchat. But I suspected it wasn’t that he was so keen to talk about. Having an operation go tits-up wasn’t good for business. He would have to throw a spanner in the Circuit’s first-class rumour mill as soon as possible.
‘Look, Bruno. He won’t put a new team in the field while I am still active. That always ends up in a shit storm. Blue-on-blue is a real possibility. While I am still live he’ll keep everyone else off the grid. I deserve one chance to fix this. And besides, it’s my girl out there on his tail. Freddie might just have pulled all our fingers out of the fire.’
Bruno nodded. Even though that ‘our’ didn’t include him. ‘Let us hope so. Is there anything else?’
‘Yes, can you all fuck off and let me have one more shower?’
But there was something else. There’s always something else. I was just too dumb to know it.
With a freshly minted passport, a new car with insurance, and no woman with a Red Notice pinned to her back, I was free to use the main roads and the motorway system. I had asked for, and been given, 3,000 euros by Bruno. Not all of it would go on tolls. It was early afternoon when we pulled away from the hotel and I did some crude circling and bluffing – including a detour down a one-way street, the wrong way – before hitting the A84 to Rennes. Nothing came after me. We had a clean set of heels.
I was dressed in a denim jacket over a T-shirt and black jeans with blue-black knock-off Adidas trainers. Not surprisingly, you couldn’t get ProTex bras in the market, so I settled for something athletic and black that squashed my tits flat.
Myles had opted for baggy-crotched jeans, which he complained were five years out of fashion, a button-down shirt, a baseball jacket and what claimed to be Converse high-tops. Maybe they all said ‘Covnerse’ on the heel patch. At least they were less memorable than the acid-yellow numbers he had arrived in. It all meant he looked like a French kid pretending to be American. Which worked for me.
I pulled over outside a coffee shop in what was the last sizeable town before the autoroute, at least according to the satnav. I sen
t Myles in to get us coffee and sandwiches. Then I called Freddie.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘New phone. Save the number.’
‘Already done.’
‘Look, Freddie, thanks for coming across. I—’
‘You OK? You sound fucked up.’ It was good to hear her no-nonsense voice. I cherished the little glow of confidence it gave me. Stuck in a ditch in Iraq, you always felt better when Freddie slid in beside you. You always knew that, somehow, you’d get out of that ditch alive.
‘I wouldn’t go that far. I’m functioning.’
‘Look, Buster,’ she said, using my old army nickname. I’m sorry I didn’t stick around with you . . .’
I knew what she was apologising for immediately. ‘You did the right thing. Follow the Principal. Just tell me why.’
‘They drove out of the gate, just as I arrived. You’d told me what make and model of car you were driving, remember?’
‘No. Actually I don’t.’
‘Ah. Right. Bruno told me you’d had some tapes wiped.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Anyway, the Peugeot came out. I thought it must be you at the wheel, I tucked in behind.’
‘Go on.’
‘I called your mobile. It rang. Then I saw the driver dump a phone out of the car. Well, toss it, into some bushes.’
Of course, I’d left my phone charging in the centre console.
‘I reckoned there was something funny going on. I stuck with it.’
‘You were right. Listen, Freddie, my memory really is pretty fucked up.’
‘So the guy said. But why?’
A combination of drugs and too many blows to the head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t remember calling you—’
‘Hold on. They’re turning.’
‘You’re still following?’
‘Yup, but I’m going to have to drop back a little. Small roads now. Pretty damn obvious I’m on his tail. Or it soon will be. I’m mainly using the dust he’s throwing up to guide me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Spain.’
‘Spain?’ I blurted. ‘You’ve left France altogether?’
‘Yup. We’re just over the border.’
That was my theory about Luxembourg dead in the water. ‘Listen, I have one small detour and I’m coming to you.’
‘OK. Download the FMF app on your phone. I’ll tag you, you do the same for me.’ That way we could keep track of each other’s progress.
‘Will do. How is Mrs Irwin? Can you tell?’
‘I think he’s drugged her. She’s had a bathroom break, but she was pretty wobbly on her pins.’
‘But he let her go in the toilet? Alone? He trusted her not to try and run or raise the alarm?’
‘No. He’s not that daft. The woman went with him.’
‘Woman? What woman?’
‘The one who was driving the Peugeot. The one who wasn’t you. She’s the reason I thought you were in the car. It was only when she dumped the phone I realised it was someone else. I was kind of committed by then.’
‘Fuck.’ Now I knew why she hadn’t come into the chateau to check on me. She had thought I was in the Peugeot.
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I don’t know if I knew. I might have once. I don’t think so. I don’t recall any other woman. As I said, my memory is pretty fucked up. Does she look like she’s on the Circuit?’
‘Hard to say. Drab clothes. Probably scrub up OK.’
‘Age?’
‘Over thirty, under forty, would be my guess.’
I sucked my bottom lip. ‘OK, so he’s doubled the opposition.’
‘And so have you. You have me, remember?’
‘I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.’
‘Don’t worry, it just comes naturally to you.’
‘I’m glad you came.’
She laughed. ‘Of course I came. I’m just jerking your chain. What else would I be doing, apart from having a pair of handsome young men, one on each breast?’
‘I prefer mine weaned.’
‘You are so conventional, Buster. Where are you now?’
‘About to head for Rennes.’
‘Why?’
I didn’t want to tell her over the phone. ‘As I said, a small detour. Just some business to take care of. I’m going to see a man about a bike.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘I’ll explain later. I’ll get to you as soon as I can.’
The door opened and Myles slid in holding a cardboard tray of coffee and two baguettes that had ham and cheese lolling out like tongues. He dumped the change next to the gear selector.
‘As I said, we’re only just over the border. It’s about eight hours from there I would guess.’
‘I’ll do it in six.’
‘Either way, it’ll be dark by the time you get here.’
‘Good. I do my best work after dark. I’ll call again. Stay safe.’
I took the coffee from Myles and started the car.
‘That your friend?’
‘Yes. She’s still on him. And your mom is OK.’
So far, I almost added. So far. But Konrad had something in mind for Mrs Irwin, that much I was certain. And it was unlikely to be anything good. I just hoped we got there in time.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Rennes, France
We found – or rather the satnav did – the bicycle repair shop with ease. It was a surprisingly grand affair, double-fronted, with rows of serious road bikes outside, all with finger-light frames and tyres as thick as a two-pence piece. I drove past and parked around the corner. I didn’t want anyone to see what car we had arrived in.
I didn’t make the mistake of leaving Myles in the car this time, but I did warn him not to open his mouth or act surprised at anything that should go down. We entered a shop full of more bikes, lined with posters of great racers – or at least great foreign racers like Eddy Merckx and Bernard Hinault; no Froome, Hoy or Wiggins, I noted – and breathed in an atmosphere that was as much rubber and plastic as oxygen. The man behind the counter was thick-set, small-eyed, with hair down to his shoulders to compensate for the fact he had little on top. He was wearing a collarless shirt and a leather waistcoat covered in silver studs. On his right bicep was a skull-and-roses tattoo. He looked like a heavy-metal monk.
‘You’re Moby?’ I asked in my clunky French.
He nodded.
‘Big Thrash sent me.’
‘Not here. Out the back. I’ll be through in a minute.’
We stepped through the door he had indicated into a workshop, where the skeletal frames of bicycles were hung on the walls, along with pegboards of tools and racks of tyres and inner tubes. There was also a drum kit, set back in the corner on a wheeled pallet, so it could be pulled out to allow for some thrashing practice. I went over and flicked a fingernail at one of the cymbals. It shimmered and hissed, like I had disturbed the nest of some strange insect species.
‘Zildjian,’ said Moby as he came through the door and closed it behind him. He had switched to English, which was a relief. ‘Created by alchemy in the seventeenth century. The exact formula for creating the alloy is still a family secret.’
‘Like Coke?’ asked Myles.
Moby shot him a look of disdain. I guessed drummers didn’t like their precious, expensive cymbals being compared to a fizzy drink. He turned to me.
‘How can I help?’ he asked.
‘I need some accessories.’
‘What kind of accessories?’
He knew damn well I wasn’t after a clip-on water bottle, but I played along. ‘The nine-millimetre kind.’
He rubbed his chin as if I’d asked him the distance from earth to the sun and it was on the tip of his tongue. ‘Might have something.’
‘And something to put in it.’
‘Yes. I don’t keep stock here, though. I need to make a call.’
‘How much?’
‘You’ll want to see it first?�
�
‘I will before I hand any money over. But I don’t want any surprises. And I don’t want it to have a list of credits longer than Star Wars. No history.’
He laughed at that. ‘They’re clean. From when the Swiss Army switched from Sigs to Glocks.’
‘So it’s the P220?’ A lot of those came onto the second-hand market when the change was made.
‘The Swiss called it the P75. Same gun.’
‘Chambered for?’
‘Nine-mil Parabellum.’
I thought back to my ballistics tutorials in Slovakia. Nine Para was good. It meant I could also use a Luger or a NATO round. ‘So how much?’
‘A thousand euros.’
Ouch. It was more than twice the price you could pick one up for in the USA.
‘It’s a good gun. You won’t be disappointed.’
Myles snorted. ‘For that price I expect it to wake me up in the mornings with a coffee and handjob.’
I flashed him a look that told him to leave the smart-arse comments to me. I turned back to Moby. ‘I can give you seven-fifty.’
The man’s top lip curled. ‘You can keep your seven-fifty then.’
I made a pretence of mentally re-counting my stash. We both knew that he was in the stronger bargaining position. I needed a gun. He didn’t need to sell me one. ‘Eight-fifty?’
‘Nine.’
I thought for a minute. It didn’t leave me much spare cash. And there was the little surprise gun people always spring on you. Guns are pretty useless without bullets. ‘Nine with a box of ammo?’
He gave a shake of the head that set the fringe of hair whirling. ‘Nine-fifty with ammo.’
One last roll of the dice. ‘Do I get a discount if I take two?’
Moby watched impassively as I field-stripped one of the Sigs and checked it. Clearly I wasn’t going to be able to fire it in the shop. There were customers out front he had to keep leaving to attend to. He told me there was a small section of forest in Saint-Jacque-de-la-Lande where I could put a few rounds to test them. If I was unhappy, I could come back for a refund.
I doubted that was going to happen. Nothing rattled when it was shaken. There was no rust (more of a problem than you might think on guns) or pitting. Everything that was adjustable adjusted but the fixed sights were well fixed. The slide worked well, the trigger pull was good and smooth, with no snagging. There were no visible tool marks – meaning it had been worked on or modified – and no wear on the grip. No screws were stripped. The hammer engaged in half-cock and stayed where it was put. The barrel wasn’t new – it had some wear marks around the locking points and a gouge on the feed ramp – but it wasn’t on its last legs and the rifling was intact. The recoil spring was in good nick, too. When I had reassembled it I put a plastic pen down the barrel, cocked the hammer and pulled. The pen shot out of the barrel for a few feet. The firing pin worked.
