by S. C. Abbey
Katie didn’t expect that from the man. “Mr. Xaja, why did you agree to meet me then?”
Xaja gave a quick chuckle, flashing a silver tooth, before falling back into his somber expression. “A chance at a real life.”
“Specifically?”
“New identities for my family and me as American citizens, and some money to start afresh.”
“How much?”
“Half a million dollars.”
“You have quite a big appetite.”
“I have a large family to feed.”
“In exchange for…?”
“Anything and everything the U.S. government requires of me. Names of the leaders of all the factions and the higher ups—where they live, who they’re married to, the names of their children. The source of our arms, our funds. I know them like the back of my hand.”
“You would betray your brothers-in-arms? How can I trust you then?”
“It’s not your call to make. Deliver my request to your superiors and they will decide,” Xaja said with a superior tone.
“You do know that the U.S. government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” replied Katie.
“We are not terrorists!” Xaja pounded the table with his fist at each word. The tin can filled with cigarette butts jumped in response to each impact. His knuckles turned white. He then slowly released his grip. “But yes, they do,” Xaja said as he gradually stood up from his chair and began to unfold his face cloth. “I look forward to good news.”
He walked toward the front door with Rafferty trailing behind him, he turned just before he reached the door as Rafferty began to unlock it for him. “Albania is a beautiful country, you should take in the sights before you leave. Rrugë të mbarë.” He then slipped back into the streets.
Rafferty returned to the table, picking up his cup of coffee and finishing it with a swig. “That didn’t go too well,” he said. Katie’s coffee was left untouched.
“You should leave this country. Xaja will not be pleased when he finds out he isn’t getting what he is asking for,” said Katie.
The man put the cup down on the table and shrugged. “Albania is my home.”
Katie stood from her chair as she too approached the door. Rafferty stepped in front of her to unlock it.
“Don’t think too badly of people like Mustafa Xaja. We can never fathom the hardships they go through,” he said.
Katie nodded but said, “Nothing can justify hurting innocent people. You take care, Rafferty.” She wrapped the thick, linen fabric around her face. Tilting her head slightly, she stepped back out into the dusty streets.
Chapter 3
HARVEY EXITED THE New York cab and now stared at a gray, brick building. The cabby had managed to take him here in record time, incurring a few curses along the way, at the promise of a ten-dollar tip—money really did make the world go ’round. He looked through the glass front of the art gallery but couldn’t spot Bertram, then he noticed a familiar figure at the door.
“Sir, do you have an invitation?”
“For God’s sake, Thomas, it’s me,” said Harvey in exasperation, his heart still racing a little from the rough ride.
The snobbish butler looked down his nose. “Master Nolan, I’m afraid I didn’t see you. I wasn’t expecting you, considering what the time is already.”
Harvey ignored the butler’s sarcasm, it wasn’t the first time anyway. “I take it that Bert’s still in there?”
“Of course,” Thomas replied as he tilted his head back up in a highly unnatural angle. “Master Moore is having a wonderful time.”
“Will you let me in now?” asked Harvey, getting increasingly annoyed.
“Certainly,” the manservant said. He shifted aside and pulled the handle of the door.
“Thanks.” Harvey stepped past the entrance into the gallery. The Oni Rosen Gallery was a double-level, two thousand-square-foot private exhibition space featuring both contemporary and old masters artworks in a variety of media such as oil paintings, glass sculptures, and Japanese calligraphy. The gallery’s owner, Jacques Rosen, had generously allowed Bertram to hold a one-day exhibition of his favorite artworks—being a longtime friend of the avid art collector.
“No, no, that’s not for sale—in fact, nothing is, don’t even think about it, Rockefeller.” Bertram laughed, his booming voice echoing across the span of the gallery, before approaching Harvey. “Harvey, thank God you made it! I can’t take it anymore—it’s Robert Lauder. Here I was being nice enough to invite him to co-exhibit with me and he’s been putting my candles out the entire day!”
Harvey stepped into the embrace of his foster father, the stench of alcohol on his breath appalling. “I don’t even know what that means, Bert—”
“Oh, never mind that. Champagne? I believe they are serving the ’05 Dom Pérignon…” Bertram snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. The impeccably dressed waiter immediately stopped by the billionaire and lifted the silver tray he held toward him. Bertram put down his now-empty glass and picked up another, downing the champagne in one gulp before putting it down and grabbing another two glasses. He handed one to Harvey.
Harvey felt obliged to at least hold onto it.
“Do you need me to give you a tour?” asked his foster father.
“Of course not, I’m sure you have other people you want to meet and argue with. I can take care of myself just fine,” said the young professor.
A gorgeous young woman in a black pantsuit and a huge, matching hat stepped into the gallery at that exact moment, attracting some gazes from the crowd within. She spotted Bertram and strolled toward him. Bertram turned his attention to the newcomer.
“My, my—isn’t it the lovely Ann Kyle,” Bertram said as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “What a surprise, I wasn’t even sure whether or not you were in New York.”
Miss Kyle’s demeanor was what one would normally describe as classy, fun, and yet mysterious. And appearance wise, she was drop-dead stunning. Her wavy, honey-brown locks flowed down the sides of her hat, framing her comely face. Her piercing blue eyes were clear as the sky on a midsummer’s day. Between them, a perky nose stood out from her regal-high cheekbones. She looked like she was Harvey’s age, in her early thirties at most.
“You were lucky, Bertram,” said Ann in a voice that totally suited her disposition. “I happen to be in town for just three days—a deal I couldn’t resist. Fortunately, I chanced upon your email.”
Bertram turned to Harvey. “May I introduce Miss Ann Kyle. Ann, Harvey Nolan, my son.”
“Well, I’m not exactly his—”
Ann interrupted Harvey before he could finish. “Bertram!” she said in a slightly admonishing tone. “I didn’t know you had such a handsome thing, where have you been keeping him?”
Harvey's eyes widened as he blushed uncontrollably. “Miss Kyle—”
Ann Kyle leaned in till she was so close to Harvey that he felt a little uncomfortable as she nudged him. “Please, call me Ann.”
“If you insist—” Harvey replied, not knowing what to say.
Ann looked around casually before she turned and glanced at Bertram. “I must say, the setup looks fantastic. Did you do this all by yourself, Bertram?”
“Of course not, I had somebody help me with it,” replied Bertram, grinning.
“Let me guess, David Ziff?” asked Ann.
“Close enough,” squeaked Bertram. “Richard Dorrance.”
“No…you didn’t—” said Ann as her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Hell yeah, I did!” Bertram’s healthy laughter projected across the gallery once again. Several people stopped their hush conversations to look over in curiosity. “And I sure as hell spent too much money on him, I swear. He was in the Bahamas, I flew him over!”
“Well-worth every penny, I must say,” Ann said as she took a quick side glance at Harvey and noticed the young professor trying to suppress a yawn. She smiled warmly as she g
azed upon him. “Harvey, would you be so kind as to accompany me on a tour around the gallery?”
“That’s a great idea!” exclaimed Bertram.
“I think you’ll find me a poor companion when it comes to art, Miss K—Ann. I hardly have a good eye for it.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure I brought you up well,” interrupted Bertram.
“I’ll provide the boring trivia, the descriptions, as for you…” Ann placed her arm on Harvey’s, “…you just have to lend me your ear.”
Bertram narrowed his eyes as he looked past Ann and spotted a man. “Is that Charles du Pont? What’s he doing here?! Did Thomas let him in, I need to have a quick word with him…” he said as he stomped toward his manservant.
“Let’s walk.” Ann tugged on Harvey’s hand and steered him toward a painting to their left. They stopped in front of an abstract painting that Harvey thought was absolutely nonsensical. It looked like a child had splashed random paint on a canvas.
“Ah—the Jackson Pollock, one of my absolute favorites in Bertram’s collection,” said Ann. Harvey was glad he didn’t speak his mind. She quietly admired the piece for a minute before speaking again, “Tell me, Harvey, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a law professor at Columbia.”
“A well-read man, just like Bertram.” Ann looked impressed, while still looking at the yellow-and-red painting in front of them.
“How about yourself?”
“I’m in the acquirement business.”
“What is it you acquire?”
“I source for rare items on behalf of high net-worth individuals—antiques, old pottery, gold sculptures—known or unknown artwork, through whatever methods are required of me.”
“You’re a procurer?” Harvey said, noticing the huge diamond ring adorning her right middle finger.
Ann turned and focused her attention on Harvey. “You can put it that way.” She took out a business card and handed it to him. “For instances in which you require my services. Or if you just want dinner.”
Harvey picked the business card from her fingers and opened his mouth, planning to reply, but was interrupted by an untimely ring of his cell phone. He looked at the screen of his smartphone.
“Sorry, I have to take this—” Harvey said before he answered the phone. “Nolan speaking.”
“Professor Harvey Nolan? This is Joseph Obermaier, Dr. Louis Tanner’s attorney. It is with deep regret to inform you that Dr. Tanner was found dead.”
Chapter 4
SPECTOR STROLLED DOWN the pavement of Cleaver Square, along the rows of Cornwall houses in the shade of tall trees lining the street. The leaves on the trees were bright green, a reflection of the summer that had just arrived. The pavement was littered sparsely with red and brown specks that didn’t survive spring. They crunched ever so slightly under his boot.
London.
Just before this, Spector was at his regular tailor for the first time in months. His old suit was getting lackluster and frayed on the insides—it was high time he had a new one made. His tailor wasn’t too impressed with it, though…
“Mr. Spector. You’ve been missed.” The man looked up from the piece of cloth he was working with when Spector walked through the store’s entrance. “Did you manage to destroy your suit again?”
“Alfred, isn’t that the whole point of a suit?” Spector said with a grin on his face. “It’s a gentleman’s armor. It’s meant to take hits and blows for the wearer.”
“Not the way you put them through,” Alfred said as he came out from behind his counter, armed with a measuring tape. “Same cut and materials? How about the color?”
“Keep it similar to the previous one. Except I might need a couple of tweaks in its…sub-functionalities.”
“Two left underarm-concealed knife sheaths, one lower back holster, six clips on the inside of the right cuff…” Alfred gabbled on. “What else would you like to add this time?”
“Perhaps one additional concealed knife sheath on the right side would be perfect.”
“Easily done—now that’s all I need. All right, run along, come back in a week.”
“How am I going to live without you, Alfred?”
“Have a nice day, Mr. Spector…”
A cool breeze swept into Cleaver Square and the trees rustled in protest. A single yellow leaf fell from a particular tree and landed on the pavement. Spector stepped over it. He hobbled along till he reached a bend before crossing the road to the other side where a blue-painted pub stood. He entered the small establishment and headed toward the direction of the row of back-to-back booth seats on the right. He chose one in the middle and settled into the seat.
It was a cozy, classic English pub overlooking the Georgian square. There weren't many people in it since it was 3:00 p.m. in the afternoon—a man in a gray cabby cap sat at the far end corner at the end of the bar, quietly enjoying his ale, while a well-preserved middle-aged woman sat in the booth behind Spector. Her eyes focused on the copy of the Daily Mail in her cream-gloved hands.
“Can I get a pale ale over here please?”
The man at the bar nodded in response.
“‘A frightening rustle from a tiny town in Estonia where residents speak of World War III—’” the woman mumbled to herself. “—what is this world coming to?”
Spector picked up the copy of the daily newspaper on his table and flipped it open. “‘Jose Mourinho charged again after controversial appeal…’ Hmm…”
“How was America?” the woman asked as she continued to stare at her newspaper.
“Fascinating, as usual,” Spector replied, seemingly expecting the question. “New York was great, spent most of my time there. Managed to get down to D.C. to meet some old friends as well.”
“Sounds like fun. Perhaps I should take a holiday too.”
“You? Leaving the country? Britain would fall.”
The woman flipped a page. “What happened in Mexico City then?”
Spector snorted.
“I take it that isn’t on your favorite mission list?” she asked.
“You couldn’t be closer to being correct,” he retorted. “What did you do to my ex-new partner anyway?”
“Oh, we let him go. It wasn’t a good fit. And considering all the trouble we had to go through to procure him, such a pity.”
“Good choice. There are only so many positions on our team. Quality over quantity, I always say.”
The woman didn’t respond, she continued flipping through her newspaper.
“And when you said ‘let him go’, you meant…?” continued Spector.
“We buried him,” said the woman with a nonchalance that was definitely abnormal considering the conversation.
“He was a nice kid. Pity.”
“Pity.”
The bartender approached the table and placed the glass of pale ale in front of him. Spector gave a nod with a smile.
“Spector, I need you back in the field.”
“How soon?”
“The moment you step out of this pub.”
“Zee, I’m not ready for another mission,” he replied as he took a long swig from his glass. “I was planning for another vacation.”
“Wasn’t America enough?” asked Zee. “I don’t think I’ve had such a long holiday ever since I took on this position. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever had such a long holiday. Besides, you’ve been back in London for weeks—”
“That wasn’t entirely a holiday,” Spector said. “You snuck in a job, remember?”
“That was so simple, I’m sure you could have accomplished it blindfolded with both arms tied behind your back if you wanted to.”
“Oh Zee, don’t flatter me,” he said.
“Never in a million years,” Zee replied.
Spector chuckled as he placed his half-empty glass on the table.
“Hall will get you the file.”
He frowned at the ment
ion of that name. “Wait, Hall’s—” He turned his head slightly to the left and found himself staring into the midsection of a huge man that looked like a regular human-colored Hulk.
“Out of the way, you’re blocking the light,” Spector commented as he looked up and continued to frown.
The huge man settled into the seat at Spector’s table, sitting opposite him. He could barely squeeze himself into the booth.
“That seat’s occupied,” Spector said with a deadpan expression.
Hall threw a file on the table and grinned at him.
“You’ll find the details of the mission in the file as usual, with your targets and some profiles. This is a level seven mission, failing is not an option,” said Zee.
Spector’s eyes narrowed as he put his hand over the file and dragged it toward himself. “A level seven—?” He flipped open the file. “Operation Pandora—”
“And please, for the love of England, don’t turn this into another Mexico City—I’ve got backlogs stacked so high, I can’t see the outside of my window anymore—I need every able hand I have being able.”
Spector folded the copy of the newspaper and set it on the table. “You should organize a mass recruitment drive then, like the military—”
“Have a nice day, Spector, you leave the night after tomorrow,” Zee said, dismissing him.
Hall pulled the glass of half-drunk ale toward himself and nestled it in his large hands as he continued to grin at him. Spector stood from his seat holding onto the file, and walked toward the pub entrance. As he passed the bar, he spoke.
“Tab’s on the big guy.”
Chapter 5
HARVEY APPROACHED THE flight attendant in the navy uniform and bright-red scarf standing at the doorway of the plane.
“Welcome aboard Delta Airlines sir, can I take a look at your boarding pass please?” she said. “All right, business class is on the left, your seat’s three rows down on the far side—welcome aboard—”
