by Andy Maslen
Sasha looked up at the gondolier, who had adopted a comically macho pose – all bulging biceps and jutting jaw that almost made her laugh – then turned away from his so that she was facing in the opposite direction. “Well, ‘Mizz’ Erin Ayer, you’re going a little too fast. If you don’t mind we’ll slow things down. One, I’m a Miss. Two, nobody flies me anywhere. Three, I don’t know you from Adam, or Eve, and I want to know how you got this number.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Beck.” The caller’s clipped English accent laid heavy emphasis on the title with unmissable sarcasm, piquing Sasha’s curiosity further. “Let me begin again. I was given your number by a Kazakh gentleman named Timur Kamenko. I believe you have worked for him in the past. And, of course, I should be quite happy to come to you. Wherever that might be. Is that splashing I hear in the background? Are you on the water? Ooh, church bells. And those acoustics – all that stone and water. You must be in a gondola. I do love Venice.”
“Bravo. So you’re a distant relative of Sherlock Holmes and you know Timur. Meet me at Caffè Florian at eleven o’clock the day after tomorrow. If you’re late, you won’t find me waiting.”
There was humour in the other woman’s voice. “Very well. I’ll pack extra euros – my treat.”
Assuming that anyone with the connections necessary to gain access to her business number would also have no problems making the rendezvous or recognising her, Sasha ended the call and smiled hungrily up at her gondolier.
