The Game

by Tom Wood

  The younger man smiled a little. ‘How long have you known about the team?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Does that mean before or after you arrived in Italy?’

  ‘I suspected beforehand.’

  Leeson nodded. ‘And Francesca said or did something to confirm that suspicion?’

  She stiffened, ever so slightly, but Victor saw it. Leeson didn’t.

  ‘Not at all,’ Victor said.

  He saw that Leeson wanted to press him further, but not wanting to appear as if he cared how Victor had come to his conclusion, he took a slightly oblique approach: ‘How many do you think are in your team?’

  ‘Do I get a prize if I’m right?’

  Leeson smirked.

  Victor paused for a moment, as if he had to think. ‘That people carrier will fit six in the back, plus a driver and passenger. Eight maximum, then. You, Francesca and I make three, so there can’t be more than five more.’ He glanced at the farmhouse. ‘Four bedrooms. One for you. One for Francesca. Two left. Two beds in each. One for me. Three left.’

  He ignored the Fiat’s presence and its capacity to carry another four.

  ‘Is three your conclusion?’ Leeson asked.

  ‘It’s a deduction. Am I right?’

  Leeson smiled again. ‘Shall we go inside?’

  Victor nodded in response. Leeson and Francesca walked ahead, Leeson putting a hand on her lower back and drawing her closer to him to whisper in her ear. When he pulled away again she glanced over her shoulder.

  Victor winked at her.

  The doorway was low and narrow, the farmhouse having been built centuries beforehand when people were slimmer because food was scarce and shorter because nutrition was poor. Victor dipped his head forward and felt his hair brush the frame. He stepped into a kitchen that looked as though it had remained unaltered in the hundreds of years since it was built. There was a big table in the centre, thick and dense, bearing the scuffs and marks of endless use, the polish worn down to almost nothing. At each of the long sides were similarly old and worn benches. Copper pans hung from hooks, as did strings of onions and garlic. The cupboards were made of the same wood as the table but the polish had endured a little better. The brass knobs were scratched and dull. It was old but tidy and clean. There wasn’t a single cobweb among the heavy beams that crossed the low ceiling. The air smelt of herbs and coffee.

  ‘Quaint, isn’t it?’ Leeson asked.

  Victor nodded. ‘Beautifully rustic.’

  Francesca huffed. ‘It’s a hole. Practically medieval.’

  ‘It is medieval, my dear,’ Leeson said. ‘But please ignore her, Mr Kooi. She’s a pure urbanite. Not like you and I.’

  Victor acknowledged the remark with a little smile. He wondered if Leeson’s reference was merely to the fact that both he and Victor had expressed their liking for the farmhouse, unlike Francesca, or if he knew more about Kooi’s background than Muir believed. If the latter was true then he had also revealed a little about his own.

  ‘I notice the absence of a refrigerator,’ Victor said.

  Leeson waved a hand in the direction of one of two doors leading further into the farmhouse. ‘Yes, no refrigerator. But that’s a pantry on the left, which also leads down to the basement. It’s much cooler down there so that’s where the perishables are kept.’

  ‘No freezer either,’ Francesca added. ‘No anything. Like I said, medieval.’

  ‘They had neither half a millennia ago,’ Leeson sighed.

  ‘And this is the twenty-first century.’

  Victor asked, ‘No electricity at all?’

  ‘There is a diesel generator outside,’ Leeson explained. ‘Purely for lighting at night. There’s no phone line and no internet connection. There’s barely any mobile phone reception; enough to take incoming calls on occasion, but you’ll struggle to make an outgoing one.’

  Victor nodded. ‘I’m impressed.’

  Leeson smiled. ‘See, Francesca? Mr Kooi appreciates the benefits of the simple life.’

  ‘Then, like you, he is a barbarian.’

  ‘Civilisation weakens a man, my dear. And you do so like them strong, don’t you?’

  Francesca didn’t answer.

  This seemed to please Leeson, who smiled briefly and opened the second of the inner doors. ‘Let’s continue the tour, shall we?’

  The rest of the ground floor was of a similar age to the kitchen. It was divided into five rooms, only three of which showed any signs of habitation: a lounge and dining area, a bedroom and a bathroom.

  ‘It’s the only room in the building that has anything approaching modern facilities,’ Leeson explained.

  ‘Approaching,’ Francesca echoed.

  A narrow, winding staircase led to the first floor. Each step creaked and bowed under Victor’s weight.

  ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Leeson assured him.

  There were four bedrooms but no upstairs bathroom. Three of the bedrooms were fitted out each with a single bed, bedside table, dresser and wardrobe. Threadbare rugs partially covered the floorboards. The first two rooms showed signs of occupation – in one the bed was unmade and there were clothes on the floor, in the other a scent of deodorant or aftershave lingered in the air.

  ‘This will be your room,’ Leeson announced after opening the door to the third bedroom. ‘Neither Francesca nor I stay here, so I’m afraid you were incorrect in your deduction.’

  Victor stepped in and turned on the spot, quickly examining each feature and fixture as his gaze passed over them.

  Leeson said, ‘You’ll find it basic yet functional.’

  Victor nodded. ‘What about the fourth bedroom?’

  ‘Storage.’

  ‘Welcome to the Dark Ages,’ Francesca added as their eyes met.

  Leeson sighed. ‘The medieval period, or Middle Ages, when this farmhouse was built, and the Dark Ages are not the same thing.’

  ‘I do so love these history lessons, Robert. Dark Ages, Middle Ages, who cares? This place is a hole.’

  ‘My dear, you’re not exactly helping to sell the venue to our new friend here.’

  ‘It sells itself,’ Victor said.

  A voice drifted up from the stairwell: ‘That’s a good answer.’

  The stairs creaked as they had done when Victor had ascended. Leeson and Francesca turned to face the open bedroom doorway, ready for the speaker’s arrival. Victor did so too, but he knew who was going to appear because he recognised the voice. It was deep and coarse, every word laced with a subtext of anger and resentment and barely contained psychosis.

  ‘You’ve already met each other,’ Leeson said as a man stepped into view. ‘Mr Dietrich, this is Mr Kooi. He’ll be working with us from this point forward.’

  The tan that covered Dietrich’s face and bald head was deeper than when Victor had last seen him in Budapest. He stepped into the doorway of Victor’s room and leant a muscular shoulder against the frame. He wore khaki cargo trousers and an olive green T-shirt. Sweat darkened a small area over his sternum. The grip of a small combat knife protruded from a sheath fixed to the right of his belt buckle. He stared at Victor. Victor held his gaze.

  Neither spoke.

  ‘Mr Dietrich resides in the room opposite,’ Leeson said, breaking the silence.

  ‘So you’d better not snore,’ Dietrich said, then with a smirk added, ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘Play nice, Mr Dietrich.’

  THIRTY

  Leeson led Victor outside. Dietrich and Francesca didn’t follow. The sun was bright and hot. There was an annexe separate from the main farmhouse as well as the newer barn.

  ‘The generator is in the annexe,’ Leeson explained. ‘Wait here for a moment, will you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The younger man approached the barn and Victor stood in the sun, pivoting on the spot to look out at the surrounding land. Wherever he looked fields of olive trees stretched into the distance. Green mountains rose in the east. Farmhouses littered the
landscape, but the closest village was about five kilometres to the south.

  Leeson opened a door and disappeared momentarily into the barn. He closed the door behind him. When he reappeared he walked back towards Victor, followed a few seconds later by a huge figure.

  The man filled the doorframe. Victor had had to duck his head to avoid colliding with the farmhouse’s low doorframes, but this man had to bend his knees and angle his shoulders to walk out of the barn, and he ducked his head to one side so his ear almost touched one shoulder.

  His head and hands were in proportion to the rest of his body, so Victor knew his physique had not been built with weights but was ingrained in his DNA.

  Leeson said, ‘This is Mr Jaeger.’

  Jaeger’s shadow fell over Victor and he extended his right hand. It was massive, fingers twice as thick as Victor’s own. The wrist was wide and dense. Knotty muscle bulged from the forearm.

  ‘You must be the new guy,’ Jaeger said.

  The accent was German. He was about forty years old. He wore jeans stained with oil and a white undershirt dark with sweat. Hair covered his arms, shoulders and exposed areas of chest and back.

  ‘I’m Kooi,’ Victor said.

  He shook the hand, maintaining an even expression despite the enormous force he felt in Jaeger’s grip. He had no doubt that if he so chose, Jaeger could break his hand without even applying his full strength.

  ‘From Holland, right?’ Jaeger asked.

  Victor nodded.

  ‘I like your cheese.’

  ‘I don’t make it.’

  Jaeger grinned and released Victor’s hand. It was red.

  They stared at each other for a moment. Jaeger was evaluating Victor, and either he couldn’t hide that fact or he didn’t feel the need to. Victor returned the favour.

  Jaeger said to Leeson, ‘I’d better get back to it,’ and then to Victor, ‘See you around, Kooi from Holland.’

  ‘What’s in the barn?’ Victor asked when Jaeger had angled himself back through the door.

  ‘My Phantom,’ Leeson said. ‘But the barn is off limits to everyone but myself and Mr Jaeger. Please respect that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They stood in silence for a moment. Leeson gestured to the red-tiled rooftops and church spire of the village to the south.

  ‘It’s a nice place,’ he said. ‘Lots of chubby little Italians going about their business as if the world had stopped turning the same time as the first motor car appeared.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with leading a quiet life.’

  ‘True enough, I suppose. But for men like you and I quiet is just not enough, is it? Otherwise we wouldn’t be standing here now.’

  ‘One day it might be.’

  ‘When you’re old and grey and growing fat from the spoils of a less quiet life?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘If you live that long, you mean?’

  Victor nodded.

  Leeson patted him on the arm, then looked away, turning and tilting his head back so the sun shone on his face. Victor turned on the spot, memorising features of the farmhouse, the surrounding countryside, angles and distances and lines of sight. The village was about five kilometres away, downhill, but cross country because he wouldn’t be able to take a road and risk being spotted. A twenty-minute slow jog because he couldn’t afford to arrive at the village out of breath and sweating, and because he would have to run back uphill for thirty minutes. If the village was as rustic as Leeson described there would likely be a payphone. He needed to make contact with Muir as soon as possible. The farmhouse was old. There were no mod cons. No security measures. He could slip away tonight, update Muir, and be back within an hour.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel driveway. Too light for Dietrich or Jaeger. Too heavy for Francesca. Another member of the team.

  ‘Mr Coughlin,’ Leeson said as he turned around. ‘How good of you to join us.’

  The man was slight of build, mid-twenties, dressed in khaki trousers and a white undershirt. His arms were thin and tanned brown up to a line where the sleeves of a T-shirt would reach, and pale beyond. His shoulders had reddened in the sun.

  ‘Is this Kooi?’

  He was British, from the north of the country.

  ‘Mr Kooi,’ Leeson said, ‘meet Mr Coughlin.’

  He was about five eight, about one hundred and fifty pounds. He wore a backwards-facing baseball cap and mirrored sunglasses. Three days’ worth of stubble covered his cheeks and neck and surrounded his mouth.

  ‘You any good?’ Coughlin asked.

  ‘You had better believe it.’

  Coughlin nodded, but the stubble, sunglasses and hat made his face unreadable.

  Leeson said, a little apologetically, ‘Mr Coughlin is something of an expert marksman.’

  ‘Royal Marine sniper.’ Coughlin pointed with his chin to a tattoo on his left shoulder. ‘Thirty-two confirmed between Afghan and Iraq.’

  Victor said, ‘Only thirty-two?’

  Coughlin’s back straightened. ‘A lot more unconfirmed. Obviously.’

  ‘The Marines must have been sorry when you left.’

  Coughlin said nothing but his smile disappeared. ‘So, what action have you seen in the world famous Dutch military? I’m all ears here.’

  ‘Who said I’m ex-military?’

  Coughlin sneered. ‘A civilian? Shit. You must be the designated driver then.’

  ‘Mr Kooi has proved himself very capable,’ Leeson interjected.

  ‘That right?’

  Victor nodded.

  Coughlin said, ‘Then I can’t wait to see you in action.’

  When they were back in the farmhouse’s kitchen, Leeson said, ‘Do you know why I hired you?’

  ‘I don’t even know what you hired me for, so I wouldn’t even guess why you hired me.’

  ‘I hired you because you are careful. I hired you because you didn’t accept my offer to kill Francesca. You don’t act rashly. You do what is sensible.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do, at least partly. For the job I need doing I need different people with different skill sets as well as different mindsets. For example, Mr Dietrich would brave a storm of bullets in order to earn his pay cheque. The man has no fear and no compunction, both of which are traits that are valuable to me. But I only require one Mr Dietrich. Now do you understand?’

  ‘I imagine one Dietrich is more than enough.’

  Leeson smiled briefly. ‘I’m taking a risk telling you this, because perhaps you will react poorly to it, but had you agreed to kill Francesca for me I would have had Mr Coughlin shoot you with a high-powered rifle.’

  Victor nodded. ‘Then I’m glad I declined.’

  ‘As I said, I needed a man who was careful and composed, a man who wouldn’t do something rash without weighing up the consequences. Alas, there are precious few ways to test such a thing. I hope you can appreciate that.’

  ‘I do. And what might have happened had I accepted your offer is irrelevant to me because I did not accept. Had I accepted I would now be dead and my understanding of what caused my demise would not be necessary.’

  ‘I’m glad you can see it like that.’

  ‘When do I get my things back?’

  Leeson nodded, having expected the question would come; no doubt he had answered it already with Jaeger, Dietrich and Coughlin. ‘When the job is complete all your belongings will be promptly returned to you.’

  ‘How long will it be until then?’

  ‘Are you in a hurry to be somewhere?’

  Victor shrugged. ‘Do I need to be in a hurry to wonder how long I’ll be here?’

  ‘You’ll remain here for more than a day but less than a year. That is all I will say on the matter for now. During that time you will be my guest and everything you might need shall be provided for you.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘You have a hand, don’t you? You are not permitted to leave the farmhouse
grounds unless that is a requirement of your work. In such an instance you will be accompanied by another member of the team at all times.’