by Nina Mason
“It would be my pleasure,” Kidd replied with an obliging grin.
“Wonderful,” the prince exclaimed with a clap of his hands. “Then everything is settled.”
* * * *
“This is a nice ride,” Buchanan observed, doing his best to butter up Mr. Wing. “Is it yours?”
“It belongs to Zeus,” the Bulgarian replied. “He has several expensive cars, actually, including a very nice old Bentley just like the one Agent 007 drove in the movies.”
They were in the vintage Mercedes about twenty minutes from the diner by Buchanan’s calculations. Wint was behind the wheel and he was in the passenger seat, hands cuffed and resting in his lap. Up until now, he’d been chewing on the three pieces of information to which he’d been privy, hoping they’d help him solve at least part of the puzzle. The man called Zeus was really Robert Sterling, who was really the illegitimate son of Milo Osbourne and Osbourne’s sister. He was also almost surely the Zorro killer.
“I thought James Bond had an Aston-Martin like the one Mr. Sterling drove to the club the other night.”
“Bond drove the Aston-Martin when he was working for the British Secret Service,” Wint corrected him. “The Bentley was his own personal car.”
Buchanan smiled. There was a hint of humanity about Wint he hadn’t noticed before. Up until then, the matching suits, bear-like physiques, and hard expressions, had made him and his brother seem like mirror images. Now, though, he was starting to sense kindness in Mr. Wint—a quality he suspected Mr. Kidd was entirely without.
“You seem to know a lot about James Bond,” the journalist said, wanting to keep the Bulgarian talking. “Are you a fan of his movies?”
“Not really,” Wint said with a shrug. “But Mr. Sterling insisted we watch all of them at least once before we came to work for him. He likes to do the play-acting thing…and insists that we stay in character the whole time we are working.”
“You mean Wint isn’t your real name?” Buchanan asked, teasing.
The Bulgarian laughed. “Of course not. Wint and Kidd were assassins in Diamonds Are Forever. They wore perfume and held hands. We agreed to wear the stinking perfume, but drew the line at hand-holding.”
“So, what’s your real name then?”
Wint slipped him a sidelong glance. “What is it to you?”
“Nothing.” Buchanan shrugged the shoulder nearest the driver. “I’m just making conversation. You know, to fill the awkward silences.”
“I like the silences,” Wint said with a pointed look.
Buchanan took the hint and clammed up. As he watched the passing scenery, his thoughts became increasingly maudlin. Would he be dead soon? Would these be his last hours on Earth? Would he never see his mum again? He should have called her more often, he thought with a stab of guilt, should have gone home to see her last Christmas. But he was too busy with The Voice, believing, like most fools, he had all the time in the world.
A strong wave of grief swept him back to Kenny’s funeral. The impersonal eulogy by the minister who never knew his brother…the church with no flowers or casket…all the people he didn’t know dabbing at their eyes…holding his mum with a trembling arm as she sobbed into his coat. Who would be there to hold her at his funeral? Not her useless shell of a husband, that was for damn sure. These days, his dad was barely capable of looking after himself, let alone anybody else.
“I was a twin, too, you know,” he said to Wint, pushing away his parents. He was hoping to build camaraderie with the henchman that might lead to more information. “But my brother’s dead now.”
“I am sorry.”
“He was killed in Kuwait. But not in combat. He was a reporter, like me.”
Wint looked at him, then back at the road. There was something troubled in his expression. “Is that why Mr. Sterling does not like you? And the pretty lady? Because you are journalists?”
Buchanan nodded. “We learned something he’d rather we hadn’t.”
Buchanan waited, hoping the man would take the bait and divulge something useful, but no dice. After a few minutes of silence, he tried another tack. “Look, Mr. Wint…I get the feeling tonight’s sunset is going to be my last. So, where’s the harm in spilling the beans, eh? As they say, dead men tell no tales. So who am I going to tell?”
Mr. Wint shot him a bewildered look. “Spilling the beans? What does this mean?”
Buchanan smirked. After emigrating, it took him years to develop a working knowledge of American idioms. “It means telling me what you know.”
Mr. Wint went quiet again and again Buchanan waited, hoping he’d feel compelled to say more.
“My real name is Ivan,” the man began at last. “Ivan Aminov. I am from Bulgaria. My twin brother is Georgi, and I love him, truly, I do, because he is my brother. But that does not make me blind to how he can be. Especially when it comes to women. He treats his wife Tatyana abominably, even though he cries all the time about how madly in love with her he is.” His expression hardened. “He is not in love, I tell him, he is obsessed, which is not the same thing.” Ivan looked sideways at the journalist with fire in his dark eyes. “Answer me this, if you would: What kind of a man beats on the woman he loves?”
Buchanan, thinking of his father, shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you.”
“Well, let me tell you something,” Ivan said, his face coloring. “If I had a woman as wonderful as Tatyana, I would treat her like the goddess she is.”
Buchanan was starting to get the feeling Ivan took more than a passing interest in his brother’s wife.
“I am very sorry that you and your lady are in this trouble,” the Bulgarian went on. “And I do not like that Mr. Sterling left her with Georgi. He should have left her with me and sent Georgi with you.”
Alarm surged through Buchanan’s body, tensing every muscle. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Georgi will take advantage. And Mr. Sterling knows this. When he sent us to get the two of you, he gave orders that she was not to be violated because he knew that Georgi would do it otherwise.”
Angst squeezed Buchanan’s chest. “And did he?”
“He did some things, but not that, because he knew Mr. Sterling would examine her.”
Buchanan’s anxiety deepened. “Examine her? How so?”
“Like ladies doctor—what do you call them here?” He paused to think. “Oh, yes. Gynecologist.”
Buchanan, trembling with rage, kept quiet. Now that Ivan had started “spilling the beans,” he wanted to hear everything he was willing to disclose. No matter how much it might upset him.
“What he found made him angry.”
“But—”
“It wasn’t Georgi,” Ivan cut in. “And that is how Mr. Sterling knew you and the lady were lovers…and that he could use her to get to you.”
“And you think Georgi will…take advantage?”
“I know he will.”
As a wave of nausea rolled through Buchanan, he swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “We have to go back.”
“No,” Ivan said, shaking his head. “I work for Mr. Sterling. And I do what he tells me. Even when what he tells me is something I would rather not do.”
The blood in Buchanan’s veins felt like burning ice. “Like killing?”
“I kill only the bad men.”
“But I’m not a bad man,” Buchanan pointed out with as much sincerity as he could summon. “And he wants you to kill me.”
“You may not be a devil, Mr. Buchanan, as many men are, but none of us are angels. Not even you. And so, I will do what Mr. Sterling wants.”
Chapter 28
During her days at the Dojo where she trained in Kung Fu, Thea also learned Zen meditation, though she had fallen away from the practice long ago for no particular reason. She strained now to remember the technique to maintain the pretense of being unconscious. More than an hour had passed since Buchanan went off with the twin called Wint. Azi Zahhak and the freak had departed minutes later
for their meeting with the attorney general. Before they left, they’d said enough to let her know Titan was pulling out of the merger and the Prince planned to return to Riyadh in the morning.
A hard knot throbbed in the pit of her stomach. The killings, the media takeovers, the manipulation of public opinion, the purchasing of elections and elected officials, the lobbying for deregulation on a grand scale, the systematic dismantling of constitutional protections—all for the sake of avarice, one of the seven deadly sins.
Growing up, she’d studied the Holy Quran, which supported the earning of money by honest means to support one’s family, but stipulated that any surplus wealth should be given to improve the lots of the less fortunate. Only then could man rise above the animals. For it was animalistic to gather and hoard for the sake of one’s own comfort with no concern for the welfare of others.
Likewise, in the Christian Bible, Jesus told a rich man it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than to enter the Kingdom of God. Jesus wasn’t speaking literally. Like most of his parables, the story of the rich man and the eye of the needle was allegorical.
The “eye of the needle” was a gate in Jerusalem opened at night after the main gate closed. To pass through, a camel carrying goods on its back had to be completely unloaded. What Jesus meant was that a rich man who amassed wealth and belongings—eschewing the higher virtues of charity, generosity, and beneficence—would never enter Heaven. Someone should try telling that to all those right-wingers who screamed their heads off about higher taxes and welfare mothers. The road to hell wasn’t paved with good intentions, it was paved with filthy lucre.
Follow the yellow brick road straight to hell.
Since Buchanan and the others had gone, she had been alone with the man they called Mr. Kidd. He had brought in a chair and was seated between her and the door, ten or twenty feet away. Several times, he’d come over and spoken to her in breathless Bulgarian. Tatyana was the only word she understood.
With each subsequent visit, he stayed longer, and, judging by the sounds he made, had to be touching himself. She tried using his noises to her advantage—to hone in on her target. If she could stab him in the balls, she just might disable him enough to gain the upper hand. As for the knife, it was still in her hand, still concealed by the blanket, but now pressed between her thigh and the chair. Given her guard’s creeping depravity, she couldn’t count on him leaving the blanket where it was for much longer.
Breathe in, one, two, three, four, five…breathe out, one, two, three, four, five.
She listened, heart in throat, as he shuffled back to the chair. A squeak told her he’d reclaimed his seat. She cringed at the rasp of a zipper and the perverse sounds that followed. A moment later, to her mutual delight and horror, he was back, standing over her, clearly beating off.
She gulped when he bent over her and brought his mouth near her ear. He was panting and his breath reeked of cigarettes, onions, and bell peppers. He put a hand on the breast closest to him, making her flinch in spite of her charade. Revulsion pulsated through her with such stupefying strength it took everything she had not to noticeably recoil. His hand moved down her body to the blanket. She held her breath, tightening her grip on the knife. The blanket lifted off her lap for what had to be a good long gander at everything she owned.
Kidd whispered something in his native tongue before replacing the blanket and returning to his chair. Thea, heart pounding, was riddled with doubt. When the moment arrived, would she be up to it? Would she be strong enough to stab him good and hard? She’d have but one chance before losing the element of surprise. She had to be sure, had to make it count. Even the slightest hesitation would almost surely lead to rape, death, or both.
Breathe in, one, two, three, four, five…breathe out, one, two, three, four, five.
As she continued her deep breathing exercises, she struggled to strengthen her resolve. She could not afford to fail. Her life and probably Buchanan’s, too, depended on her remaining as still as stone until the perfect moment presented itself to drive in that blade with every ounce of strength she had in her.
* * * *
Mary Hoskins jumped when the phone sounded, even though she’d been willing it to ring. Pouncing on it, she lifted the receiver to her ear.
“Research,” she said, feeling strangely short of breath. “Mary speaking.”
“Hello again, Mary.”
It was Gina Metcalf. Mary waited for her to say her piece.
“Mr. Osbourne has asked me to convey to you that no part of what you’ve just shared with me is true.” Gina’s tone was stern to the point of being threatening. “And, if you should deign to print such a ludicrous pack of lies…well, all I can say is that the consequences will be severe.”
Mary heard a click. Still clutching the receiver, she hurriedly punched in the three-digit extension for Glenda Northam, who answered on the third ring.
Mary heaved a defeated sigh before she said, “Well, Glenda…I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”
* * * *
A short block down the road from the diner, Ivan found an open curbside space and deftly parallel parked the tank-like Mercedes. He then removed his pistol from the shoulder holster he had on under his suit and stuck it in the pocket of his coat. Finally, he removed the handcuffs. Buchanan rotated his wrists, which had become stiff and chafed from the tight-fitting manacles, relieved to be free of them.
“What did you say the woman’s name was again?” Ivan asked.
“I didn’t.”
Ivan glowered at him.
“Judy,” Buchanan said, rolling his eyes. “Her name’s Judy. Are you happy now?”
Ivan didn’t look happy.
They got out of the car and started walking down the street toward the restaurant. It was late afternoon and the sun was out, but the air was brisk and breezy. Buchanan stuffed his hands in his pockets for warmth. The neighborhood was even dodgier than he remembered. Homeless people slept on the sidewalk and a gang of dangerous-looking lads occupied the corner up ahead.
When they reached the diner, Ivan grabbed his elbow. “Try any funny business and I will shoot you in the balls.”
“I won’t try anything if you don’t try anything,” Buchanan assured him. “Remember, Sterling promised she wouldn’t be hurt.”
Buchanan’s chest pulsed with guilt for getting the waitress mixed up in this mess. He had no idea when he gave her the disk that it might come down to this. He just knew he had to get rid of it and, at the time, a random person seemed the best choice.
As soon as they were inside, he started looking around for Judy. He took in a smattering of customers eating in the booths, a couple of elderly gentlemen seated at the counter, a black busboy noisily clearing tables, and two waitresses—neither of them her. One, a college-aged lass with a moon face and ginger hair, was posted behind the counter with a pot of coffee. The other—mid-forties, matronly, stiff helmet of dark hair—looked up from where she was wiping down a table.
“Sit anywhere you like,” she called out to them with a forced smile.
“We’re not here to eat,” Buchanan replied, raising his voice a little. “We’re looking for Judy.”
“She’s off today,” the waitress replied, still wiping.
Buchanan moved closer so he wouldn’t have to keep shouting across the restaurant. Ivan stayed on his heels.
“Can you tell me where she lives?”
The woman rounded on him, set her hands on her hips, and boldly looked him up and down. “Who wants to know?”
He looked her in the eye in a way that was straightforward but non-threatening. “My name’s Buchanan. Alex Buchanan. I made a date with her last night I couldn’t keep. I’d like to explain why. And to apologize.”
The waitress, whose nametag read “Beverly,” nodded as she gave him the once over. “She said you might be coming in.”
“Did she?” His palms were starting to get sweaty and it didn’t help that, behind
him, Ivan was standing so close he could swear he felt breath on the back of his neck.
Beverly’s mouth twisted disapprovingly. She stood there for a long moment just looking at him. He got the feeling she was trying to decide if he was worth the effort. She must have decided he was, because she shrugged and started moving toward the back. He followed her, trailed closely by Ivan, into a short corridor. At the end was a swinging door he presumed led into the kitchen. Along the pink walls were two more doors, these marked with hand-painted signs: M and W. Between them hung an old-style black payphone that had seen better days. She marched straight to it and lifted the receiver. Turning to Buchanan, she stuck out her palm.
“The least you could do is pay for the call.”
He checked his pockets. They were empty.
“Sorry.” He shrugged, feeling like a deadbeat.
Rocking her head, she stuck the hand in the pocket of her apron, pulled out a coin, and dropped it into the slot with a clang.
“Judy? Hi, it’s Bev from work,” she said, her voice now animated. “You know that guy you said might come in? The one who stood you up?” She shot Buchanan a dour look as she delivered that last bit. “Well, he’s standing right here.”
She listened for a few moments while Judy said something, then held out the phone to Buchanan. “She said to put you on.”
He took the phone, taking a breath as he pressed it to his ear. “Listen, Judy, about last night—”
“Forget it,” she said, cutting him off. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just glad you aren’t dead.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Have you come for the McGuffin?”
“Sorry?”
“You know, the thing in a mystery everybody’s looking for,” she said. “I’m pretty sure Hitchcock coined the phrase.”
“Oh, right.”
“Do you have something to write with?”
He put his hand over the receiver and offered Beverly a sheepish grin. “Have you got a pen, love? And perhaps a wee scrap of paper?”
