Drinda bit her lip as she thought the answer through.
"Was he a spy or something?"
"No," said Drinda. "Well, I don't think so. Just let me explain."
And that she did. She went on to tell him that this was the time of the dirty war, and that tens of thousands of Argentines had disappeared or were killed. The army tried to involve Pedro in a plot to overthrow the Argentine government.
"How do you know all this?" asked John, completely bewildered. He hadn’t expected any of this.
"Pedro is a very open person," she replied.
"What!" John was shocked by what he was hearing. "But that still doesn’t explain your connection."
"Pedro now works for an agency here and does specialized work," she continued.
"Such as?" John asked.
"It’s a sort of keep-the-peace, or set-up situation."
John asked her again, "So why were the two of you together on the ship?"
"I was there because a friend of mine introduced me to Pedro and we became friends," replied Drinda. "Pedro was there because of Wallace Wilkinson, the former Governor of Kentucky. Pedro was undercover, gathering information regarding an investigation into fraudulent investments."
John had to clear his throat to speak. "Why was he under an investigation?"
"Wallace Wilkinson was operating a Ponzi scheme."
"Right.”
"Why don't I introduce you to Pedro?" she suggested. "We can all meet and have a chat."
John looked at her. "To be honest, I would rather stay in bed," he said. However, he knew he couldn't put the confrontation off forever. Better get it over and done with, he thought to himself.
"Tomorrow then," she said.
He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything else.
John went for a long walk just to clear his head. He was beginning to wonder what it was they wanted to talk to him about. For the first time he was feeling content with himself: was it getting to know people, and making new friends that helped? He toyed with the idea of going out for a few drinks, but he shrugged the notion away. He had to be up early the next morning and he needed to keep his wits about him.
John arrived at Drinda’s apartment early, as requested. He didn’t know how he should feel: excited, afraid? After all this time, he was finally going to meet the stranger. What with all the build-up, this cloak-and-dagger expedition was beginning to feel very intriguing. Why not be bold? he thought. Be open-minded.
It appeared that Pedro had committed his life and energy to his cause. From what Drinda had told John about him, he guessed he was a very stubborn man. His nightmares, he imagined, would not be filled with beauty, but with looming images of death and horror.
Pedro arrived five minutes after John, and Drinda introduced the two men. As she did, John found his hand trembling. Pedro's grip was tight and he greeted John with a smile. He was dressed impeccably in a decent suit that looked like it cost at least five hundred dollars. In fact, Pedro looked the way John had always wanted to look: like a very handsome, very decent fellow. Yet, there was something about him...
"Nice to meet you," said Pedro, who was studying John with great interest.
John's face lit up in a half-smile, half-grimace as he thought how to respond.
Pedro's black hair gleamed. He was bigger and even more impressive close up. However, he looked a little different from how John had remembered: he'd shaved off his moustache, and it completely changed the shape of his face.
He'd recently turned 49, but he worked hard at staying in shape, just as Drinda had told John. He was a firm-jawed, impressive-looking man, with broad shoulders and sharp eyes. To say he was intimating would be an understatement.
They had their meeting in the dining room, and suddenly the whole thing seemed imposingly formal. Glasses of water had been poured, and a bottle of chilled vodka and plates of sliced salami and little pickled vegetables were placed on the cabinet. The atmosphere crackled with tension as he took all this in.
Before they started in on the meats, Drinda wondered out loud whether the tray of sushi that had been ordered that morning had arrived. That moment, the doorbell rang, and the delivery man handed over a large flat box which resembled a pizza. Drinda held it just below her breast as she walked over, then placed it onto the middle of the table.
John stood staring at the box – ominous-looking in this new setting – and a sense of dread began to descend on him as he opened it. The thought of eating raw fish was making him feel cranky.
Drinda brought out a little china bottle then, which contained a rice-flavored wine. "Would you like to try it?" she asked John as she held it up for him to see.
"Sorry, what is it?" He put a hand across his mouth and rubbed upward, the flesh of his cheeks bunching up around his eyes.
“It’s just sake,” she answered, giggling at his expression. “It won’t kill you.”
"Of course, just a little then," he answered nervously. He realized how sweaty his palms were as he took the bottle off her.
She smiled and rearranged her legs delicately. "Don’t worry if you don't like it."
Pedro smiled. "You will love it."
Drinda watched John as he drank straight from the bottle, then placed it back on to the table. She stood up and sat beside him, her leg pressed against his. She discreetly picked up the bottle and poured a little of the wine into his glass. "So, that's how they do it in London!"
She did that thing where she tossed her hair over one shoulder and threw her head back to laugh at a joke.
John was curious as to why they wanted to meet him, and he had a lot of questions to ask. Maybe it was all a ploy to get him drunk so he would be less alert. Was he being set up for something? He felt as if this meeting was a test of his character, to see whether he was committed no matter what the personal risk might be.
Even with all his worries, however, John started to chat with Pedro and Drinda, and he eventually started to relax. In fact, he was surprised to find he was having quite a good time.
After an enjoyable few hours, Pedro eventually got to the point. "Listen, John," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "It would be good if you could join us."
John sat up. "What d’you mean?" He swallowed the lump in his throat.
"I would like you to work for me."
He was caught off-guard and he couldn’t say anything for quite a few moments. "Yeah, why not?" He eventually said, before sucking in a deep breath. Ha! Was this the hidden agenda? "But why me?"
John tended to see everything in black and white, and in this case, it was very clear that there was much more going on. He stole a glance at Pedro and was surprised to see that he looked sincere. No smirking, anyway.
Pedro raised his glass to John in a salute. "As you have shown a lot of interest in the work we do," he said, "and as we are really busy, it would be a good opportunity to have you on board."
"What is it you want from me?" John asked as he leaned forward, his voice going up an octave with his curiosity.
"The world is a dangerous place, John. Not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it."
"That's not really an answer," John said out loud. He caught the look in Pedro's eye and knew it was probably all he was going to get. "So, I’m going to sit here and quietly listen to the two of you share state secrets?"
Pedro laughed.
They seemed keen to impress him, and John suspected they wanted to keep him interested. He was enjoying the warm rice wine, but he still wasn't sure about the raw fish – it took him a few seconds to get his taste buds back. Although he was nervous about what was happening, all the attention was now making him feel quite special.
"Don't drink too much of the sake," Pedro said.
"Why?"
"You won't be able to walk down the stairs."
John placed the glass on the side table, holding the stem between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. They were running ou
t of things to say.
They both watched him, inattentively, congenially.
"So, what do you think?" asked Pedro as he got up to leave.
"You'll have to excuse me," replied John. "It’s all a bit too much to take in right now."
Pedro's eyes slid to the clock. "Look, let’s meet tomorrow," he suggested. "This is my address."
He handed John a card before heading for the door. Turning the brass handle, he shouted back at John over his shoulder, "See you tomorrow. About 11 a.m."
Ten minutes later, John's taxi arrived, and he stood up to leave, a little wobbly from the sake. Pedro had been right.
"See you soon," said Drinda. "Don't leave it so long next time, John."
"Bye,” he managed, as he swayed out of the apartment.
Once he was back at his new place, he went into the kitchen, tossed his wallet and wilted dollars on the coffee table, then crumpled a series of credit card receipts and threw them in the trash. He couldn't sleep; instead, he dropped into a chair to think. He was toying with the idea of meeting Pedro again.
"It still could be some kind of trick," he said out loud to himself, making him jump. The sake had really got to him. However, his curiosity got the better of him and he decided he would meet him. What did he have to lose?
By now, John was more than a little intrigued, and while every instinct told him not to go, he ignored his inner voice.
The following morning, John shot a quick look at his watch and winced. He gently pulled the door closed behind him, leaving early as he still didn’t know his way around the city very well.
He walked down Pacific Heights, and then found himself strolling down Pier 39, next to Fisherman's Wharf, with its shops and seafood restaurants. He stopped at the shop to buy a newspaper and a coffee, furtively glancing at the attractive woman behind the counter. Instead of responding, she just stared at him with a curious expression on her face. Though young and still pretty, the woman seemed despondent, as if her life somehow lacked the magic she had expected. Everyone looked disgruntled, as people always do at 10.30 in the morning, hurrying along with heads bent, full of domestic cares and worries.
Pedro's office was above a Chinese supermarket at the top of the hill in Chinatown.
As he walked along the street, John wondered if it was safe – he thought it looked strange to see a Westerner walking through Chinatown.
When he reached the entrance to Pedro's office, he could just barely make out the sign on the door. In the entryway of the shop next door, a man was huddled under a few blankets, his hair wet with sweat.
"The fuck you want?" the man asked. He was emaciated; his face thin, his hair tangled to his shoulders.
John gave him a lopsided grin and flipped a dollar onto his chest.
The man gave a toothless smile. "Thanks, man."
John peered into the gloomy window. The place looked empty. Even so, he pushed open the door and went up the narrow staircase, covering his nose with his hand – the place had an unpleasant smell. It had clearly been painted the same cream color over and over again to cover up the scuff marks from furniture, luggage, dust bins and whatever else people had hauled in and out of the service door.
His rubber-soled shoes made no sound as he walked towards the hall, and due to the lack of light he couldn’t see where he was going. At the top of the stairs and along a short corridor was a metal door which had a small box attached to it. Connected to that was a bell, which John pressed. He could just make out the spy hole in the door. The door opened.
"Nice to see you, John," said Pedro. "Please come in."
John apologized for being late, but after a few minutes talking with Pedro, he started to relax; he could now see a different person to the one he’d first seen back on the ship.
Pedro was extremely suave, and he seemed to have all the credentials; he looked kind of world-weary and was very pleasant and soft-spoken. He went on to tell John that his profession, like older ones, had its own rigid entrance requirements and, like others, required proficiency and offered areas of intense specialization. People worked at it until they were numb because they loved it, and because the rewards were those of professional accomplishment.
"John, intelligence today is not merely a profession. But, like most professions, it has taken on the aspects of a discipline. It has a recognized methodology; it has developed a vocabulary; it has developed a body of theory and doctrine; it has elaborated and refined techniques."
The phone rang, and Pedro answered it without a word to John. He sank down onto his couch, talking to the person on the other end.
"It’s impressive," he said into the phone, "how expertly you fucked this one up, and in record time." His voice, with only a trace of a Latin American accent, had a hard edge to it. "Listen carefully – as far as I'm concerned, there is no such thing as no." He slammed down the phone. "Sorry, John," he said, smiling. "Look, I'll show you some stuff in a sec."
John stared wide-eyed at the wall for a moment, deep in thought. "But who are you? What side are you really on?" he asked eventually.
"You have to trust me," Pedro said, though John wasn’t sure at all if he did.
For one thing, Pedro was very careful with his answers. For most people, it would have been a fairly easy question to answer. For Pedro, however, his life had become far more complicated. He had so many different identities he could use.
"The type of work we do is very detailed," he said curtly, clearly anxious to move on.
"What do you mean?" asked John, not wanting to let it go.
"It requires a certain way of doing things. But don't worry; it will come to you as we go along. If you’re ever alone, the best way to protect yourself is not to sit around and answer questions. You need to turn the tables and be the one who is asking the questions."
Pedro went on to explain how the work was bespoke and, for most of the time, there would be no record of what they did.
"We only have one hit," he carried on. "If we don’t succeed, we don’t continue any more. If anything happens to any of us, we cannot help each other – or, at least, we cannot be seen to help."
After pressing him for more details, John asked Pedro how all of this could happen. "It can’t be that simple," he said. "What you say, it isn’t done these days."
"Well, I did it. And I'm good at it," replied Pedro with a smug smile.
"Okay, I understand," said John. "But what if we really need help?"
"Don't worry, I will find you if you need help."
There was a small safe attached to the desk, which Pedro opened, taking out a blue metal tin from which he pulled out a bundle of cash. He counted out the fifties, one by one. Fifty, one hundred, one hundred and fifty, and so on. He handed John an advance of $300.
"This is for you. But remember – we are only paid for performance and I expect full cooperation from you at all times."
"Do you need me to sign something for the money?" asked John.
"No," said Pedro. "All you need to do for me is to be loyal. That's all I ask."
They talked some more, and John was pleased to find that Pedro was frank and straightforward now. It seemed that he’d developed an inability to demonstrate any negative emotions, but there were plenty of positive ones; he told John some stories of his profession with pride, for he considered it an art.
After a while, John became curious enough – and brave enough – to ask him whether he’d ever killed anyone.
"Well, I'm not going to lie to you, John. There's a risk to this. People do get hurt. I've seen it done so many times. A dossier would be put together, a price would be determined, and then the right man for the job found. But that type of stuff is usually handled by outside contractors."
John nodded. He was beginning to take to him, something he never would have imagined would happen.
"We need guys who are willing to bend the rules..." continued Pedro. "Guys who will do certain things that your average mentally stable individual would never conside
r."
He showed John his gun and said he would have to feel comfortable with holding one. "It's a weighty thing, and it has to feel right in the hand. It took me a few weeks to find the right one, but to be honest, I don't really carry it."
Pedro told John that he had access to virtually any gun he wanted. In general, though, he found them to be a pain in the butt; they were bulky, and they made his suits look lopsided. He spent a lot on his suits and it wouldn't do to have them look off. He was a man of style. John liked that about him.
Pedro's training had covered the nasty hazards of his business, including how to stay alive should he fall victim to a gunshot, or a variety of other attacks that were meant to kill him. Now, more than ever, he understood why they'd trained him to shoot with both hands, and while Pedro was a lefty with a natural eye, it had taken a good deal of work to get his right hand up to snuff.
The Assassin's Keeper Page 9