Pedro gave him a little smile, then handed him a scrap of paper with the address of the office in Parks Street. He went over everything with John and answered his questions as patiently as he could, of which he had many.
Eventually, it was time to get down to business. "Here's what I want you to do. There's an alley about a hundred feet ahead, on your right as you step out of here. Take it and stop at the third door on your left. Open the door and head all the way down the hallway, last door on your right. It should be unlocked. I just want you to check that it is unlocked."
"Why?"
Pedro cleared his throat before speaking again. "I'll put a man in there. The window overlooks the courtyard – it's a perfect viewpoint."
John shot him a suspicious look but nodded, eager to show he was going along with it.
Pedro pushed his chair back a few inches. He sensed uncertainty. "Just do what I say. Are you in?"
John was in, even though he never answered. Pedro lit a cigarette, then uttered a small but heartfelt, "Are you?"
"Yeah, yeah," John said, scratching his moustache.
"Okay."
Pedro picked up the ice bucket that he always kept on a small side table, went out, and was back in a minute with a fresh batch of ice cubes.
"Got some white rum," Pedro said. “I’ve been drinking nothing but the stuff –apart from wine, of course – and it's good, but it ain't vodka."
"Alright," said John.
Pedro found two glasses, scooped some ice into them, and poured two large shots, holding both glasses in one hand and his cigarette in the other. Putting his cigarette between his lips, he held out one of the glasses towards John. "Cheers."
As he spoke, smoke came out of his nose and mouth. They downed the shots, then he checked his watch, looked at John, and nodded. "Back to business."
He pulled out two relatively small devices from his pocket. He handed one to John and kept the other.
"These are the latest in microphone technology. As soon as you know something, I want to know."
***
If he'd had a brain in his head, he'd have used the cover of the darkness to scoot out of there, but every time he'd flexed his legs to move, he'd talked himself out of it.
Using his left hand, John turned up the collar of his jacket and stepped out. He walked with a moderate pace – purposefully, but not frightened – and he checked often to make sure no one was following him.
After a few moments of silence, a noise from down the block froze John in his tracks. Logic said it was impossible that he'd been followed – he’d been careful – but still he paused, his ears straining for any hint of pursuit. Nothing. It was all in his imagination.
Pulling himself together, he located the building and went inside. Quietly, he walked down the hallway until he found himself in front of the door. A few seconds passed. He slowly turned the knob and slid through the door without making a sound. He was in.
His job was pretty simple, with one primary directive: scan the room, nothing else. Even though he wasn't certain why or what he was looking for, he had done exactly what he was told to do. Silently, he closed the door and walked back down the hallway, quickly slipping out before anyone could see him.
As arranged, the next day, his checklist complete, John moved down the sidewalk towards Park Avenue at a casual pace. As he turned the corner onto the busy street that fronted the office block, he caught a glimpse of a tall dark man walking towards their office. A speeding car almost collided with him, but the man dodged out of the way just in time.
Pedro had told John to call him if he saw anyone trying to enter or leave the building. He then saw someone who looked like Rimier walk past the window, and, seconds later, a man emerged carrying a suitcase. Another man was standing in the courtyard of one of the larger buildings in the block. His left leg was straight and firmly planted on the pavement and the other was bent up behind him and placed against the side of the building. He looked casual, a little too casual. He wore blue jeans, was nearly bald, and was sweating profusely, his big frame resting against the building while he took a long drag of his cigarette.
"This is a go!" John barked into the microphone attached to his shirt collar, and from his vantage point he had a perfect view of the next few minutes of action.
"Looks like he’s headed for the door," he said. “Yep, he's in the front hallway and headed straight for the door. What do you want me to do?”
"Sit tight." This was an opportunity Pedro couldn't pass up. If he did, he'd kick himself in the ass for it for the rest of his life.
"Repeat the last order," said John.
"I said sit tight," replied Pedro. "We don't want to spook him, just be ready to follow him."
John heard footsteps echoing down the block – two men moving quickly –and suddenly, police were everywhere. The men worked quickly and efficiently, as the sunlight was fading fast. The two men were seen exchanging their packages, unaware that any moment now, twenty or more agents were about to ruin their day. They looked particularly ghoulish, all wearing black bulletproof vests and Kevlar helmets, and each armed with a 9mm MP5 submachine gun.
"Freeze!" No shots had been fired, and the leader of the team ordered the men to lie on their stomachs. Officers dragged both men to their feet and into the awaiting police van.
John looked around him wildly; he’d found himself in the middle of an FBI sting operation.
Pedro broke from his cover, and John looked up at him. He seemed surprised. The plan had been to grab him when he was leaving. Pedro frowned at the officer in command: hard-faced Special Agent Luke Black.
Pedro stood there, anxiety nagging at him. "This is bullshit. Something is not right," he said. He ran his fingers through his black hair then pursed his lips, wondering what the hell was going on. He cursed under his breath. His nervous system began sending alarm signals to his brain, each one more frantic than the previous one.
"This is getting stupid," said Pedro. "We get close, then this happens. Someone just doesn't want justice."
They stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, but that in reality was only a brief moment. By the look on Pedro's face, John could tell he was none too happy about what had just transpired. He looked on with irritation. To his right, he heard Pedro muttering to himself.
"What's just happened, shouldn't have," Pedro shook his head.
With obvious displeasure on his face, Pedro pushed his way past Agent Black and said something that sounded like, "You ass..."
Black shot him a look.
John held up his hands. "Commander... what he's trying to say is that it has been a very busy day."
John kept his eyes on Pedro as he called the deputy director of operations from a nearby phone booth. Over an unsecured line, it was impossible to give all the details of what had happened, but he got the gist. Pedro wanted to know what the hell was going on. John, who’d followed Pedro to the booth, wondered as well. Pedro shook his head vigorously.
"This is such a fucked-up mess," he whispered in a heated rush.
It had been a long day, and although he thought he had a fairly good idea of what had gone wrong, Pedro wanted answers.
"So, what did they say?"
"I asked him why he was interfering in my investigation," said Pedro. "He just said they had no idea. The police were handling the investigations and the deputy director isn't exactly known for his cooperation. He knew what was going on here, he just wasn't saying."
There was too much bad blood between the director and Pedro, and what the deputy director wanted, he almost always got; the deputy director had never trusted Pedro, not since something that had happened a long time ago. He should never have let it get this far. What he needed to show was that the deputy director had no place in this investigation. They were interfering and had to stop, as simple as that. It could start a turf battle and people might get pushed back. It was the kind of juicy governmental tidbit that the press would fall over themselves for. It was a
t times like these that Pedro Garcia wanted to throttle the deputy director for not being more cooperative. He’d never liked the man and he still couldn't bring himself to do so.
Exhausted, Pedro leant his head on top of the phone. He couldn't allow his personal bias to interfere. The phone rang, and after he answered, he listened intently and breathed a sigh of relief. The caller told him that the evidence was still at Rimier’s office.
"So, what did the police recover?" asked John.
"Drugs."
John felt guilty for instantly doubting Pedro. Nothing was as it seemed. John didn't even consider that all of this could be a set-up. At that moment, he became aware of a man, looming two or three feet behind him. He was missing several teeth, his face covered in a patchy rash.
"It’s okay," said Pedro.
The man held out his hand and said something in his gruff native Mexican tongue. Pedro didn't understand his dialect, but he didn't need to. They had an agreement and the man wanted to be paid. The dirty mutt handed Pedro the key for the safe, and as Pedro had already counted the money, he handed over two hundred dollars before turning to John.
"It's back on again. The package is in Rimier’s safe." Pedro glanced quickly at his watch, then breathed a sigh of relief. "One step closer to wrapping this thing up." He shook his head as if he could still barely believe it. He told John he'd call him tomorrow.
John could tell by the wide-eyed expression on his face that the case was about to take another turn. He watched Pedro walk off. He seemed to pause and hover, as if he was considering turning back. Suddenly, he rushed off in a hurry.
The next day, Pedro's feet glided along the pavement as he marched back to Rimier's office. He had timed it in his head, and he knew he could be in and out in less than five minutes. He stopped at the payphone and called John, telling him to wait outside the back of the building by the window and that a parcel would be handed to him through it.
Pressing the phone to his ear, John thought Pedro sounded a little off. He sat up. "You alright? You sound weird." There was a sound like a throat clearing.
"I'm fine," replied Pedro. "Great. Yeah." John didn't buy it. "Don't worry," Pedro continued, "I'll make sure you're compensated. You get your head back in the game and get me what I need."
Pedro was so aware of John's every move, he was already sure of the outcome. There was no place for compassion or feelings; fulfilling his obligation was all that mattered now. Pedro had sworn an oath, and he would stick to that oath. He wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to get in his way. He knew that if it was successful, he could finally relax.
"That's right, John," he continued. "Stay by the phone and await my next call." Pedro placed the phone back into the cradle and walked back to his car, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a pack of Marlboros. Turning away from the street and facing the blank façade of the building behind him, he flicked his lighter. After a deep pull of the cigarette he continued. Drinda was waiting inside the car, her eyes concealed by stylish, oversized Chanel sunglasses that nearly covered a third of her face. He climbed behind the wheel and turned round to look at her.
"Sorry I'm late." His voice was a deep basso, developed from years of smoking and drinking.
Drinda looked up. She took off her sunglasses and placed them in her purse before giving him an icy stare. After studying him for a moment she asked, "Why?"
"What does it matter? You know the plan. They will think he stole the papers, and he will run back to the UK. I will find him and he'll do exactly what he's told."
"What if it goes wrong? He could get killed." Her thin, pursed lips told Pedro she wasn't following his line of reasoning. She shook her head abruptly.
"You're overreacting, he won't hurt him, just rough him up a little."
She stared at him for a long moment. "I thought you said this was going to be easy."
"Don't... worry."
There were some very good reasons why Pedro had chosen John a few years ago in London. He was like a child who simply couldn't resist touching the paint when the sign clearly said: ‘Wet paint. Do not touch.’ Milan discovered he'd run off with some important documents, not once, but twice, and furthermore, he'd managed to sell them on the black market. Pedro knew that John couldn't resist an opportunity like this.
For Pedro, it was the biggest roll of the dice. Everything depended on it, and if it didn't go perfectly, his entire operation and everything he had risked would be for naught.
"I disabled the lock," he said. "Here's what I want you to do." He walked her through the next move, which was pretty easy. "It’s not too late to back out."
Drinda didn't bother looking at him. "Let’s just get it over and done with," she replied.
Pedro drove for a few minutes, maneuvering the car through the narrow streets, before applying the brakes so hard they screeched loudly. He parked the vehicle a block from the meeting place, then he and Drinda got out. He kissed her on the cheek.
"Are you ready?" he asked. She just headed off without a word.
Pedro watched her walk away and then found a phone booth. He'd previously timed how long it would take for her to get to the final meeting place. Pedro then called John and told him each turn he wanted him to make. His timing had been perfect. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter and watched it bob and swirl its way into the sewer. He felt not even the tiniest bit of remorse over what he had just set in motion.
"When you get there, there's an alley about a hundred feet ahead, on your right. Take it and stop at the second window."
By this time it was late and getting dark. The night was especially chilly, with a brisk wind blowing and whistling through the branches of the trees. Hidden in the darkness, bits of litter skittered across the roadside.
By now, John had arrived and Drinda was in position. A number of police were around, so he took his time and walked to the back of the building, where he waited like he’d been told.
The window opened and John could just make out the figure of a woman inside. She had very short, slightly curly hair, and she tried to pass the parcel out to him while trying to hide her face. John grabbed the parcel from her and, turning, began to walk away.
Suddenly, and without warning, John felt a sharp, piercing pain on the back of his head. While he didn’t immediately realize what was happening, the force of the object on his skull forced his legs to collapse from under him, and he started falling to the ground.
As John fell, he pulled his attacker down with him and managed to get away. He could see the man had a knife, and in the following struggle he was cut in the back of his neck with a sharp object.
After a few more seconds of wrestling with the unknown assailant, he somehow managed to pull the knife from his assailant’s hand before realizing that the knife had cut into the other person. John levered himself clumsily up onto one knee, and he could see that the man was writhing in pain. John got close to his face, and when he looked into his eyes, he saw genuine fear. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a few moments, the man stopped moving. John took a deep breath and stood up. He recognized the man: he looked like the Mexican.
John stuffed the package into his jacket and ran towards Main Street, but on noticing that the police were everywhere, he found refuge behind a large rubbish bin. He held his breath, concentrating, trying to figure out the noises. Someone was approaching. He must have crouched there, silently and shivering, for what seemed like hours. A trickle of sweat ran from his forehead and into one eye.
John suddenly felt that his time was up, that this was it. He was deeply upset about what was happening, not to mention confused – there were seemingly a million crazy thoughts going through his head. He slammed his hand against the wall in anger. The sirens were growing louder, and just then, a police car came skidding around the corner.
He was starting to lose a lot of blood from the cut on his neck, but at least he was still alive; he suspected that the other person was dead, as he never saw him
come out of the side street. He told himself to snap out of it and calm down. He couldn't make himself think straight, and was barely able to breathe.
Realizing that his only chance was to wait until the police had gone, he checked again until the street was clear. When he heard nothing, he got to his feet, his jaw tightening as he inched forward. He tried to stop a taxi so he could get to hospital, but when the driver saw he was covered in blood, he drove away. John dragged the back of his sleeve across his eyes to wipe the blood from his face.
He kept on walking, desperate to get as far away from the area as possible. He was feeling very weak by now, but he managed to walk to a telephone box and call 911. Once the call was done, he waited by the roadside, willing them to hurry. It was all so hard to comprehend. He needed to get his head screwed on, but first, he needed some medical attention.
The pain in his neck was excruciating and he was starting to feel more than a little dizzy. He had to grab the edge of the post to keep himself from vomiting. His lungs tightened, and even though he was trying to maintain some sort of composure, he couldn't draw in any air. It soon became clear that the abrupt pain and emptiness was too difficult to bear, and he collapsed, closing his eyes as he fell backwards. The memory of the day was flashing in his mind, going in and out of focus as he rolled around on the ground.
A few seconds later, the memories stopped, and everything went blank.
Chapter 12
In his blurred consciousness, John was aware of a woman's soft, concerned voice coming from next to him, and as time went on, he realized he must be in hospital. As he opened and closed his eyes – letting the bright light of the room flicker into focus – images flashed through his mind. As his throat constricted, his mind shot back to that moment as the memory formed fully in his brain. Tears unexpectedly filled his eyes and he fought back a hysterical sob. He hurt all over, and the constant pain in his neck was excruciating.
The Assassin's Keeper Page 12
