32
Breeze had a walking cane and a spring in his step. Twenty four hours on a plane had made a world of difference. Compared to the endless weeks confined to a hospital bed, a Lufthansa business class seat was perfectly liberating.
Initially he couldn’t leave the wine list alone, the pondering over every selection’s background story: the region, the grapes, the hands that patiently conjured them – wondering if that could be the life for them. But then somewhere over the cold, dark oceans between Australia and France he started to think about the bullet he had taken and the face of the woman at the moment he had stopped her short of finishing the job. With such a bitter taste in his mouth wine didn’t have a chance.
So, he’d get fit, as fit as he had ever been. And he would get a gun from his father and use it like a grinding block to sharpen himself. Then, if the bitterness resisted this kind of mouthwash, he would give due consideration to the whole RIP sideshow. Riley had saved him a taxi ride to Melbourne Airport and, instead of listening to a cabbie’s lament of a city’s moral decline, he was treated to a heartfelt diatribe on the Red Line File’s worthy pursuits. And he was told not to worry about the bullet hole in his back. It would become a third eye with a range of vision to make him a better cop.
The passport Breeze presented to the immigration official at Charles De Gaul airport was just the same as anyone else’s. Any signs of this peculiar world he was in was merely stamped upon his face, and it was only for that brief moment at Immigration Control that he removed his Ray Ban sunglasses.
Fifteen years away from France and nothing to show for it except a tailored suit, a suitcase full of designer shirts and the bullet hole that had earned him readmission. His papa had said he would send someone to meet him but he put little stock in that. The man had remembered one birthday out of fifteen. That was not counting the year he mistook his birthday with his own wedding anniversary. The long list of hotels Soila Waneta had meticulously compiled for him was in his breath pocket. It wasn’t a weapon but it still provided some feeling of reassurance.
The Custom’s official wanted to see inside Breeze’s suitcase and he spent a protracted moment feeling about it. Probably the silk and cotton agreed with his under-paid fingers.
‘Merci,’ said the customs official dismissively. The job done, all that remained was a sad, unfulfilled strain in the man’s eyes.
Breeze closed his briefcase and joined the steady stream of people into the Arrivals area. Saturday afternoon, a good time to arrive in a city.
Although most the people were pushing their luggage along on trolleys he was making a point of carrying his. It was the first step in his fitness regime. Maybe it was hurting but stepping back into Paris there were so many other feelings to contend with. He sought out the arrow directing to the taxi stand and then he gave the gathered crowd a quick look over in case papa had come through with a pick up after all.
There it was: Helio Burres. It was written in bold black. The placard was being held up by a dour looking man decked out in black sunglasses and a black suit – just what a self-respecting gangster was supposed to look like.
‘I’m Burres,’ said Breeze, stepping up to him.
‘Good morning, sir,’ the man replied with some urgency, his breath noticeably stale. ‘Would you kindly come with me, please. I have an urgent message for you.’
Breeze frowned, puzzled by the man’s clearly Australian accent. ‘A message from whom?’
‘From Detective Inspector Riley, sir. I’ve been asked to accompany you to the embassy.’
The excitement of what might have prompted Riley to send for him and the disappointment of this man not instead being an emissary of his father seemed to cancel each other out so that a vague numbness was all that remained. ‘Very well then,’ Breeze murmured. ‘Lead the way.’
‘Very good, sir. There is a car waiting out front.’
As Breeze followed the man out through the Arrivals gate’s throng, he missed another sign that held his name. This one was being held down low by a small boy looking out expectantly at the passengers streaming out of Customs with their bags upon trolleys – it was Breeze’s son.
Directive RIP Page 45
