by Sharn Hutton
“Oh yes,” the man agreed, “They’re certainly making us comfortable.”
“Now for the sting.”
“Yes, time to separate us from our money.” He gave an easy laugh, delighted to be part of this fundraising venture. “All in a good cause.”
“Indeed.”
Remi took a cognac and flowed with the river of men down into the vaults of the ancient building, into a room with no windows for prying eyes. Great curves of ivory painted brick spanned the ceiling in three bounds and beneath the central arch a silent video played out, its images agitated by the rough surface. Starving children, villages washed away by floods and makeshift refugee camps. The contrast to the dinner they had just left was powerful and immediate.
At a small rostrum the presenters waited patiently for their guests to take their seats and as bodies lowered into chairs Remi noticed that Kitty Princesa was amongst them. He ducked down into a seat. If she recognised him it would be a disaster—his cover blown. He had to get what he came for and get out fast.
Remi’s mission was to steal a monogrammed flash drive owned by Maximus Pink. Intelligence shots pictured him wearing it on a long fine chain around his neck and Intel suspected that it never left his person. He’d have it with him here tonight, probably be wearing it right now.
“Charles! So glad you could make it!”
Remi looked up surprised and stood, turning his back totally on Kitty, trying to hide his identity from her. “Maximus, how could I miss it?” He reached out and shook his outstretched hand.
“You’re feeling well now, I hope?” Pink’s eyes pinched into a squint that searched Remi’s face.
“No cards tonight. Give the old ticker a rest.” Remi offered a shrug and a bashful smile.
“Good. Good.” Pink patted him on the shoulder. “I must get backstage. Get my facts and figures uploaded.” He pulled from his pocket the flash drive, distinctive crest just visible below his grip.
“Right. See you later.”
Remi ducked back down into his seat to watch Maximus disappear behind a screen at the side of the room and emerge again a few minutes later. Lights dimmed and the sound kicked in on the video. Children crying. The COJ were going straight for the heart. Kitty stood at the rostrum with Maximus and another man Remi recognised from intelligence as her brother. They’d never crossed paths and he’d no intention of meeting her family tonight. He flicked a look back to the door they’d come in through and saw that security had followed them into the room. Men wearing wires to their ears now stood at the doors.
Remi suspected the flash drive now lay behind that screen, possibly in the hands of a technician running the presentation from backstage. The path from his seat was clear, but totally exposed.
“Forgotten my glasses,” he mumbled to the man on his right. “I’ll have to get up a bit closer.” A powerful orchestral element climbed in the video soundtrack and with all eyes on the screen, Remi slipped out of his seat. He walked evenly down to the front and dipped at the last moment behind the screen.
A single technician, dressed entirely in black, sat at a sound desk with a laptop off to one side. “No guests are allowed back stage, sir,” he said, but did not take his eyes from the screen he was working from. Remi saw the flash drive plugged into its side. “I’ve an extra presentation to tag on at the end,” said Remi, digging in his inside pocket and producing some folded papers. He had the technician’s attention now, an expression of annoyance plain on his face. “Last minute changes won’t look professional. I’m not a miracle worker, you know.”
“Just do the best you can.” Remi spread the pages over the laptop, shuffling from one to the next, unplugging the drive under their cover. “Not this one, not this one, damn where’s the page? I must have left it in my briefcase. I’ll be back in a minute.”
The technician raised his eyebrows to stare at Remi with undisguised disdain. “Don’t be too long about it or there won’t be time to get it online.”
Remi slipped the flash drive into his pocket, nodded his head and slipped back out into the room, heart pounding.
He moved smoothly along the room’s edge, pulled his phone from his inside pocket and pretended to answer a call, before clutching it to his shoulder. The security men at the door stared at him with emotionless faces and as Remi approached he gave them an apologetic look. “No phones are allowed in the auditorium, sir,” growled the smaller of the two.
“Absolutely. Quite understand, but must take this call so I’ll just pop into the corridor, if I may?” They stared at each other for a moment, the henchman scanning Remi’s face for signs of trouble. He smiled back amiably, but could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow. The henchman stepped to the side to let him through as the presentation abruptly ground to a halt—the video replaced with a black screen and the white words ‘file not found’.
Remi leapt through the door and ran. Behind him the technician could be heard shouting out, “The drive! He took the drive!” and hubbub rose from the audience. He flicked a glance over his shoulder; security were in pursuit, heavy muscular bodies pounding along the carpet twenty yards behind.
The slope from the vaults led out into an airy reception where more security flanked the doors so Remi scaled the stairs instead, three steps at a time in great leaps that took him up four flights, before he turned off to race down a corridor. He hoped to have put a little time between him at the heavy security, lumbering their body weight behind him. Time to try some doors. The first—locked. The next, locked too. He ran at the third, blasting it open with his shoulder. The suite had great French doors which opened out onto the magnificent view, but the drop of four floors was likely to hurt. He scanned left and right—to his right a gently slopped roof with rounded clay tiles. Remi stepped up onto the rail of the balcony and leapt, landing like a cat and streaking away along its ridge.
The tiles cracked and clicked beneath his feet, but held firm. To his left the vertiginous drop continued, but to the right a series of balconies took in the magnificent view. Remi side-stepped down the roof and dropped over the edge to land in a crouch on the balcony floor. Thuds and cracks came from the roof far behind him—security were lumbering their way over the tiles. He had to keep moving. Two further balconies stepped out from the magnificent old building below. Remi stepped over the stone balustrade and gripping the fat ledge, lowered himself down to the next level. And then again, and again to the shaded terrace.
Relieved to be back on solid ground, Remi ran at full sprint, leaping over the loungers by the pool and streaking out under a gothic arch to a field of gravel. With a squeeze of the button in his pocket the indicators of his Maserati Granturismo flashed once with a comforting bleep and he slid into its safe haven with a laugh. He punched the engine into life and roared out of the car park in a spray of gravel.
The road ahead wound down through trees and then out into open farm land. The road snaked right and then back to run alongside the perimeter wall of the citadel. Remi glanced up. Security were still on the roof.
THIRTY
THE FRONT DOOR FLEW OPEN AS JERRY ROLLED THE FIAT TO A HALT and Isabell rushed out to the car: all waving arms and flapping hair. “Mama! I’ve missed you so much!” Isabell’s mother, Domitila, heaved herself out of the back seat, great rolls of fat jiggling at her sides. She squeezed Isabell’s arms and smeared her face with kisses. “My baby!” Isabell swept away her mother’s tears of joy with painted fingertips and Jerry retreated to the back of the car to wrestle suitcases from the Tetris puzzle boot.
Isabell’s father, Arlo, joined the Mediterranean scrum. “Papa! Oh, Papa!” More kissing and jostling. Jerry kept a low profile. What was wrong with a nice firm handshake anyway?
They washed into the house on a wave of emotion, leaving Jerry behind the luggage barricade, his shoulders slumped. Ten exhausting minutes later, he’d hauled all six cases to the foot of the stairs and was feeling uneasy about going any farther. This was Isabell’s place now and going upstair
s felt like crossing a line. Besides, with all action currently focussed in the kitchen, this was an excellent chance to slip into the unoccupied lounge instead.
Listening out all the time, he crept across to the bureau in the corner and picked through the paperwork. Isabell’s credit card statement didn’t take long to find and he stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Thank God Isabell couldn’t use that against him anymore. Getting it out of her clutches almost made this whole charade worthwhile. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his Remi-like stealth and ambled back out to the hallway, considering his escape.
Hubbub rose from the kitchen and Isabell caught his eye and waved him over. Too late to run, he sidled in and leant just inside the doorway, keeping a safe distance. “Come. Come. Everybody sit,” Isabell cooed, wafting people toward the kitchen table, now laden with food. Mama was there like a shot, heaping the best of the chicken onto her plate before Jerry had even been coerced into his chair. Isabell flapped. She poured drinks, fetched napkins, brought salt and olive oil. Eventually she settled into the chair beside Jerry, who gawped at her. Was she wearing an apron? Isabell beamed at him then leant in and kissed him square on the lips. “How was work, darling?”
Jerry thought his eyes might pop out of his head. “Excellent. Yes, excellent,” he stuttered. Mama puffed out a sigh and mumbled something to which Arlo grunted in reply. No kissing! That was not part of the arrangement. He gave Isabell a dig under the table. She just smiled.
“We are very busy,” he said loud and slow for the benefit of Arlo.
“Uh-huh.” Arlo munched on a mouthful of salad.
“I will be working a lot while you are here,” he bellowed, “So you might not see much of me.”
Isabell was scowling. “But you wanted to be here tonight, to welcome Mama and Papa. Jerry has been so exite about you visit.” Isabell cranked up her smile.
“My favourite in-laws,” Jerry enunciated.
“Favourite?” Arlo frowned at him.
“Ha, ha.” Jerry was still slow and loud. Isabell kicked him.
“Anyway,” he rubbed at his shin, “I am very tired and I still have work to do. Muy -” he tipped his head to one side, put his hands together underneath, then made little snoring noises.
Arlo and Domitila stared at him.
“Por el amor de Dios.” Domitila muttered, shaking her head.
Isabell’s smile was looking a bit forced. “Si, you are working so hard. Please, go finish your work. I will making a sandwich for you.” Isabell jumped up, pulling Jerry from his seat and on toward the hallway.
Once in the hall, Jerry scanned around for his coat. “Right, I’ll be off then.”
“Upstairs. Take cases with you.”
Jerry choked out a laugh. “I am not going up there.”
“Jerry, you can no leave,” Isabell hissed. “Is too early. Mama and Papa only just get here. Please, wait until they go to bed. Please, Jerry. You can no just disappear.”
“Bloody hell, Isabell.” Jerry wrung his hands and looked up the stairs.
She gave him a shove and he stumbled up a step.
“I need to go home.”
“One hour. Papa might want to speak to you. Man to man.”
“What? Why?”
Isabell pouted and examined her nails.
“Isabell.”
“Papa wants a grandchild. He want to know where is his grandchild.”
Jerry flapped his arms. “No way, Isabell. I am not having that conversation with him.”
“Say you are focus on work to make a good home. Is OK.”
“Isabell,” Jerry whined and wrung his hands some more.
“Cases, Jerry!” She clapped her hands and Jerry jumped to scuttle up the stairs, first case in his grip. OK, so he’d just get the cases to their room and then plot his escape.
By the time he’d thrown the sixth into the guest room, he was sweating and struggling for breath. He leant against the banister rail, opposite the open door to Isabell’s bedroom, and noted its mood-lit opulence with a sigh. He could see she was making good use of all that money he gave her every month. He checked down the stairs and found it devoid of witnesses. Just a quick look then. Hand over mouth, he crossed the threshold.
All the furniture was different now, but the room still felt familiar. He couldn’t resist a peek in the en-suite. He knew that Isabell had had it redone since the split. Nice, very nice. Was that Italian marble? He drummed his fingers on it then noticed the men’s toiletries. What was this? Did Isabell have a boyfriend? That put a new perspective on things. At last, a tool he could use. He pictured the scene: Arlo and Domitila pacing the room, Jerry laid out on the sofa ‘weeping’. “Isabell, how could you? Another man!” Yeah, that had potential for an easy out. Look at that, he wore Paco Rabanne too. What a coincidence.
Jerry ambled out into the bedroom, listening for signs of anyone else on the first floor. A little peep in the wardrobe. Hmm. As he thought, full of men’s clothes. Isabell was in trouble now. He’d run downstairs and pull her parents up here right now to show them the evidence. Ha.
Pretty strong on the old Paco in there. Did he bathe in it? Jerry fingered through the hangers, looking at labels. Nothing designer, a bit of M&S and labels he’d never heard of. Old stuff in here mostly. Didn’t seem like an Isabell kind of bloke. Who would wear this stuff?
Jerry flopped down onto the bed and the penny dropped. Isabell had set it up for their charade. Damn, she was good. Jerry gnawed at a fingernail.
Voices drifted up the stairwell, Arlo and Domitila were moving to the lounge for coffee. Released from the confines of the meal, Arlo might fancy a chat. Jerry checked his watch: 9:40. Rachel would be wondering where he was. The idea of defending their choice to not have children yet to Arlo, when he had one waiting at his real home with his real wife did not appeal. Bugger that, Isabell would just have to make something up about him falling asleep. He was out of there.
He crept out onto the landing and tiptoed down the first three steps. The lounge door gaped at the foot of the stairs and voices spilled out into the hallway. Jerry scuttled back up to the bedroom. Clearly, there was a good chance of being spotted trying to go out of the front door. No, he’d have to climb out of the bedroom window. He slid it open and peered out into the gloom.
Below, terracotta pots stood sentry either side of the French doors from the kitchen. Could he jump it and go out the back gate? Possibly, but he didn’t know if Isabell was still masquerading as a domestic goddess, tidying up after the meal. He scanned left and right. The flat roof of the garage finished in a small lip to the right. At a stretch, he might be able to reach round with one foot if he stood on the windowsill. Remi wouldn’t have thought twice.
Jerry eased himself out onto the sill and tentatively straightened up, grasping at the brickwork. The crisp evening air ruffled his hair. Jerry pushed it back with his hand then shuffled around to face the window. The bedroom looked soft and inviting and a hell of a lot warmer. The hair on his arms stood on end.
Now that he was out here, it seemed somewhat higher. He shuffled to the end of the ledge, gripped the window frame with his right hand and stretched his left across the bricks. With his very fingertip he could feel the corner.
That was good. If he could just reach his foot around to the lip of the roof he could escape. He stretched his left leg out, scraping his battered brogue across the ragged surface. Shirt buttons scratched between his chest and the wall, sending a fine shower of grit raining down to the patio below. As his toe found the ledge a key turned in a lock beneath him. Jerry held his breath. Arlo stepped out through the French doors to the patio and lit a cigarette.
Beads of sweat sprang from Jerry palms and a momentary woozy blackness crept across his vision. He risked a glance down. Arlo had sat on a patio chair facing away from the house for a smoke. This ledge was actually pretty high. Jerry’s leg trembled in its unnatural position, his big toe complaining under the pressure.
Arlo grumbled som
ething to himself and Jerry risked another glance. He was rubbing at his arms, feeling the chill. Go in. Go in. Yes, it’s cold. Bugger off. Bugger off all the way back to Spain. Jerry pressed his face into the wall. His hand was starting to slip on the frame and his right leg cramped.
The cigarette smoke snaked around him and tickled at his nostrils. God, Jerry could do with a fag. He’d given up when Rachel got pregnant and hadn’t had one since, but the addiction still nagged. Jerry sucked it in through his nose. Arlo fidgeted in his chair. He was mumbling again.
Jerry heard the chair scrape on the patio, a couple of footsteps then quiet. Please go in. Please. The muscles in Jerry’s legs were screaming. Then the glorious squeak of a door handle, the moan of a hinge and the tumble of a lock. Jerry risked a glance down—Arlo had gone.
Right. He looked along the wall and assessed the garage roof beyond. He’d need some momentum to get around the corner. If he pushed off hard from the sill to shift his bodyweight to the other foot, with a bit of luck he could hurl himself onto the garage roof.
The patio loomed hard and unwelcoming in his peripheral vision and the wall stretched out ahead. The jump didn’t seem quite so doable now that cramp had set in. Come on, Jerry, in for a penny. He took a deep breath and launched.
The side of Jerry’s face scraped along the wall and his numb toe gave way, slipping from the lip. There was nowhere to go but down.
The potted conifer jabbed its needles into Jerry’s plummeting behind before snapping beneath him, shattering the pot. At least it had broken his fall. Locking eyes, albeit briefly, with Isabell as he’d fallen past the kitchen window, Jerry suspected that she’d have preferred it if it hadn’t.
