A Killing Place in the Sun

by Robert F Barker

  'What is this?'

  Kodras leaned forward. Podruznig was pointing at a dulled area of paintwork low on the front wing.

  'It is just polish that has not been dusted off. Do not worry Mr Podruznig, it will soon come up.'

  The look on Podruznig’s face conveyed his obvious feelings on the subject. 'And I am supposed to do that myself am I?'

  Though again what he expected, Kodras still gulped. If getting on the wrong side of the Superintendent was something to avoid, the same went for this man, only more so. 'One minute Sir, I will attend to it.'

  Leaving Podruznig glaring at the blemish in disgust, Kodras went over to the other X7 and returned with a bottle of cleaner and a bright yellow duster. 'I am sure this will get rid of it.'

  As he bent to the task, Kodras was conscious of Podruznig’s close scrutiny, as if waiting for a chance to prove that the service manager’s optimism was misplaced. As Kodras rubbed at the spot, a voice came from behind.

  'Have you asked him, Kodras?'

  Kodras lifted his head to glance at the other driver. He was wearing a brightly-coloured cap and dark driving glasses. 'Be quiet Ulysses. You will have to wait.' He returned to his buffing.

  'What is wrong with him?' Podruznig said.

  Kodras didn’t break from his task. 'Ignore him Mr Podruznig. He wants to know if he can go to the bathroom. It is his own fault. He should have gone before we came out. There, you see? It is coming off.'

  'Kodras. I am desperate.'

  'I said, you’ll have to wait, Ulysses.' He gave Podruznig an apologetic look. 'I am sorry about this, Mr Podruznig. He has not been with us long.' He poured more cleaner onto the cloth and went over the blemish again. 'That is better. It is nearly all off now.'

  Again the voice sounded. 'Ask him Kodras.'

  About to show annoyance, Kodras was beaten to it.

  'Oh, for God’s sake,' Podruznig said. He waved up the steps. 'Go take a piss. There is a bathroom just inside the hall.' He indicated the open door at the top of the steps.’

  'Thank you sir,' Ulysses called, already moving as he tipped his cap..

  With the spot disappearing, Podruznig’s attention returned to making sure there were no other blemishes. As he circled the car, Ulysses mounted the steps and headed inside.

  'HERE,' Podruznig shouted in disgust. 'There is another one here.' He whirled on Kodras who all but turned white as the Russian pointed at another discolouration on the sill. 'Does no one bother to check these things Kodras? What sort of outfit are you running here?'

  Kodras tried not to quiver in the face of the man’s anger. 'I am sorry, Mr Podruznig. I can assure you someone is supposed to make pre-delivery checks. Rest assured I will deal with him personally as soon as I get back.'

  'I should think so. I expect better service than this from a dealership like yours.'

  'Of course, sir.' Feeling sufficiently chastened for it to be no act, Kodras focused on getting rid of the offending mark as the fuming Podruznig looked on. But the second spot proved more troublesome than the first. It took several applications of cleaner before the stain was finally gone.

  'There,' Kodras said, straightening up. 'All done.'

  By this time, Podruznig had circled the vehicle several times more, but without finding anything else to add to his displeasure. Kodras was glad. He couldn’t wait to get away from the place. As he’d been cleaning he’d sensed the edginess around the compound, picking up signals from the faces of the men he saw dotted about. They all looked like they were waiting for something, a definite sense of unease in the air.

  He turned an apologetic face on his customer. 'By way of amends Mr Podruznig, I will send a couple of men out tomorrow to give it another good clean and polish.'

  'Do not bother, Kodras.'

  'No-no, it is the least I can do.'

  Podruznig’s response was almost a snarl. 'I said, don’t bother. I will have it cleaned when I am ready. Now please leave. I am very busy.'

  'Of course Mr Podruznig.'

  Pausing only to give the Russian a salute that bordered on tugging at a forelock, Kodras started towards the other car.

  Suddenly Podruznig remembered. 'Where has that driver of yours got to? He has not come out yet.'

  Kodras turned to see Podruznig looking up at the front door, clicking fingers at one of his men, urging him to go root Ulysses out. Kodras waited until the man was halfway up the steps. 'It is alright sir, he is here. Hey, Ulysses.'

  Podruznig turned in the direction Kodras had called. Over by the gates the man in the cap and glasses was sharing a smoke with a couple of Podruznig’s men. At Kodras’s call he waved and started over. Podruznig grunted away his mistake 'In that case take him and go.' Business over, he mounted the steps and entered the house. There was no goodbye wave of gratitude.

  As Ulysses turned the other X7 round and headed for the gates, Kodras snapped his seatbelt and pulled the lap-strap tight. As the same time, he let out a long sigh of relief.

  'Now get us the Hell out of here, Ulysses. As fast as you can.'

  CHAPTER 48

  According to the announcer who was repeating everything twice - in Greek then English - attendance that evening was a record for an Aphrodite Festival performance. Over two and a half thousand, which is a lot for a small harbour like Pafos’s. The semicircle of tiered seating erected in front of the old, Lusignan-built Fort was jam-packed. Behind, lining the quay and the approaches to the harbour, hordes of rubbernecking tourists and local families mingled, lured by the prospect of hearing for free, what the cream of Cyprus society had paid good money for.

  As the Orchestra of the National Opera Company of Poland - this year’s guest performers - tuned up for the first act, Marianna craned right and left, looking for anyone who may appear to be trying to attract her attention. But apart from Ivan and his partner, Sergei, stationed at the exits either side of the section where she and Sasha were seated, all she could see were joyful festival goers, romantically-inclined couples, garrulous groups, or parties of over-dressed dignitaries settling themselves into their seats in readiness for what the announcer kept promising would be, 'An event unlike any you have experienced before.'

  Marianna didn’t know what to expect. The brief message hidden in the soap-basket gave no hint as to what might happen – if anything. Though she tried to maintain the pretence of being caught up in the jovial atmosphere – for appearance, as well as Sasha’s sake – she was finding it hard to keep up the deceit. And given the way Ivan and his team were watching her every move, her conviction was growing that the whole thing was impossible, especially in so public a place as this. Not only were her minders on alert, but so were the scores of police and stewards swarming everywhere. She was beginning to wonder if she had been foolish to imagine that the Englishman would risk further danger, just for her and Sasha. What were they to him after all, apart from his enemy’s family, not that Valerik attached much importance to the fact? She had even wondered if it might all be some sort of trick, aimed at using her and Sasha as a bargaining tool.

  'It’s starting Mummy.'

  As Marianna turned a smile on her wide-eyed daughter, the feelings of guilt swooped in again. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. The little girl waiting, excitedly, to experience her first ever Opera could have no idea her life may be about to change.

  As the lights dimmed, a hush fell over the audience, though a far off murmur indicated that those watching from the fringes would be less respectful. A few moments later, as Verdi’s haunting Prelude began, Marianna settled back in her seat. She had no choice now but to wait and see what the evening would bring.

  'You’re hurting Mummy.'

  Marianna turned. Sasha was holding up the hand Marianna was clutching, a pained expression on her face.

  'I am sorry, lapushka.' She relaxed her grip and gave her daughter another reassuring smile, though it didn’t match how she felt inside. She turned back to the stage, where the events that
would end in tragedy were about to unfold. She hoped with all her heart they would not prove prophetic.

  Lamaar closed the bedroom door, locked it, then put the key in his pocket. Turning, slowly, he faced the woman perched on the edge of the bed. Her face was full of fear, and the way she was just sitting there, wrists and ankles bound in rope, presented an image he found… interesting. So much so, he lingered at the door a few moments, enjoying the spectacle, letting his imagination work. He was after all, in no rush.

  It was rare that Lamaar got the opportunity to spend time with his victims. Most of his commissions required only the most fleeting contact, if any at all. It reflected the way things had changed since his first ventures into the profession that had proved more lucrative than his time in La Legion. Nowadays, even people requiring his services like to still think of themselves as ‘civilised’, and therefore beyond requiring that the commissions they send his way be made to suffer additional tortures. Not like it used to be. There was a time when the ‘client’s’ suffering was often more important than their removal. On the odd occasion Lamaar met someone in the same line of business as himself and they talked about it - not that he was one for talking – he would sometimes quip that it all changed with the Human Rights thing. It was the nearest Lamaar ever came to a joke. In reality, the difference was due to the increasing sophistication of police investigation methods. The longer the time spent with the victim, the greater the chance of leaving some incriminating trace - hair, DNA, prints - that may prove his undoing.

  Not that Lamaar worried unduly about such things. If he ever suspected a contact may prove compromising, he had a simple solution. Dispose of the body. He had done so many times, and in ways he liked to think were nothing if not imaginative. Farming equipment was particularly versatile. In truth, a good percentage of his commissions required that the body be never found. And while in such cases the brief sometimes called for the victim to not suffer unduly - such hypocrisy - he didn’t always comply. After all, who is to know?

  As he went about getting things ready, drawing curtains, making sure the necessary accoutrements were to hand, the thought came that the woman on the bed may fall into that category. He had no instructions other than to bring her up from the basement and ensure against her escape - moving her had proved impossible while the woman and kid were around. But from what he understood about what was going on, Lamaar could not envisage any way the Russian could afford to let her live. Especially not now that he had let her see him.

  Lamaar had known right away that was stupid. But he was beginning to realise the extent of the Russian’s arrogance. Over the years, he had met many who relied on muscle and fear to get their way. As a philosophy, it was dangerous and misguided. A throwback to the days when strength and power were all. And whilst some now realised that today’s climate calls for a different, more subtle approach, others – the likes of Podruznig - were yet to learn the lesson.

  It was why Lamaar had already decided he would not be hanging around to see his contract through. Day by day, it was becoming evident the Russian was bent on colliding with his enemies, head on. It probably explained why he had told Lamaar to take the woman if he came across her.

  At the time, Lamaar had not fully appreciated how unstable the Russian was. Had he done, he would have left her. But the way he raved at her in the basement the night before, threatening her with graphic descriptions of what would befall her if she did not disclose what she knew of her father’s plans, or if he attempted any rescue, Lamaar realised that, contrary to the Russian’s assertions, things were not as 'under control' as they should be.

  In fact, Lamaar was not sure just who, if anyone, was controlling events. Which meant anything could happen. He had survived this long by ensuring that things happened in ways that, if not entirely predictable, could at least be catered for through careful planning. But that wasn’t possible in the present circumstances, which was why sense told him that he ought not to delay too long in distancing himself from what he saw as a delicately-balanced situation.

  But not yet. There being no immediate danger, he could afford to dally. Which brought him back to Her.

  As he paused to remove his jacket, hanging it over the back of a fancily-upholstered chair, thoughts of what may be possible in the time available, triggered a sly smile. Seeing it, the woman’s eyes widened further. It pleased him to see how quick she was. The bright ones were always more fun.

  Podruznig had said he was to 'look after her.' He had not expanded, nor had Lamaar pressed for clarification. Clearly, the Russian believed that the simple act of holding her was enough to forestall any attempt at rescue.

  Lamaar was not so sure. What he did know was, before he left the Russian’s employ, he would have to deal with her. It wasn’t just Podruznig’s face she had seen.

  When, without any warning, Podruznig whipped off her blindfold down in the basement, Lamaar had been standing right in front of her. As with bodies, he was always careful about making sure no one could connect him to a crime. It applied to the mercenary in the hills, as well as the soldier on the mountain. And on the few occasions some inadvertent witness may have been able to link him to a client, they tended to meet with ‘accidents’. And he wasn’t about to break his rule just because her father was a policeman. It meant that whatever he did with her, it didn’t matter. No one would ever know. Even if Podruznig discovered what he was up to, he was hardly in a position to complain, not if what he had heard of the Russian’s own proclivities was true.

  As he approached the bed, ready to begin, she reared away as far as she was able. And as he closed on her, the acute sense of smell he had realised years ago was his own special gift, picked up the particular traces of pheromones in her sweat that told him she was terrified. The Smell Of Fear. It excited him even more.

  'W-what are you going to do?' she said. As she spoke, she began to scrabble away across the bed, trying to escape his reach. But tied the way she was, she succeeded only in putting herself in the middle of the bed - which suited his purpose.

  The change in her, from the defiant woman of the night before, to this scared, helpless little girl, brought another smile to his face. Then, she had shouted defiance at the Russian, telling how he would pay for kidnapping her, killing the boy. But that changed when the Russian left her in Lamaar’s sole care. She seemed to sense, almost at once, that unlike Podruznig, Lamaar was not bound by other considerations. And he knew she could tell, just by looking into his eyes, what he was capable of. He had come across women like that. They were rare, but always memorable. And in answer to her query about his intentions, he made no attempt at deceit.

  'I do not yet know what I am going to do my dear. But I assure you, it will give me the greatest pleasure to find out.'

  CHAPTER 49

  About to climb into the back of the four-by-four that would take them home, Marianna paused to take one last look around, scanning faces as she had been doing all evening, searching for any sign of the Englishman, or anyone else who looked like they may be acting for him. But apart from the two young policemen she had caught ogling her on a couple of occasions, no one looked like they had anything on their minds apart from enjoying the spectacle, the music and the festive atmosphere.

  In fact, apart from the usual sprinkling of men in the seats around hers and who, out of sight of their partners, turned their admiring gazes on her every now and then, no one had appeared to take much interest in her at all, apart from the policemen.

  She remembered Ria had once spoken of how some elements within the local force were prone to use their positions to find an excuse to engage lone, attractive women in conversation. It usually resulted in a request for their telephone number - for ‘official purposes only’ of course. What dismayed Marianna most about the ruse, was the number of times it seemed to actually work. Even Ria admitted, eventually, to accepting the young officer’s invitation for ‘drinks’ the time he stopped her to warn her about her speed while driving along the
coast road.

  As she took her last look round before settling into the back seat, Marianna suspected that the pair standing under one of the palms lining the harbour was of that ilk. When she’d stepped up into the Mitsubishi, her skirt rode up. She just caught the way they leaned into each other, no doubt swapping some remark that would prompt the inane, macho chuckling she hated. If it did, she never got to see however, as Ivan closed the door to the outside world. In her mind, she likened it to a prison gate, slamming shut.

  Drawing Sasha to her - she had nodded off halfway through the first act - Marianna let out a sigh. Whatever the Englishman might have planned, if indeed he ever planned anything, it was too late now. Ensconced with her guards, she was going nowhere, apart from home. At that moment, the uncertainties over her and Sasha’s futures that had plagued her these last few days, returned. Taking a tissue from her purse, she dabbed at the tear that was forming. Emotions swirled within her. Chief amongst them was disappointment - he seemed so genuine in his promises - but relief was there also.

  She had always feared what may transpire if the Englishman followed through on his promise. He had said there may be a period when she would have to stay hidden. Stupidly she now realised, she had fallen for his assurances. God alone knew what he planned to do with the information she had given him. Her duplicity could bring disaster on them all. Not just Valerik, but herself and, worst of all, Sasha. She cursed herself for her naivety.

  At the time, she believed the Englishman when he said that if she trusted him, he could arrange the freedom she craved. When it was all over, he said, she and Sasha would be able to start a new life, free from the humiliations Valerik subjected her to, the obsessive control he exercised over every aspect of their lives. Most of all, and it was what finally swung her, he said she would not have to worry about any threat of reprisal. That even if Valerik ever discovered where they were, or that she had conspired in her own liberation, factors existed that meant he would never be able to harm them. He didn’t say what those factors were, and she didn’t ask. At the time, it came like an answer to all her prayers, and she did not think on it long before giving her agreement. What a fool she had been.