by Alex Just
~ Switzerland – Paris ~
Smothered in a large overcoat, Stanley slouched in a train seat, his legs extending to take up the seat next to him. His face downcast, lost in thought, left a “leave me alone, I don’t want to socialise” message for all other passengers in his carriage. They quickly forgot him, continuing to do whatever it was that preoccupied them.
Somewhere miles back in Geneva, a freight train driver stared in disbelief at the battered remains of a Volkswagen Golf. Unable to prevent the collision he had quickly belted himself into his seat and braced himself for the impact. When it finally hit, the force was terrifying, the train ploughing right through the car, and then, it was over. Not much was left of what was once a proud car which had survived a lead storm. That was exactly how Stanley wanted it. No finger prints, no nothing.
His destination was Paris, so he’d a long train ride ahead of him. He tried to fight fatigue but eventually his eyes closed and the gentle rocking of the train as it shot along the rails sent him drifting into a dark and terrifying dream, filled with images of Smith’s face twisted out of proportion.
A yell escaped his mouth as Stan flinched back from the hand which shook his injured shoulder; sending waves of pain rippling through his nerves, forcing him bolt upright in his seat. An old woman with short grey hair and a face crinkled in kindness looked at Stan with fearful bewilderment.
‘Ve vill be arriiiving iiin Pariii, very soon,’ her voice thickly accented in French.
‘Thank you,’ he spoke through gritted teeth.
The old woman gave him an odd stare sitting back down in her seat across the aisle from him. She was probably thinking of him as a weird homeless. Not too far wrong old lady, he thought with a small smile.
French crackled over the intercom announcing the trains arrival in Paris, then in German and finally in English. Reaching into his pocket with his right hand he pulled out a small piece of paper on which an address had hastily been scrawled in untidy handwriting. The train ground to a slow halt, the doors hissing open and Stan joined the throng of people rushing to get out of the train, where they were met with the loud yells of old friends reuniting and the noisy hub of “la gare central de Paris” alive and busy, any time; day or night. At that moment it was late night, with half an hour till midnight and Stan felt neither alive nor was he in any hurry to leave or go anywhere.
Nerves were giving him butterflies, something he hadn’t felt since he’d been on his first date. Strengthening his resolve he started out towards the taxi stand, he had to get through this because a lot was at stake, what exactly would happen he didn’t know, but it was bound to be disastrous. He saw a taxi and made a beeline for it. The taxi driver looked at him critically, the long coat, the pale drawn face with hair unwashed and dirty; work was work he thought with a shrug and opened the door for Stan ushering him inside.
Stan spoke the address and then settled into a thoughtful silence. The driver, aware of his passenger’s mood, remained silent.
Fifteen minutes later the taxi pulled up to the curb outside a large apartment building, a picturesque garden and a cobblestone pathway leading up a few steps to the front door. He paid the taxi driver and got out the cab, which sped off faster than was normal. Walking up to the door, Stan found himself standing in front of tall oak panelling, framed by two vertically long windows, and an old fashioned door knocker set into the middle for artistic effect. Typical Paris he thought shaking his head slightly, always had to make everything fancy. To the right of the door, set in an exquisite marble casing were six buttons with names next to them. Adrianna Silver lived on the third floor. He took a deep breath, this was worse than storming a building full of armed drug dealers, worse than dodging Smith’s soldiers. He was terrified of her reaction. Not because he feared that she could hurt him physically, but because he feared rejection. Again. He had to be convincing when he rang her doorbell, the chances she’d let him in if he told her who he really was, were extremely slim.
Just as he was about to push the buzzer he heard a car door slam behind him and a tinkling laugh that sounded like sunlight falling on water. He heard a male voice asking in French if the person to whom this magical laugh belonged, was going to be OK. Stan remained with his back to the road, studying the couple in the reflection of the window pane. His mind already categorising the event, it was a first or second date, nothing serious he told himself.
Anxiously he awaited the reply, he saw Adrianna glancing at his back, probably wondering who on earth that was, and saw the hesitation in her face, but it was quickly wiped away. He saw her nod once and wave as the car pulled out onto the road and drove away. Stan felt his chest tighten, she was only a couple of metres away, any second now she’d ask the inevitable “who are you?” and he’d have to answer.
‘Good evening, can I help you Monsieur?’ her French was nearly perfect.
Replying in English Stan turned.
‘Good evening and yes your help is what I desperately need.’ There he’d spoken. She now knew who he was, he saw how her jaw dropped, and eyes widen first in shock, then narrow in anger and finally settle coolly revealing no emotion.
‘How did you find me?’ He flinched, he couldn’t help it. He tried to disguise it as a nonchalant shrug, struggling to maintain his dignity.
‘The Company has its benefits,’ he even managed to force a quick smile. ‘I need your help, your medical skills that is.’
‘You used the FBI data base to find me?’ the shock on her face was plain to read. So she wasn’t aware he’d basically been fired from the FBI and worked for someone else now.
Plainly ignoring her outraged response he spoke again. ‘It’s cold outside, I’m hurt and tired, why don’t we go up into your apartment?’ he hoped he sounded desperate enough; he didn’t want to have to threaten her with the gun, that would just look bad.
‘No.’ That familiar stubborn look entered her grey eyes, she shook her head and black hair swept across her forehead, falling down to her shoulders. Her small lips pursed angrily, eyebrows furrowed in frowning concentration, crinkling her forehead, stood out as she raised her small elegant nose haughtily. Her cheeks flushed red in the cold giving her a rosy complexion.
‘I want you to leave. You have some nerve coming here like this.’
With a frustrated sigh Stan glanced left then right, swiftly pulling out his silenced weapon and roughly pulling her into an embrace, the gun pointed into her abdomen, wincing in pain as his shoulder protested strongly against the movement.
He whispered fiercely into her ear. ‘Do as I say. Do it now or I will be forced to shoot you here.’
He could feel her trembling, from fear or anger he didn’t know. Either way he felt her nod in acceptance and manoeuvred himself so that she could unlock the front door. He had to focus now, not get distracted by the familiarity of her closeness, he knew that given any opportunity she’d escape and call the police.
Once inside, he let the door slam shut, not stopping to admire the elegant foyer with its marble tiles and gold railings he went straight towards the lift. He pushed the button that called the elevator down to the entrance. The doors slid open revealing carpeted red floor, extremely classy. They stepped into a mirrored interior with bright lights fitted into the ceiling and Stan pushed for the third floor, the button, flashy and golden set into a polished panel. With a sudden movement Adrianna pushed the emergency help button in the lift. Angrily Stan thrust her to the other side levelling the gun at her head. His eyes cold and empty.
‘Do you really want it to end like this Adrianna?’
Fearfully she shook her head.
‘Then when the man asks if everything is ok, you will let me tell him, that yes, everything is under control?’
A quick nod. He felt ashamed at the way he was handling his so called apology, but this was necessary for his survival and ultimately getting even with Smith.
A voice crackled over the lift speakers asking if ev
erything was OK.
Apologising in French, Stan told the man that he’d had a few beers and mistakenly pushed the wrong button. He laughed loudly and wished the security guard a good night, all the while keeping a cool gaze on Adrianna, who was looking at him like a stranger.
The lift reached the third floor and they stepped into a corridor which had three doors in it. Together they entered Adrianna’s apartment, Stan firmly shutting the door behind him and locking it. He quickly went over to the phone and unplugged it from the wall, and powered down the P.C. that was humming quietly in the corner. He removed her handbag, taking the cell phone out, switching it off and pocketing it.
His professional act disappeared and he stood in front of her awkwardly holding the gun. He also pocketed this with an apologetic shrug.
‘Sorry about that, if you’d just let me in things would have been easier. Where can we sit? We have a lot to talk about…’ he left the sentence unfinished. While he’d spoken he’d looked everywhere but at Adrianna and couldn’t help feeling like an insecure teenager.
‘In the lounge.’ No anger in her voice any more, he finally glanced into her face and was surprised to see no trace of offense, just sadness.
She made no move towards the lounge, just stared at him. Feeling extremely uncomfortable Stan struggled to remove his coat, his shoulder burning painfully. He couldn’t stifle the instinctive groan the pain caused. Adrianna was shaken out of her silence when she saw the dark stain surrounding his left shoulder.
‘Oh my God, you’re hurt,’ her voice didn’t hold the cold hostility it had not two seconds earlier but instead it was suffused with hesitant concern.
‘Let’s get you lying down and I’ll look at that wound.’ She was all business now, as she helped him to the guest bedroom and removed his shirt.
She’d completely forgotten about the hostage incident earlier, her manner brisk and professional she rummaged around in her closet for her medical kit she kept at home. Finding it she set to work, tucking her hair behind her ears, giving Stan a shot of morphine for the pain. He closed his eyes as he felt the soft embrace of narcotic relief. Quickly she cleaned and disinfected the shoulder, then set about removing the bullet from the wound, a task that took a long time and left her drained.
***
13
