Bad Turn

by Zoe Sharp

  “If I didn’t trust my people, they would not be here,” Kincaid said.

  Ugoccione glanced sideways at Helena. “It is not a matter of trust, I assure you,” he said. “But of keeping certain persons out of the line of fire, as it were.”

  “Yeah, well, it appears someone has already broken our non-combatant agreement.”

  “But…that’s terrible!”

  “It is,” Kincaid agreed, no emotion in his voice. “And you will appreciate my concern when it was discovered that you had a part in it.”

  Ugoccione’s face reflected an exaggerated confusion. “What is this? What part? What are you saying?” His voice rose, but he remained seated and his eyes were calculating. He turned to one of his men. “Bernardo, did you know about this? Why was I not informed?”

  The man stepped forward ducking almost into a bow. “We knew nothing of any attacks on members of the syndicate, signore,” he murmured, not only loud enough to be heard across the breadth of the table, but thoughtfully in English, too.

  I struggled to keep the impatience out of my face. Schade’s slouch became even more pronounced. I was learning that the more relaxed he appeared, the more tightly wound he’d become. Looking at him now, I guessed he was close to furious.

  Kincaid explained briefly, and without apparent impatience, about the attempt on Helena on the road. I was standing far enough to one side that, as he spoke, I could see at least part of Helena’s face. Her expression was carefully blank.

  “Fortunately,” Kincaid added, “it was…foiled.”

  Ugoccione nodded gravely without asking for clarification. He was, I imagined, a man who did not want to know about the harsh realities. How else could he continue to ply his trade?

  “We have an agreement. Surely, you know that I would never—”

  “They were using Colt M4s,” Kincaid interrupted, still calm and measured, “supplied by you.” He made it sound personal.

  Ugoccione sat back, looking from one face to another.

  “Erico, please. You, of all people, know that I deal in thousands of units every week—every day. I cannot be held to account for the actions of each end user, just as you yourself cannot. It is a sad truth of the business we are in, mio amico.”

  Kincaid inclined his head slightly, allowing the point, but only up to a point. “I would take it as a sign of that friendship you refer to, to know who was the particular end user of that shipment, my friend.”

  Ugoccione gave an exaggerated shrug, his voice rising. “It could be any number of people. Do you know how long it would take to narrow down—?”

  It was Mrs Heedles who interrupted sweetly, “Even with the serial numbers?”

  Ugoccione took a moment to collect himself. When he spoke his voice was calmer. “You know that I cannot divulge such information. Absolute confidentiality is a part of my business, my reputation.” He looked pained. “You must know this.”

  “Someone attacked my family when all of us gave our word that this was something we would never be party to.”

  “And I was not a party to it!”

  “You know as well as I do that it was agreed there cannot be any connection, and yet there is.” Kincaid’s expression didn’t alter. “The rules have already been broken.”

  Ugoccione eyed him in silence for a long protracted moment, then sighed mournfully. “You have the details?”

  Mrs Heedles opened her notebook and passed over a sheet of the specs and serial numbers from the weapons recovered at the scene of the ambush. If it irritated him that his acquiescence had been so predictable, Ugoccione did not show it. He no more than glanced at the paper before handing it to Bernardo, who carried it to the desk and began tapping at a keyboard. Nobody spoke. After a moment or two Bernardo came back with a scribbled note at the bottom. Ugoccione studied this with more care, his lips pursed.

  “Ah,” he said, as if it had all become clear. “I am afraid to tell you that I knew no good would come of this, mio amico.”

  “Then why did you—?”

  But Ugoccione was already shaking his head. “No, no, this is not my doing—it is yours. This consignment was bought for people who previously dealt with you, until you told them you no longer wish to do business.”

  “Who?”

  Ugoccione laughed, short and harsh and without humour. “There have been so many? The Syrians. Who else?”

  “I thought we had agreed that the Syrians were off limits.”

  I blinked, but kept the surprise out of my face. I thought the whole reason I was here was because Kincaid was dealing with the Syrians…?

  Ugoccione laughed again. “You agreed. As for the rest of us…” A shrug.

  “You cannot do business with everyone, signore. It’s a case of deciding which relationships are in your own best interests.”

  “Indeed. I have no wish to endanger our relationship.” Ugoccione paused, “But in this case I had certain…obligations. I am not a man who goes back on his word.”

  “Even to a regime that uses chlorine gas against its own people?” Kincaid asked.

  “My heart bleeds,” Ugoccione said, with every appearance of sincerity. “But the rebels, in their turn, have themselves used sarin nerve agent against their own compatrioti—their own government. Nobody comes out of this, as you might say, with the smell of the roses.”

  “Fuelling such a conflict is hardly productive,” Helena pointed out.

  Ugoccione spoke gently, his manner that of a father explaining the ways of the wicked world to a sheltered daughter. The patronising bastard.

  “Maybe that is so, mia cara signora,” he said. “But it is very profitable.”

  29

  Kincaid got to his feet. His face was placid but there was a set to his shoulders that spelled trouble. He smiled at Ugoccione with every appearance of amicability, though. I doubt the other man saw the simmering anger beneath the surface.

  “Thank you, signore, for taking this meeting at such short notice. I appreciate your frankness, and your cooperation.”

  Ugoccione moved round the table to perform another double-handed clasp in a show of sincerity. But his gaze did not hold Kincaid’s for long, and when he stepped back he rubbed absently at the nape of his neck with one hand.

  It was a surprise then, when the next moment he said, “You will stay for lunch, of course!”

  Kincaid started to shake his head but before he could speak Ugoccione jumped in again, hands now spread wide. “I insist, mio amico. We came close to breaking a friendship today, with all that entails. Let us sit and eat together, as a sign of goodwill on both sides, yes?”

  Kincaid hesitated. Next to me, Schade twitched. I glanced across. He was staring at Kincaid as if he could force him to make eye contact by will alone—no doubt so Schade could vehemently shake his head. Nice to know it wasn’t only my instincts that were prickling.

  In spite—or perhaps because—of that, Kincaid smiled. “Of course,” he said. “We would be honoured.”

  Ugoccione’s shoulders relaxed and his eyes brightened. “Good. This is good. Come, I have an excellent Brunello I think you will enjoy.”

  Kincaid pulled back Helena’s chair for her to rise.

  “I would like to freshen up before we eat,” she said.

  “Of course.” Ugoccione gave her another of those condescending bows. “Bernardo, show Signora Kincaid the way, if you please, so she does not become lost.” He turned back to Helena with a shrug. “This place, it is a maze. Sometimes I become lost even myself.”

  Bernardo moved to the door and indicated that Helena should go through. I let him follow her, then fell into step behind the pair of them. Bernardo heard my footsteps and paused, frowning. I gave him an innocent smile. “I need to go, too,” I said. “And I’d hate to become lost.”

  Behind me, I heard someone clear their throat. Mo Heedles stood in the doorway. She gave Bernardo a bland smile of her own as she leaned in and said in a confidential voice, “When girls all live under the same
roof, they tend to synchronise.”

  Bernardo had the look of civilian staff rather than security, but I would have been willing to bet everyone surrounding Ugoccione had to prove themselves capable of coping with any situation. Nevertheless, a dark flush seeped up the sides of his neck into his ears and he hurried forwards.

  “This way, signore. Please…”

  He led us along several corridors and down a short flight of marble steps before indicating a doorway. “I shall wait here to escort you.”

  I went in first. I would have preferred Helena to wait outside until I’d checked the room over, but both women followed me in. Inside, one wall held a marble countertop that held an ornate sink, also marble, with mirrors above. There was a gilded chaise longue under the window, and a single cubicle. I stuck my head through the door as much to see if they’d installed a gold-plated loo as to check for intruders. To my disappointment, the toilet was surprisingly utilitarian.

  When Helena had disappeared into the cubicle, I edged closer to Mrs Heedles, cupped my hand around her ear and whispered, “How secure do you think we are in here?”

  She drew back, her gaze assessing, then fished in her handbag for her smartphone. She pulled up an app and set the phone down on the countertop.

  “Now? Very,” she said then. “Unless, of course, Bernardo has his ear to the keyhole.”

  I opened the outer door a crack. Bernardo was a few metres away with his back half turned, but the way he was standing, the angle of his head, suggested he wasn’t above a little eavesdropping, should the occasion present.

  I gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but you’re out of toilet paper in here,” I said sweetly. “Would you mind…?” And I watched him scurry away before closing the door.

  I turned back to find Mo Heedles as close to grinning as she allowed herself. After a moment, she sobered, all business.

  “Now, what’s on your mind, Charlie?”

  “What isn’t?” I muttered. I took a long breath. “Look, you’ve been with Kincaid a lot longer than I have, but how far does he really trust this guy, Ugoccione?”

  She frowned. “That depends on your definition of trust.”

  “Well, would Ugoccione lie to him?”

  “Outright? No, I don’t think so. By omission—by saying, or not saying, something he could slide out of later? Very likely.” She paused. “Spill it.”

  “I know Ugoccione’s English can seem a little hit-and-miss, but something he said earlier, it was just a little too carefully worded. It could be nothing, but it could mean something.”

  She made an impatient ‘get-on-with-it’ gesture with her hand, glancing at the door.

  “OK. He said to Kincaid that the consignment ‘was bought for people who previously dealt with you, until you told them you no longer wish to do business.’ Those were his exact words, yes?”

  “I believe so. And?”

  “Bought for people,” I repeated. “It implies that he didn’t sell direct to the Syrians, but to an intermediary who purchased on their behalf.”

  “O–K,” she said slowly, drawing out the word doubtfully. “Let’s say you’re right. Where does that get us?”

  I shoved a hand through my hair. “I don’t know, exactly. It’s just…if Ugoccione is trying so hard to stay on Kincaid’s good side, as he’s making such a big song and dance about doing, why didn’t he just give us the name of the intermediary?”

  “If there was an intermediary.”

  “Granted, yes, but…why would the Syrians go to all the trouble of coming to the United States and attacking Helena—not to mention making a hash of it—over something as simple as a change of supplier? Ugoccione said himself, dealing with them is very profitable. It’s not like they weren’t going to find an alternative pretty quickly. Why would they give anyone else a reason not to deal with them?”

  Mrs Heedles nodded slowly. “You make a good case, dear,” she said. “Still doesn’t mean the Syrians weren’t behind it, though.” She gave the ghost of a smile. “From my experience, they’re not the most logical of people, nor do they take rejection well.”

  “The men in the ambush were not Syrian.”

  “Then there you are. They contracted out locally and someone ripped them off with inferior personnel. Not the first time that’s happened.”

  I fell silent. It had been little more than a niggling uncertainty and there was no denying the logic of her explanation. But something didn’t sit right, even so.

  As I opened my mouth to speak there came a polite knock on the outer door. When I answered it, Bernardo thrust two loose loo rolls into my hands. They were pale pink. I wondered if he’d made the colour choice specially, or if they were the only ones at hand. I gave him a bright smile and shut the door.

  Helena came out of the cubicle and began washing her hands. She kept her head down and her movements were jerky enough to be of concern.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  Her head shot up as if I’d yelled. Her eyes caught mine briefly in the mirror and drifted away again.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I said I’m fine! Don’t fuss, Charlie.”

  I paused. “I’m guessing you heard all that?”

  She shook the excess water off her hands and shrugged. “Not really.”

  The blatant lie threw me. We had not exactly been shouting but we hadn’t been whispering, either. When I glanced at the older woman, her face was shuttered, offering neither advice nor encouragement.

  As she turned to dry her hands on the fluffy towel provided, I saw Helena exchange a pleading look with Mo Heedles.

  “Time we got back,” Mrs Heedles said decisively, as if nothing had happened. “You know men—they can’t be left on their own for long without breaking the furniture.”

  As Bernardo led us back to the study, I kept a surreptitious eye on Helena. Something had spooked her and she wasn’t about to share with me what it might be. If I’d been hoping she might have begun to trust me a little by now, looks like I was bound for disappointment.

  30

  Saying anything to Mrs Heedles had been a mistake, I acknowledged. For whatever reason, Helena knew more than she was admitting and Mo had sided with her. Bringing it up with Kincaid now would set the pair of them against me.

  I tried to remind myself that my main concern was to protect Helena. But a big part of doing that was threat assessment—not simply the when and the how, but the who as well. It was all bound up together. The best way to prevent anyone getting to her again was to anticipate the next attack. Not knowing who was behind the last attempts made doing my job successfully difficult, bordering on impossible.

  And the person who seemed most determined to stop me finding out anything of use was Helena herself.

  It was frustrating enough to make me spit.

  I managed to control myself through lunch on the terrace. Kincaid, Helena, Mrs Heedles and Ugoccione sat at a table overlooking the lake, under a canopy to keep the high sun off them.

  Mrs Heedles may have dismissed my concerns, but she didn’t exactly look relaxed. Mind you, neither did either of the Kincaids. Even Ugoccione seemed tense.

  Schade, Lopez and I were given a smaller table at the other end of the terrace, further away than I would have liked. And not simply from the point of view of nosiness.

  Schade and Lopez tucked in to their food with the concentration of men who couldn’t be sure when the next meal was coming. I was too twitchy to do more than push a very good seafood salad about on my plate.

  “Charlie, just sitting next to you is giving me acid reflux,” Schade said at last. “Just chill out.”

  “Why should I be the only one?” I muttered. At his raised eyebrow I nodded to our principals. “I haven’t seen a more uncomfortable bunch of people around a table since I last had lunch with my parents.”

  Schade shrugged. “Yeah, well, one wrong move could start a turf war.” He abandoned his knife and fork
and picked up a baton of raw carrot in his fingers, munching his way down it like Bugs Bunny, and just as unconcerned. “’Least Mr K got what he came for.”

  “Which was?”

  “Who bought those M4s, of course.”

  I let out an audible breath. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Schade motioned me to continue with the stump of carrot. Briefly, I ran through the same points I’d made to Mrs Heedles. As I spoke, I tried to keep my voice low enough not to carry and avoided the temptation to glance across at her, which would have been a dead giveaway.

  “What do you think?” I demanded when I was done.

  “About what?”

  If I kept clacking my teeth together like this, I was going to need some serious dental work.

  “About the guns being bought by a middleman,” I ground out, “not directly by the Syrians.”

  “Well, duh.”

  “I don’t understand.” I slumped back in my chair. “If it was so obvious, why didn’t Kincaid press him about who was the middleman?”

  Schade had demolished two more sticks of carrot and turned his attention to the remainder of his veal. His eyes, expressionless behind the lenses of his glasses, focused on me without blinking until he’d chewed and swallowed. “What makes you think he doesn’t know already?”

  Before I could formulate any logical response to Schade’s last statement, Bernardo came hurrying out onto the terrace. As I watched him cross to Ugoccione and bend to speak, my train of thought derailed, crashed and burned. There were no survivors.

  Ugoccione had been slouched in his seat. Whatever Bernardo murmured in his ear had him surge upright as if someone had applied a cattle prod to his rear end. I was on my feet and moving before Ugoccione’s chair finished clattering on the stone flags. There was no conscious decision-making process involved. It was all reflex.

  Schade and I reached their table a moment later, with Lopez a few paces behind.