‘Yes, but Mikis always suspects the worst of people.’
‘So this time he was right,’ I snort. ‘It’s the perfect set-up. Mikis has already cast Axel Nelke as a traitor. Bond and the others will be looking for someone to hang. If we throw them the hook of Nelke, they’ll snap at it gratefully, so long as we don’t make it look too much like a frame.’
‘So you’ll kill Mikis with Axel’s gun, then leave it by the body?’
‘That won’t work. If Axel was smart enough to slip back into London unseen and carry out a hit, he’d be smart enough not to incriminate himself. If we’d acted swiftly, while we still had his body, we could have arranged a car crash and accounted for him that way — the gun would have been found in the wreckage and Bond would have put two and two together. Since it’s too late for that, we have to give them someone else.’
A couple of Japanese tourists sit down close to us. I remain seated a while, so it won’t look like we’ve been frightened away, then rise and take Andeanna on a stroll around the square, speaking softly out of the side of my mouth. ‘Assume Nelke’s alive and wants to kill the Turk. He can’t do it by himself while all the Turk’s men are scouring London for him. So how does he go about it?’
‘He gets someone else to do it,’ Andeanna answers promptly.
‘Right. But he can’t risk hiring a thug who’ll make a meal of the job. He needs a professional. Also, since Mikis is well known and his death is going to create merry hell, it has to be someone who won’t be put off by the measure of the assignment. Your average assassin, if there is such a thing, won’t go after the likes of Mikis Menderes unless his employer is even more powerful. If we could pin this on one of the Turk’s rivals, it would be plain sailing. But we only have Nelke, so he’ll have to be the one who hires the assassin.’
‘Could Axel afford that?’ Andeanna asks.
‘He could if he’d been skimming from the Turk,’ I chuckle darkly. ‘And you can bet Gardiner will draw those sorts of conclusions by himself, without hard evidence. But we need more than financial incentive. We need someone with another reason for accepting this particular hit.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No professional would accept money from a guy as insignificant as Axel Nelke to take out someone as well connected as the Turk, unless it was personal.’ We stop by one of the lions at the base of Nelson’s column and I murmur, ‘Does the name Sebastian Dash mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘He’s an assassin. He’s worked for the Turk in the past. Last time, something went wrong and the Turk refused to pay. They parted on bad terms.’
‘So we pay Dash to kill Mikis, then pretend to Bond that Axel put him up to it?’
‘No. Dash wouldn’t accept the hit. He doesn’t like the Turk, but he’s not dumb enough to let that cloud his judgement.’
‘Then what good is he to us?’
‘We don’t need to directly involve Dash. We only need to point the finger of blame at him. When the Turk turns up dead and Dash’s signature is found, Bond Gardiner and the others will assume the worst.’
Andeanna looks blank. ‘Signature?’
‘When Dash kills, he usually unties the lace on the victim’s left shoe. If we can get him to London, so that he can be seen by people who’ll recognize him, then connect him to Nelke’s gun, I can kill the Turk and fake Dash’s signature.’
She isn’t convinced. ‘What if Bond tracks down Dash and learns that he didn’t do it?’
‘How? By asking politely?’
‘Bond could torture him.’
I shake my head. ‘You don’t fuck around with men like Sebastian Dash. If Gardiner catches up with Dash, he’ll execute from a distance, not risk taking him alive. Not that I expect him to get that chance — when Dash learns that he’s been framed, he’ll go to ground.’
‘You don’t think he’ll try to find out who set him up?’
‘How will he trace us? All roads will lead to Axel Nelke, and nobody’s ever going to find him.’
‘And Axel’s gun? How will we pin that on Dash?’
‘They might be able to identify the gun from the bullet. After the hit, I’ll head out to Heathrow, where Nelke’s car is parked, slide the gun under the front seat and leave it there. If they can ID the bullet, I’ll retrieve the gun and dispose of it. If they can’t link the bullet to the gun, I’ll break into Nelke’s car. A couple of weeks after the murder, I’ll return to the car park with a crowbar, smash in the side window and –’
‘How likely is that?’ she interrupts. ‘Bond will know something’s wrong if the car with the gun in it just happens to be broken into.’
‘Hear me out. Nelke obviously liked music, because there was a top-of-the-range CD player in the car. I’ll rip that out and break into other cars as well. There’s CCTV in the car park, so I’ll have to get in and out in a hurry. The police probably won’t find the gun, since they won’t be looking for it. But they will trace the car back to Nelke and try to contact him, to inform him about the robbery. One of Gardiner’s men will take a message, retrieve the car, find the gun, and there you have it.’
She ponders the plan. ‘Why would the gun be in Axel’s car?’ she asks. ‘If Dash was the killer, wouldn’t he have got rid of the weapon?’
‘Sometimes your employer slips you a piece, then takes it back after the hit to dispose of. The break-in and plant are too neat, but this wouldn’t be the first time a plan was undone by the meddling of amateurs. Gardiner will buy it.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ she asks.
I shrug. ‘I can’t make guarantees. I could simply kill the Turk and walk away, but if his murder isn’t solved, you’ll always be a suspect. What happens six months or a year from now when we move in together? People will wonder when we met and where I was the night the Turk was killed. But if the hit is considered a closed case, we’re in the clear. If you can think of another way to frame Nelke, great, I’m all ears.’
‘You know I can’t,’ she pouts, then asks, ‘How will we set up Dash?’
I smile, pleased by her sharpness. ‘I haven’t worked that out yet. We have to come up with a pretext. Ideally we’d fake a message from Nelke and supply Dash with a bogus target, but that won’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Dash wouldn’t accept an assignment without doing his homework. He’d want to know who Nelke was, if he was reliable, how he was going to pay.’
‘So how do we lure him in?’
‘I don’t know,’ I groan. ‘Maybe pretend to be one of his other employers. I know people in England who’ve used him in the past. I’ll try to get a sample of their handwriting – Dash insists that correspondence be handwritten – so that I can forge a note asking him to fly in for a job. If I can convince him to come, I’ll put him up in a safe house, then leave another note instructing him to wait, with a promise to slip him a weapon later.’
Andeanna turns away from me and strolls ahead. I follow patiently, waiting for her to work through whatever’s troubling her. Finally she looks back. ‘If Mikis asked Dash to do a job for him, would he?’
‘Mikis wouldn’t hire Sebastian Dash. I told you they parted inamicably.’
‘But might Mikis want to make things right between them again?’
I think it over. ‘Possibly. Business is business, and Dash is one of the best in his profession.’
‘So if Mikis offered him a job,’ she pushes, ‘would Dash feel compelled to accept?’
‘Maybe. The Turk would take it as an insult if he extended the hand of friendship and Dash blanked him.’
Andeanna stops. She’s trembling, but with excitement, not fear. ‘I can fake Mikis’s handwriting. I learnt to copy it years ago. If I wrote to Dash, pretending to be Mikis . . . ’
I stare at her, stunned by the simplicity of her plan.
‘Would it work?’ she asks.
‘It . . . Andeanna . . . I . . . ’
Unable to find the words, I wrap my
arms around her and kiss her hotly. A kiss of pure delight. A kiss of promised death.
We find a quiet café. Taking a table at the rear, we order cappuccinos and fall into a mumbled conversation. After a while, I take out my writing pad and pen and we experiment with notes to Dash.
‘We can’t make outright mention of the hit,’ I mutter as I scribble. ‘Dash demands handwritten letters from his clients, to use against them if they try to shaft him. But they must be ambiguous, so they won’t tip anyone off if they go astray in the post.’
I finish my first draft and hand it to Andeanna. My wife has been cheating on me. I’m not happy. I want to discuss it with you. I have lodgings set aside for you. If you can spare the time, please move in, make yourself comfortable and wait. I’ll be in touch. Mikis Menderes.
‘We’ll include your address, as well as that of the safe house,’ I tell her.
‘Mikis’s middle name is Theopolous,’ Andeanna says. ‘He always uses it when signing his name.’
‘OK. That’s an easy adjustment. What about the rest?’
She reads it through a second time. ‘We should take out my wife. Mikis refers to me as his woman. And I don’t think he’d say I’d been cheating on him. He’d be more likely to say something like I’d been seen with another man. And . . . ’
We go over it a few more times. Finally Andeanna is satisfied and reads it out softly, mimicking Mikis’s accent. ‘My woman has been seen on the arm of another man. Not happy. Want to talk with you about it. Lodgings set aside for you. If you’re agreeable, move in and wait. I will be in touch.’
‘You’re sure he’d be this curt?’ I ask.
‘That’s a novel as far as Mikis’s letters go.’
Smiling, I turn over the sheet of paper and write on the back.
‘What are you doing now?’ Andeanna asks.
‘Adding the name of Dash’s contact, a woman in Switzerland. She’s the person you need to send the letter to.’
‘Me?’ Andeanna reacts with alarm. ‘I thought you were going to send it.’
I shake my head. ‘The letter needs to be written on the Turk’s own stationery and posted locally. It will be safer if you do it.’
Andeanna looks uncertain, but she nods and takes the note, folding it in half and tucking it away in her purse. ‘What about fingerprints?’
‘Wear gloves at all stages, before you pick up the paper, before you touch the pen. Make sure it’s a self-sealing envelope, so you don’t have to lick the flap.’
‘When should I send it?’
‘As soon as we sort out a safe house.’
‘How long will it take him to respond?’
‘That depends on where he is and what his schedule’s like. We haven’t stressed a time frame, so he’ll know we aren’t in a rush, but he won’t want to keep the Turk waiting too long. I’d guess a few weeks. If it goes beyond that, I’ll head out to Heathrow and move the car, so the security guards don’t take an interest in it.’
‘If Dash doesn’t accept? How will . . . ’ She stops, eyes widening. ‘What if he calls Mikis?’
‘He won’t. The note says to move in and wait. It doesn’t say anything about direct contact. Where instructions aren’t provided, Dash won’t substitute his own.’
She doesn’t look convinced. ‘What about the safe house?’
‘I’ll visit estate agents tomorrow, tell them my name’s Axel Nelke, that I need somewhere secluded for the next few months. I’ll pay with cash.’
‘What about proof of identity? Credit checks? References?’
‘Cash buys discretion. Not everywhere, but you can always find people who are prepared to waive the rules if the price is right. I’ll avoid the chains, hit independent agents, spin them some story about being in the middle of a messy divorce and not wanting to leave a paper trail. As long as I’m paying up front, it shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Can you afford that?’ Andeanna asks.
‘Haven’t you heard? I’m hooking up with a wealthy widow-in-the-making.’
Andeanna waves a finger under my nose. ‘That isn’t funny. Besides, like I told you, everything goes to Greygo.’
‘That’s OK,’ I grin. ‘We can kill Greygo too.’ Her expression flattens. ‘I’m joking. You know I don’t care about money. We’ll get by.’
She takes my hand and squeezes. ‘I’m scared, Ed.’
‘You should be. This is a scary business. But it will all work out in the end.’ I lean forward to kiss her, and whisper, ‘Trust me.’
TWELVE
The next few days fly by. I alter my appearance slightly before hitting the estate agents, combing my hair a different way, pencilling in an array of freckles across the bridge of my nose, purchasing a cheap pair of glasses, along with a second-hand suit which is too short in the legs and sleeves. I print up business cards with Nelke’s name, a fake address and the number of a second cell phone, which I buy, and I’m ready to go.
It’s more difficult than I’d anticipated. The agents here don’t seem to be as open to bribes as those in America. Or else they don’t believe my divorce story and think I’m trying to set them up for a sting. But finally I find a dapper little man who bills himself as James Biesty Esq., who sympathizes with my predicament and says he has the perfect place for me, a small house that has been on his books for months with not even a sniff of an offer. The owner lives abroad, has a string of other properties which are making regular returns. He’ll be none the wiser about our ‘little arrangement’.
‘What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,’ Mr Biesty chuckles, and I smile as if I have a clue what he’s talking about.
We drive out to the property to give it the once-over. It’s a bit run-down, and backs on to a busy railway line, but that doesn’t bother me. I thought I’d have to rent a flat, but a house is even better, so I’m delighted. I barter James down – I think that’s expected, even on a shady deal like this one – then return to the office to arrange payment. I pay for the first three months up front. James agrees to issue a refund if there are complications and I have to vacate prematurely, but as no receipt is proffered, I have only his word for that. I think he’s probably good for it, but I’m not bothered either way. If everything works out, Mr Biesty Esq. will be more than welcome to his profit.
Once the keys are mine, I tell Andeanna to send the letter. Then the waiting begins.
I spend a couple of days rattling around the rented house, cleaning and airing it. The radiators run off an oil tank, which I have filled. I check all the lights and replace those that have blown. I don’t try to hook up the telephone. Instead I buy another cell and leave it there, fully charged, with credit on it. I also buy a bed, chairs, some other bits and pieces, and have the furniture delivered. I pay for everything with cash.
When the house has been arranged to my satisfaction, I scout the neighbourhood, making notes of shops and supermarkets, which I later type up and leave lying on the kitchen table for Dash, along with spending money and a map of the area. After that, I sit back and ring the cell twice a day, waiting for him to answer.
I try getting back into Spirit of the Fire, but the real-world intrigue proves too distracting. Instead I go for long walks, taking in museums and art galleries, and read a lot of books, old thrillers mostly.
I wish I could call Joe. The time would pass quicker with him around to crack dumb jokes and accompany me on my tours. But I’m determined not to involve him, not with things balanced the way they are.
Two weeks drag by. I go back to Heathrow to move the car. I park it elsewhere for a couple of nights, in a lot with no CCTV or security guards, then return it to the airport.
Another week ticks past. Autumn is sweeping the city. Leaves turn orange and brown. Dark clouds move in to stay, although it doesn’t rain much. The nights draw in. The temperature dips. I invest in some sweaters and return to the house to heat it up and set the timer to come on at regular intervals. I also recharge the phone while I’m there.
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Finally, almost a month after we posted the letter, I call the cell phone one day and a man answers. ‘Hello?’
‘Good morning. Is Antonia there?’
‘I’m afraid you have the wrong number.’
‘Sorry to trouble you.’
‘No trouble at all.’
Game on!
Dash has to be seen. It’s no good bringing him all the way over to be our fall guy if we leave him sitting indoors, hidden from those who can identify him. At the same time, we don’t want to place him in a situation where he might run into the Turk or his men. Andeanna recommends a small pub called the Purple Platypus. It’s on the Turk’s turf (they call it a manor here, a phrase I add to my lexicon in case I ever return to work on my book), but he fell out with the landlord years ago and shuns it these days.
We send a second letter to the assassin. Glad you could make it. We must meet to discuss terms. It’s a private matter. Only you and I must know about it. Be at the Purple Platypus between seven and nine every night this week and I will make contact.
I’m sure Dash will be recognized in the pub. I’m just as sure he’ll reject any overtures from the locals. He keeps his head down when he’s on a job. By Friday, word will have spread that he’s in town. Come Saturday morning, the Turk will be dead, his left shoelace left untied, and the gossipmongers will have tried and convicted Dash by midday.
It has to be Friday, because that’s when the Turk is throwing a dinner party for several of his more legitimate colleagues — bankers, stockbrokers and so on. He hosts the house parties three or four times a year. On such occasions he dispenses with his regular guards, not wanting to alarm any of his associates who might not know about his seedier business interests. If the timing hadn’t been so perfect, we would have made other arrangements, but with Dash arriving shortly before a giltedged opportunity, we’d be crazy to waste it.
I spend the days before Friday worrying about the hit. The Turk might not stay on after the party. Or he might invite some of his guests to spend the night at the mansion. Or . . .
To distract myself, I stake out the Purple Platypus on Thursday and take note of Sebastian Dash entering and leaving as scheduled. He looks a little longer in the tooth and greyer at the temples than the last time our paths crossed, but still in excellent shape. The sight of him stirs up bitter feelings, and any tinge of regret I might have felt at involving him evaporates in a mist of melancholy memories.