THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  His response was instantaneous and succinct.

  Chez moi

  Chez Giorgy was in Antibes, with a few dozen super-rich for neighbours. We never met at his residence though. In fact, I had never even been inside it. I composed a short message.

  Need meet tomorrow.

  Arriving c.11.00

  Location 3

  I didn’t ask his permission. The urgency was self-evident. If he didn’t agree, I would hear back by return. No such message came through.

  Location 3 was one of five along the French Mediterranean littoral. Only Giorgy and I were privy to their localities. If our cell phone communications were being monitored, it would be meaningless to the listener.

  Security, security, security. It was the bane of my life.

  It was overcast and blustery in St Tropez, current home and probably to be the last resting place of Brigitte Bardot. The sycamore trees in the Place du XVème Corps were shedding their leaves, assisted by the breeze. The Café Milano, known only to Giorgy and me as Location 3, was at a corner of the square, and had little to recommend it other than its excellent coffee. That was the only recommendation required. Giorgy and I never ate there. Actually, we never ate anywhere together.

  As always, he was there ahead of me, already spooning the cinnamon-sprinkled froth from his cappuccino. He was an elegant, cultured man, master of several tongues, and his English was better than mine. Long limbed, slim, full head of greying hair, no obvious vices. His value to Il Sindicato was in his ability to integrate into the highest strata of society in most of the Western world.

  His handshake was warm. It could even have been genuine.

  ‘How are you, André?’

  ‘Healthwise, fine – for now.’

  I sat beside him, not opposite. For discreet conversation, side-by-side is best; you can murmur in each other’s ear if the occasion warrants it, negating the efforts of listening Toms at adjacent tables.

  ‘Well, this meeting is an unexpected pleasure. You’ll join me in a coffee?’

  I nodded. His raised digit brought a waiter to our table right away. He had a knack of getting the attention of people without effort.

  I opted for a noisette.

  ‘Evidently you have a problem.’ Giorgy was not one to linger on pleasantries.

  ‘Evidently. It’s about your Mr Heider. Do you know the details of this contract?’

  ‘I? Not at all.’

  My grin was lopsided. ‘That’s right. Don’t sweat the details, eh, Giorgy?’

  ‘Don’t ... sweat?’

  His grasp of vernacular English was first-rate. Only occasionally did a new word or phrase flummox him.

  ‘It’s an American-ism. Now and again, I forget my roots and lapse. It means don’t bother about something, don’t fuss about it.’

  ‘Oh. Really. Every day I add to my vocabulary. Well, my friend, details do complicate matters. In the context of you and your work, I need only to know how to put you in touch with the principal, the person who needs your services.’

  The waiter materialized with my noisette, placed it before me, tucked the check under the ash tray.

  ‘You’re so right. Up to a point. But one detail that neither you nor I foresaw is the identity of the man who killed Heider’s brother, the man I’m supposed to take out.’

  I was keeping my voice low. Even so Giorgy shot nervous glances to either side every few seconds, making sure no other coffee sippers were within earshot. A seagull landed on the table next to us, lifted a crust of bread in its beak and winged away over the sycamores. He even regarded that with suspicion.

  ‘The identity of the man who is the subject of the contract,’ Giorgy said, and I could tell he was bursting for me to reveal all. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Only to me. The subject is ... ah, someone I know.’

  A couple in their forties passed our table en route to the café entrance. I tasted my noisette, and Giorgy leaned towards me.

  ‘André, the suspense is becoming unbearable.’

  ‘OK, Giorgy, here it is. You won’t like it ...’

  The waiter loomed over us. ‘Messieurs, is everything to your satisfaction?’

  What could not be to our satisfaction about a couple of coffees? Nevertheless, we gave him the reassurance he craved, and he took off to clear the debris from a newly-vacated table.

  ‘As I say, you won’t like it. The guy I have to whack is called Mason, which is not his real name.’

  If Giorgy already had this information he was keeping it to himself, behind a mask of incomprehension.

  ‘Are you surprised it is not his real name?’ he said.

  ‘The fuck I am. Mason was me.’

  I nodded my confirmation when he jerked upright, turning his head toward me.

  ‘Porca vacca!’ He flopped back in his seat. ‘Are you serious?’

  Before I could answer he said, ‘Yes ... yes, of course you are serious. The contract must be cancelled – at once!’

  ‘Not so hasty, Giorgy. Think about what you’re proposing.’

  He did his fast scan of the other clients. No changes to their dispositions. The sun peeked from behind a cloud and directed its beam into my eyes. I hooked my sunglasses from the breast pocket of my sport coat.

  Giorgy’s face told me that he had already figured out the consequences.

  ‘Even if it were possible to cancel, they will still want this ... Mason ...’ His voice dropped to a reverent whisper, ‘dead.’

  I just inclined my head.

  ‘How did this come about?’ he asked.

  ‘The contractor was one of your countrymen, name of Vittorio Tosi. A biggish noise in the Reno criminal fraternity.’

  ‘The name is not familiar to me. It did not come from us, I think.’

  ‘No, The Syndicate is not involved. Let me fill you in briefly: It was a couple of years ago. Tosi came to me by recommendation. He wanted to expand his Reno empire into Las Vegas. So he tried to buy a piece of the Heider operation cut-price, backed by threats. The Heiders wouldn’t deal, so he figured that wasting one of the brothers would pressure them into cooperating, as well as weakening their operation. Jeff Heider, the one I fixed, was the guiding light.’

  Giorgy was looking unhappier by the minute.

  ‘The way I see it,’ I went on, ‘I have three options. One: The Syndicate could eliminate Heider and his nephew, using one of their own enforcers.’

  Giorgy shuddered. ‘Out of the question. This man, this family, are new business partners. This is why they came to us for assistance in recruiting an enforcer. It is fortunate for you that the other Heider was killed some time before they became our partners, otherwise you really would have to kill yourself. In any case, even if Il Sindicato were to agree to it, you would have to pay another professional. It would not be cheap.’

  He was right about not being cheap, not if another pro could command the fee I had been offered. Besides, the price would be hiked to take account of there being two hits – uncle and nephew. Maybe more than two, for all I knew.

  ‘Fair comment. So option one is a no. Moving on to two: I could fix Heider and his nephew myself.’ Giorgy didn’t look any happier about that course of action. ‘No fee for me, but the threat is removed, which is the real priority.’

  ‘Same objection applies, my friend. You have already been down this route. Remember how it ended.’

  Right again. I had flouted the wishes of Il Sindicato once before. It had cost me my freedom of choice.

  ‘That leaves option three: I find a fall guy to take my place.’

  ‘Take your place?’ His frown represented the only lines in his smooth complexion. He had better skin than me. ‘What exactly do you mean? How can someone take your place?’

  ‘You’re usually quicker than that at solving riddles, Giorgy.’

  I went on to explain the bare bones of what I had in mind. Once or twice he interrupted me for clarification. More often he shook his head – disapproval or dissent, it
was hard to tell. The sky darkened as I talked and the breeze got up. Maybe a mistral was brewing.

  When I was all talked out, I folded my arms and awaited the verdict.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ he proposed.

  We went through the open glass door, found a seat in a corner, remote from the other customers and the bar. I ordered a Bavaisienne Blonde, a Belgian beer brewed in France, to which I was partial. Giorgy settled for another cappuccino.

  ‘And bring some nuts,’ he called after the waiter.

  To me, he said, ‘What you propose may be the answer, in fact the only answer. It should satisfy the committee. Whether you can pull it off will remain to be seen.’ He paused as our drinks were set down before us. ‘There is a second issue – for you, not for us – your precious moral code of conduct. You might have to break it. Have you considered that?’

  Not yet, I hadn’t. In a case of life and death, all codes were open to re-assessment.

  ‘I’ll figure a way round it.’

  ‘Perhaps morality takes second place to survival,’ Giorgy said, a sardonic twist to his mouth.

  My shrug was non-committal.

  As a rule, any contracts that originated via Il Sindicato were signed off by Giorgy on my behalf. He also arranged payment, if only to make sure he received his cut. He asked me if he should go ahead and accept the contract.

  ‘Yeah, no choice really. I’ll find a fall guy, and Heider will be satisfied, and life will go on.’

  ‘So be it.’ He studied me, his blue eyes lightly mocking. ‘You know, André, you have always fascinated me as a person. Moral, educated, middle class background. One day you will be my guest in Antibes. My wife will go to bed, and leave you and me to get drunk on Negroni in my study. By the time we have consumed three or four apiece you will have told me your life story.’

  I shook my head. ‘Dream on, Giorgy. My life story is classified information. What’s more, I don’t like Negroni.’

  ‘We shall see. You spoke a while ago about forgetting your roots. Which of your several roots is the real you – England, Canada, or that funny little piece of Canada called Québec?’

  ‘Interesting question. Nobody ever asked me before.’ I pondered it. ‘British, first and foremost, I guess. My father’s influence, my upbringing ... Then I’m not sure. I spent a number of years in Toronto in my teens and had an Anglo education. Québec would be lowest on the scale, I reckon. I speak French, but not Québécois French. My mother made sure I learned it properly, Parisian-style.’

  Giorgy was tapping on his lower lip with index and middle finger, a habit of his. He desisted, and nodded.

  ‘I see. You answered my question anyway: you’re mostly British, though you have a Transatlantic accent and use American idioms.’

  This was true. Over the years I hadn’t given the matter of my origins of a lot of attention. During my youth in Toronto I’d learned to call petrol gas, the pavement a sidewalk, biscuits cookies, and the rest, and the habit had stuck with me. On reflection, I was a bit of a mongrel.

  With that bit of soul-searching behind us, we took our leave of each other and of St Tropez, still the current home of Brigitte Bardot.

  FOUR

  The phone was picked up after a single trill.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Jones here,’ I said.

  ‘Well, hello there, Mr J, how are ye now?’ Freddie was Ulster Irish through and through, and his accent was a giveaway.

  ‘Good. I need a blue one.’ Assassin-speak for a US passport.

  ‘Oh-kaay.’ More guarded now. ‘Which one?’

  ‘James Harold Freeman.’

  ‘Freeman, is it? Right. Usual trimmings?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll collect it on Sunday.’

  ‘You’ll be coming over then? Sure, it’ll be good to see you. It’s been a while, I’m thinking. Bring some sunshine with you, will you? Oh, and a couple of bottles of that tasty little red, the Crianza one.’

  ‘Campo Viejo? Do my best. You can set up a pint of Guinness at the usual place. Three o’clock work for you?’

  It worked for him. That was that. No details were necessary about the identity I had just ordered. It was all in a database, along with half a dozen others.

  Belfast was not high on my list of favourite cities. Money had been lavished on the centre since the Good Friday agreement restored a sort of peace to the province. But not necessarily lavished to best effect, unless Legoland is your idea of architecture. I travelled there from Spain by the slow route – in the Seat to Bilbao, the ferry to the UK as a foot passenger, rental car to Stranraer, ferry to Northern Ireland, again as a foot passenger. All paid in cash, though I had to produce my Henley passport in Bilbao and Portsmouth. No passports were required at the ferry port in Cairnryan. Being within the UK, the crossing to Belfast counts as internal.

  The Stena Line super-fast ferry sailed at 10.15am and arrived a little over two hours later under overcast skies. It wasn’t raining, but I had brought a raincoat just in case. I lunched at the pub where I was to meet Freddie, the McHugh’s Bar in Queen Square, which isn’t really a square but a section of the A2 road. They were offering lunch for £12.50 including a starter. It was a year or two since I last ate there, but the walls were still pink and the wall-to-wall seating still two-tone blue. Eating and business discussions didn’t go together for me, so I wanted the steak and kidney pie and the overcooked fries to be sitting in my stomach before Freddie arrived. I drank a pint of Guinness to wash it down.

  It was nearly quarter past the hour when my passport provider crashed down in the seat opposite, flushed of face and breathing hard through his mouth.

  ‘Hello, hello, sorry I’m late. Feckin’ road works on Victoria.’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought, Freddie. I was savouring a few minutes of relaxation. How are you?’

  We shook hands; his was clammy. He was heavier than he should have been for his height, which was five feet eight-ish. Round pimply face, owlish glasses, Freddie was a Dublin-born man of few parts. His skill at creating facsimile ID documents was legendary, and for me that was the only part that counted.

  I stepped up to the bar and ordered a brace of Guinness. When I got back to the table, a jiffy bag with a black J on it was occupying my place mat.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said when I delivered his Guinness.

  I resumed my seat and slipped the pack into my inside pocket without checking the contents. I trusted him enough for that. Whether or not I could still trust him for other things was a question I was here to answer.

  ‘Did you bring the wine?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry, left it in the car at the port.’

  He looked disappointed. ‘Ah, well, it doesn’t matter. Next time, eh?’

  ‘I’ll bring a case,’ I said, addressing the base of his upended glass. ‘Look, Freddie, I need to come out to the house.’

  Over the rim, his eyes became more owl-like. A last gulp and he lowered the half-empty glass, wiping froth from his lips.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Now came the tricky part. Freddie lived alone in a restored farmhouse on the Ballinderry Road, beyond Lisburn. I had visited him there only twice in ten years, meaning that my request was unusual. He was bound to be curious, verging on suspicious.

  ‘Some of the stuff on your database needs updating. I want to see all the flash drives, get you to make some changes, and I want to be there when they’re made.’

  His glass was almost empty. I caught the eye of a passing waitress and drummed up another.

  ‘Okay?’ I said, putting on a casual front.

  ‘Are ye sure it can’t be done by phone or on the Skype now?’

  Maybe I was being too casual. Perhaps a gentle hint of how much I contributed to his annual revenue wouldn’t be amiss.

  ‘Freddie ...’ I leaned across the table. Up close, his pimples were not a pretty sight. ‘Last year I spent over thirty thousand dollars with you. I must be one of your biggest clients, if not the biggest.
And you’re making waves over a visit to your fucking house?’

  He squirmed in his seat.

  ‘It’s not that ...’

  A dark-haired woman of about fifty was passing our table; she stopped abruptly, clapped Freddie on the shoulder.

  ‘If it isn’t Freddie Brook himself, large as life and twice as ugly.’

  He twisted half round. ‘Hello yourself, Katie McGuigan.’

  They exchanged a few pleasantries. He didn’t introduce me – he was too cagey for that. But I could tell from her frequent glances in my direction that she was itching to know who I was. Presently though, she moved on, none the wiser.

  ‘My cousin,’ Freddie explained.

  ‘Not a problem. To get back to what does seem to be a problem, I need to sit in front of your computer with you, and make some changes. Okay?’

  He sighed, blew out his cheeks.

  ‘If you say so.’

  After leaving the McHugh’s Bar we split up. I had a detour to make, so I waved Freddie off. I would get to his place about six.

  I flagged a taxi and motored up the Crumlin Road, past the prison with its imposing stone facade and four pillars of alternating round and square sections. Empty now, of political prisoners or any other kind. At the roundabout we joined the A55. We took the first right after the Presbyterian Church onto Glenside Parade. A grey little street in a grey little city. Mostly terrace houses, somehow diminished, as if they were built for smaller people. Well-kept enough though, in the main, and the cars parked in the street were generally of recent vintage, with here and there a late model Merc or BMW.

  Acquiring a firearm in Belfast used to be a formality, so they say. The peace accord had made it tougher, but still easier than anywhere else in the UK. The man I was about to see, an ex-Provo, had all the contacts and access to the cache of weapons that the IRA was supposed to have placed “beyond use”. It was all before my stint with MI6. But it was through MI6 that I had found out who could still be relied on for weaponry, explosives, and other materials of war.

  Three steps led up to the white-painted front door of Gerald Lowry’s house. No bell. Set into the door was an oval mock-stained glass window. I rapped on it smartly. Lowry himself came to see who it was. One look, surprise was total.