THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding grimly. ‘He’s the one.’

  ‘ – who used to provide you with work?’

  Well-chosen euphemism. It took her a few seconds to absorb the implications. The sparkle in her eyes died.

  ‘What does he want?’ she said dully.

  ‘Can’t say. There will be recriminations over the Heider contract I opted out of. My knuckles might be rapped, or ...’

  ‘Or worse,’ she interjected.

  ‘Or it might be a new contract.’

  A little cry escaped her.

  ‘A new contract,’ she echoed. ‘You mean to kill someone, is that it?’

  Mincing words wasn’t for Maura. Confront and resolve was her credo.

  She stood up abruptly, her hip brushing my arm. In the back of her throat a strangled sound. Then she spun round and left the room. I listened to her flip-flops slapping down the hallway. A door banged, isolating me in my gloom.

  The notes from Lindy’s flute continued without abatement, reminding me that my newly constructed family lifestyle may yet prove to be built on quicksand.

  It was evening before we broached the subject again. The dinner plates in the sink, Lindy in bed, Maura and I were polishing off a bottle of Faustino I, a Spanish Gran Reserva Rioja, smooth and velvety and restful on the palate. Restfulness was just what I needed.

  ‘Sorry about this morning,’ Maura said, and her fingers encircled my wrist, one of her many bonding gestures that never failed to work on me.

  ‘No need to apologise. You’re right to be concerned. Just don’t let’s jump the gun and start speculating. I’ll get back to Giorgy and arrange a meet. Then, when we know what’s expected of me – if anything – we can figure out the moves.’ Our eyes met. ‘That okay with you?’

  She nodded. Far from happy, but in control.

  ‘I trust you,’ she said, her voice subdued. ‘I have to trust you to do the right thing.’

  That was a mountain of trust. I didn’t dispel her illusions, not right then. For a start, I wasn’t sure what the right thing was.

  ‘I’ll go tomorrow. Get it over with.’

  ‘Yes. The sooner we know, the sooner we can decide.’

  Location 1 was the Huit et Demi, tucked away on the Rue Langlé in Monaco, a busy, buzzing bar-restaurant, the ideal spot for discreet discussion. We bumped into each other at the door, a minute before the appointed time. It was windy and raining, and he was toting an umbrella and sporting a beige topcoat. I had on a raincoat and wet hair.

  ‘Hello, my friend,’ he greeted, urbane and unflappable as ever was. He exuded an air of trustworthiness, and that was probably what made him so useful to his employers. I didn’t trust him, never had, but then I mistrusted just about everyone.

  ‘Hi, Giorgy.’ I couldn’t bring myself to express my pleasure at seeing him. The reality was, I wished he would vacate my life for good.

  I deferred to his age majority and stood aside to let him enter. It was midday, and trade was still slack, so we had a choice of tables. We settled on one in the corner, looking out towards the intersection with Rue Princesse Caroline. The place was a mixture of quality and austere. Linen tablecloths, austere square tables, black leather chairs. The wall decorations included blown-up monochrome photos of Marlon Brando in his Godfather era, and Sly Stallone when he was about to become famous as Rocky Balboa. Background music, vaguely classical. A nice looking waitress with a blonde pony tail and long legs approached to get our drinks order.

  ‘Perrier for me,’ Giorgy said, ascetic bastard that he was, gaze roving over the legs.

  ‘Beer,’ I stated. ‘A large one.’

  She ran several brands past me.

  ‘What about Bavaisienne Blonde?’ I asked.

  To my astonishment, they had it.

  ‘Do you want to lunch here?’ Giorgy asked, tapping his elegant forefinger on the two menus deposited by the waitress. It was unusual for us to eat at our meetings; they seldom lasted long enough. To be perverse I said yes, I did want to lunch here.

  ‘After all,’ I added, ‘it’s a special occasion, isn’t it?’

  His un-Italian blue eyes searched mine.

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘If this meeting is about the Heider contract, I’m assuming it’ll be our last. You might already have someone out there with a sniper’s rifle targeting my head.’

  He guffawed, causing a couple of heads to swivel in our direction.

  ‘You have been watching too many Hollywood gangster movies.’

  That didn’t reassure me much. He was past master at putting people at their ease.

  Mildly irritated, I snapped, ‘Are you telling me it isn’t about that?’

  ‘It might have been if circumstances were different. Fortunately for you, the Heiders fell out with The Syndicate while you were over there. It didn’t automatically cancel the contract, but it meant that The Syndicate lost interest in the outcome.’ He tilted forward to bring his head closer to mine. ‘At a personal level though, André, I would like you to satisfy my curiosity. How did you manage to get off the hook without killing yourself?’

  Giorgy’s Perrier water and my Belgian-style French-brewed beer were served by the girl. She gave Giorgy a friendly smile, and me a look best described as gently smouldering. I winked at her and she almost dropped the tray.

  ‘It’s a long and complicated tale,’ I said, turning my attention back to Giorgy. ‘In fact Heider found out the truth himself, but by then I was over the hills and far away.’

  He frowned. ‘Over the hills?’

  Now and again, his knowledge of colloquial English let him down.

  ‘Not literally. I mean I was back here.’

  ‘As I see.’ He made a pyramid of his fingers, peered at me over them. ‘Tell me about the Heider woman who is living with you.’

  It was my turn to frown.

  ‘Who wants to know? You, or The Syndicate.’

  ‘Me.’ He paused, then added silkily, ‘On behalf of The Syndicate.’

  I started to get mad. ‘Butt out, Giorgy. It’s between her and me. What the hell has my relationship with Maura Beck to do with your crowd?’

  ‘As I said, The Syndicate has fallen out with the Heider organization. To be more specific they are at ... loggerheads, is it? They are concerned that the woman has been planted on you, for reasons best known only to the Heiders. That is why I had to see you in person. A phone conversation, even a Skype meeting, would not have satisfied my bosses.’

  ‘If you knew the whole story, you’d realise that’s pure fantasy.’

  ‘So tell me the whole story and dispel my fantasies. Take your time.’

  So I told him. During the telling, we placed our orders, consumed our hors d’oeuvres, and were well into the main course – loup de la Mediterranée in my case – before I wound it up. I gave him the truth, but not the whole of it. The parts I omitted were irrelevant.

  He dabbed his rather full lips and breathed out through his nose like a dragon without the fire.

  ‘If what you say is true, she is as much their enemy as we are.’

  ‘At least. If you think she’s just acting a part, you are so far off the radar you’re invisible.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, after a long period of reflection. ‘I’m going to accept your word that this woman is no threat to us.’

  My inward relief was considerable. It would have been bad enough for me to be on Il Sindicato’s hit list. For Maura to be there alongside me would have made our lives impossible, not to mention finite.

  ‘Is that all?’ I ventured, indicating to a hovering waiter that our plates could be cleared away. ‘That really was the sole purpose of this meeting?’

  He hesitated. ‘Not quite, my friend. I regret to say I must throw a little spanner in the works of your cosy arrangement with Ms Heider, or Beck if you insist.’

  Instantly on my guard, I said, ‘How little?’

  ‘Oh, very little. A job, in London. You remember the Kray Twins
?’

  ‘Sixties gangsters, a bit amateurish, but violent and merciless. That sum them up?’

  ‘Perfectly. Well, it seems their heirs and successors are causing the same kind of mayhem. They’re not twins, just brothers, but they have upset one of our members, and a peacemaker is required.’

  It was a familiar story. Another gang of brothers. They seemed to be all the rage these days. I looked through the window at the traffic crawling along the Rue Langlé. Monaco being rich, it has a high quota of expensive metal: Mercs and Beamers are commonplace. Bentleys, Astons, Ferraris, Maybachs, less common but still more numerous than in any other city I know. While I watched the ebb and flow of metal my mind crawled with thoughts, and none of them were about the contract itself. Killing a gang boss in London was not going to tax my skills and ingenuity. Explaining to Maura that my promises were ashes was.

  An unmarked envelope had appeared on the table while I was distracted.

  ‘Any chance you could find someone else?’ I wondered aloud, without much hope.

  ‘Undoubtedly. You are not the only contract man we have in our files. But if you decline to do it, you will be removed from the files. Permanently.’

  Permanent removal from the files was Sindicato-speak for killed. It was not within Giorgy’s remit to let me off the hook. He was only the relayer of messages. A biggish cog in Il Sindicato wheel, but above him were bigger, fatter cogs. To them I was no more than a cipher, a hired assassin who had once crossed an undrawn line, and would only be allowed to go on living for as long as he did their bidding. No waves, no dissent. Just do the job, get paid, and shut the fuck up.

  Giorgy nudged the envelope towards me. I looked at it, then at him. His face was devoid of expression. Pick it up or leave it lie, he didn’t much care either way.

  Two nights and three days after I left, I returned home. Maura’s welcome was on the temperate side, but only by a degree or two. Lindy’s was enthusiastic: she hurled herself at me, and I lifted her up and swung her round to shrieks of mock terror. For a short while it seemed that everything might come good, and even that I could go on doing my dirty work for Il Sindicato while Maura turned a blind eye.

  My meeting wasn’t mentioned by either of us. We dined in the kitchen, cracked open a bottle of champagne, allowing Lindy a couple of sips. We played a game of snakes and ladders, though my mind was elsewhere, dreading the moment when I must confess all.

  Tucking Lindy up in bed was a shared procedure. It involved goodnight kisses and some reading aloud from a storybook. This particular night she also told me she had missed me, and asked why hadn’t I taken her and Mommy with me.

  ‘School comes first, honey,’ Maura hedged.

  ‘And it was a lot of driving,’ I added. ‘Not much fun for little girls.’

  We exchanged goodnights and more kisses and left the door ajar. Downstairs, I fired up the iPod, selected Carmen, lowered the volume, and subsided into my favourite armchair to let the Prelude soothe my savage breast, as William Congreve put it. Maura came and sat at my feet, resting her chin on my knees and gazing up at me unblinkingly. The standing lamp in the corner behind us caught the red highlights of her chestnut hair and made it shine like a lamé cape.

  ‘It was hateful your being away,’ she said.

  ‘You can say that again. I hadn’t realised how much you’ve become a part of me and my life.’

  ‘Will you have to go away again?’

  Her oblique way of asking me if I was going to resume my former trade.

  ‘Yes.’

  She was stroking my inner thigh, which I found distracting. I restrained her. I needed clarity of thought.

  ‘It’s not my decision,’ I went on.

  ‘Explain.’

  She deserved an explanation and a whole lot more. So I related the story of how I had contravened the rules, and why, and what was the outcome. And what it would mean for me, for us, if I flouted the conditions under which I was allowed to go on living.

  ‘Who are they, this syndicate?’

  ‘Il Sindicato. Faceless men. Ruthless, heartless. Like Carl Heider, only ten times worse and far more powerful. They’re a sort of union for mobsters and racketeers, they provide a service, one of which is the elimination of rivals.’

  Maura shivered. ‘Can’t you just quit? Won’t they ever let you go?’

  ‘Maybe. One day. On their terms.’

  ‘What sort of terms would they be? You mean money?’

  ‘If only. They wouldn’t want money from me. They’ve got money to burn and then some. No, there’s only one exit from The Syndicate, and that’s in a coffin. Or a concrete overcoat if a coffin’s not available.’

  She stared at me, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. ‘So they’ll never let you go, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge they never have so far. Either you’re with them or you’re dead. Nothing in between. As long as you’re useful, you can go on.’

  She sat silently, absorbing the horror of my situation. It was a while since I used to fret over it. Life went on, and as long as it went on, I just lived it on a day-to-day basis. Until now. Until Maura, and Lindy.

  ‘Now do you see the danger it puts you in, love,’ I murmured, stroking her hair. ‘Just by being with me.’

  She tilted her chin. Now defiance blazed in her eyes.

  ‘Suppose I said I was prepared to take my chances.’

  ‘Oh, you’re up for it, I don’t doubt that. You’ve proved it several times over. But are you really willing to put Belinda’s life on the line?’

  She got up off her knees, and stood over me, her arms folded, simmering.

  ‘I’d rather put all our lives at risk than let you go back to what you did before I met you.’

  ‘Really? Lindy’s life? You can’t mean it.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  I saw that she did too. ‘There’s a safer solution.’

  ‘Sure, I know. Do their bidding. Keep on killing for a living.’

  ‘It’s a solution of sorts. It would buy us time, keep us together.’

  ‘Not for me,’ she said, and began to pace, hands on hips. ‘Or for my daughter.’

  ‘You wouldn’t notice. When I work, I go away. You need never know about it.’

  She shook her head. ‘I love you, Drew. Unconditionally.’

  ‘Unconditionally? Then ... I don’t understand the problem.’

  ‘The problem is, I won’t live with you unconditionally.’

  ‘And if I quit, as you suggest, I can’t let you live with me.’

  Her smile was rueful. ‘I think it’s what’s called an impasse.’

  Her woebegone gaze intersected mine and locked on it. My heart began to pump, and words suddenly ceased to matter. Physical need took over from the need to settle our differences. I jumped up and pulled her to me. We kissed, lips squirming, tongues fencing, and it was no different from all the other kisses that preceded it. She sank to the floor, dragging me down with her. Foreplay was not on the agenda. While she dealt with my belt and zip, I yanked her briefs down with such violence they tore. I entered her wetness in a single plunging movement, no guidance needed. There was a sense of desperation about it, as if both of us knew it might be the last time.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The pub was called The Mad Hare. It was in Tottenham, east London, and it was owned by Sam and Peter O’Brady, British born brothers of Irish heritage. They used it as a base for their protectionista operation. Business callers came and went down a short blind alley, through a back door that required a coded knock to gain entry. The only way to keep it under surveillance was from a window of the second floor of an Indian-owned warehouse, one side of which faced the back of the pub. The manager, also Indian, was susceptible to a hefty bribe to rent me spying space among cartons of cheap battery operated toys, imported from his homeland. I purchased a folding chair and made myself tolerably comfortable while I watched over the O’Brady domain.

  The brothers t
hemselves were there every day, seven days a week, though they were often absent for hours at a time, usually separately. Sam drove a classic E-Type, in fire engine red, while Peter’s conveyance was more conventional – a Lexus SUV. Nice wheels, but not too nice to be noticed. Both cars were garaged at the end of the alley. Sam was short and thickset, with no neck, a comb-over, and a nose like a stuck on blob of dough. Not an attractive specimen, not helped by his dress sense, or absence of it. Today’s outfit was a cream suit with a flowered shirt and a kipper tie with clashing horizontal stripes. His brother was taller, wider, and even uglier.

  The contract gave me carte blanche as to which sibling I killed. The object was to frighten them off from encroaching on the territory of Il Sindicato’s nameless member client. No aggrandisement was sought by the contractor, apparently, just retention of the status quo. A case of the O’Brady mob getting too big for its boots.

  By Day 9 of my stake-out, I was not only out of my skull with boredom, but also missing Maura like I wouldn’t have believed. We talked every evening on Skype. It was no substitute for having her next to me. Not only that, the conversation was contrived, stilted, the hitherto easy camaraderie no more. Though she never mentioned it, she hated what I was doing. It would kill us if I carried on. I knew it, yet I had no idea how to prevent it.

  I spoke to Lindy on Skype daily too. Her constant refrain, ‘When are you coming home, André?’

  ‘I should be home on Thursday,’ I said to both of them, side by side on my iPad screen.

  Lindy squealed with delight. ‘Can we go sailing? Can we, can we?’’

  ‘Sure we can, honey.’ To Maura I said, ‘I’ll call you when I’m back in France.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maura sent Lindy out of the room so we could talk ‘grown-up stuff’. She waited until the door closed, then, her voice throbbing with emotion, said, ‘Drew ... darling ... don’t do it. I beg you, come home now before it’s too late.’

  If only it were that simple.

  ‘If I don’t do it, we’re finished anyway. Number one priority is to keep you and Lindy safe, and this is the only way. Believe me. Trust me.’

  The anguish in her face was all too evident, even on Skype.