THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  ‘Wait ...’ he said weakly. ‘Five million ... I’ll give you five million ...’

  ‘Get out of the way, Drew!’ The voice was Maura’s, coming from behind me. As I turned, she came alongside me, two-handedly gripping a snub-nosed revolver I had last seen in Gratrix’s possession. It was pointed at Heider and rock-steady.

  ‘Don’t interfere, Moya,’ I said, looking sideways at her. ‘I don’t need assistance to dispose of this vermin.’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she cried, and her cheeks were streaked with mascara. ‘This is the solution to my problem. To stay with you, I have to become like you. If I kill him, here, now, helpless like this, I will be like you.’

  Hearing such twisted reasoning from the woman I loved deeply made me feel sick inside.

  ‘You can’t mean it. You’re a decent human being. Don’t let me contaminate you.’

  But she did mean it. The hammer was already cocked. Her finger was in contact with the trigger and taking up the slack. She wasn’t just making a point.

  I flung myself sideways at her, sending her stumbling into a tree trunk. Her yelp of pain was overlaid with the crash of her gun going off, the bullet thudding into something more solid than human flesh. She slithered down the trunk, and didn’t fight me when I relieved her of the revolver and stuck it in my pocket. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Before she could recover, I picked up where I had left off. Heider had used the diversion to start to crawl away. Now he saw it was too late, his day was done. He sat up, thrust out his hands palm first as if to deflect the bullet.

  ‘No, Henley, no ...’

  That was his last utterance. I squeezed the trigger, the hammer struck the primer, and flame spurted from the muzzle. The bullet passed undeflected through the space between his spread fingers and drilled a neat little hole plumb centre between his eyes.

  That made two corpses in three days. My contribution towards controlling the growth in the criminal population. Maybe I would merit an award in the Queen’s Honours List.

  I was alone in the forest with the corpse of Carl Heider. Tomorrow I would bury him; him and Gratrix and the goon, side by side in a hole in the ground. For now though, the three of them would have to lie where they fell. Maura was gone. She had walked away, saying nothing, no backward glance, no acknowledgement of my presence, no farewell. I let her go, followed at a distance and on reaching the edge of the forest, sat down where I had a view of the house. The wind tossed my hair and the branches thrashed overhead, occasionally depositing pine needles on my shoulders. Above, the clouds were swirling, hustling along from west to east in a steel-grey phalanx.

  At a quarter to three Maura left the house, climbed behind the wheel of Nick’s rental and drove into La Massana to collect Lindy from school. On her return, twenty-five minutes later, she went in, ushering Lindy ahead of her. A few minutes ticked by. Nick came out, a large valise in each hand. He popped the tailgate of his rental, loaded the cases. Several trips from car to house later he had deposited a round dozen in the cargo space, including the cats inside a pet carrier.

  A brief interlude when activity ceased. Finally Maura reappeared, Lindy’s hand in hers. With her free hand the girl was clutching Basset. I would miss even him. Nick was last to leave. He glanced up the trail to where I was sitting. If he saw me at all, he made no sign of it. Maura didn’t even look. To her I was as good as dead.

  They drove off. I watched the rental wind down the road, past the first hairpin, then the second. The houses on the outskirts of the village swallowed them up.

  I stayed by the trail for a while. The grey of the sky deepened to charcoal and rain spots began to speckle my parka. Lights came on in the Bos residence. Madeleine closed the drapes in their living room. The wind abated as the rain morphed into a fine drizzle. If I didn’t move soon it would be too dark to see where I was going.

  I descended the trail to the house. For four glorious months the place had come alive, transformed by Maura and Lindy into a refuge of warmth and laughter and love, but was now once again just a structure: just concrete foundations, supporting bricks, timber, glass, tiles, and accumulated junk.

  And memories. They might wither over the coming years but would never be pain free, would never rest in peace.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The day after Midsummer’s Day was memorable not for its place in the calendar but for the text message that popped up on my cell phone screen. Since the O’Brady job, I hadn’t heard from Giorgy. Ironically, he had left me in peace when peace was not what I craved. Sailing Seaspray was not the pleasure it used to be, even when Simone came to crew for me. It was a while before I could work up interest in her sexually.

  ‘Am I losing my allure, chéri?’ she whined, when I didn’t bed her the instant we went on board. Not a little worriedly. Her sex appeal was Simone’s most treasured asset.

  I reassured her, pleaded stress, overwork, and other crap. Only after a week in each other’s company, with the Warner libido still at low ebb, did I surrender and relate the sad story of my love for Maura and her daughter.

  Sympathy was second nature to Simone. Having been on the losing side of a failed serious love affair herself, she had all too vivid an understanding of the hurt I was suffering. When I did finally muster sufficient sexual urge to supply what she craved it was a wham-bam lacklustre business, over in less than a minute, leaving me feeling as if I had committed adultery.

  A few more days of her unrequited lust and she packed her bags.

  ‘Let me know when you’re over it,’ she snuffled, pecking my cheek platonically as I dropped her off at Le Prat Airport.

  ‘Désolé, chérie,’ I said.

  My sorrow was no compensation. She shook her head despairingly.

  ‘It’s such a waste of man.’

  A nice epitaph to go out on, was my thought as I waved her away into the terminal.

  From then on until the message came I was on my own, with only Alfredo and sundry boaties at the Sitges Marina to help pass the hours and keep the blues at bay.

  Giorgy’s text was to the point as ever.

  US based client wants to meet

  you over there soonest. All

  expenses paid by them.

  “Soonest” was middling urgent on the scale of Il Sindicato's priorities. Maybe it was for the best that I wasn’t to be allowed to crawl into a hole and tend my hurts.

  My area of operation was chiefly within Europe, with intermittent ventures into Africa and Asia. Contracts in the USA were exceptional. The Jeff Heider job had been only my third in the last decade, and only because I had no choice did I sign up for the contract to hunt myself down.

  The prospect of work inferred by Giorgy’s text was welcome, though an interview on the other side of the Atlantic was not. I almost never attended a meeting if it involved any travel other than by car or train. Flying would entail a new fake passport and full set of papers, whereas going overland I could use my alter ego Jack Henley ID.

  So I texted Giorgy to accept the meet but proposed a Continental Europe location. Even the UK was out owing to the border controls that had remained in force there after the Schengen Agreement opened up the EU. Come to that, Schengen was in danger of collapsing altogether as a result of Brexit and the migrant crisis. It could impose new constraints on my ability to travel, make the job tougher.

  Next thing my cell phone burbled.

  ‘Hello, Giorgy,’ I greeted, without even looking at the caller’s number on the screen.

  ‘Ah, André, it is so tiresome when you impose rules.’

  ‘You know why, so don’t make it into an issue. If I were sloppy about security you’d be the first to bellyache.’

  His grunt was non-committal. He didn’t like to admit that my rules made sense.

  ‘What is this “bellyache”?’

  ‘Moan, grumble.’

  ‘Bellyache, eh?’ Always receptive to expanding his knowledge of Anglo-Saxon English, he would probably find an o
pportunity to use it when next we talked.

  ‘So where’s it to be?’ I asked.

  ‘I will propose Paris.’

  ‘You sure? It’s full of terrorists these days.’

  ‘Then the police will be too busy to look for a hired assassin.’ He had an answer for everything. ‘I will also propose next week and will text the date and place to you no later than tomorrow.’

  Paris it was. When he texted again later it was to confirm 3rd July as the date, noon as the hour, and the north pillar of the Eiffel Tower as the place. I wouldn’t need my GPS to find it.

  It was hot and humid in Paris at noon on Monday 3rd July. The base of the tower swarmed with tourists of all colours and creeds. I was dressed in lightweight slacks and a short-sleeved silk shirt. Shorts would have been more comfortable but wouldn’t have looked the part. As arranged, I was carrying a copy of Paris Match, prominently displayed with the title outwards. I was early.

  The noon hour came and nobody approached me. At meetings such as this, punctuality was an unspoken proviso. In the case of a no-show, one or the other party is entitled to assume that security has been compromised somehow. I hung around in the midst of the throng. Frequently jostled, different languages eddying around me, of which French was in the minority and most of the rest were unrecognizable. After two minutes I decided to take off. As I lowered the magazine a young man with dark, silky hair and a sparse moustache, touched my arm.

  ‘Mr Talbot?’ he ventured, the name I had told Giorgy to use.

  ‘That’s me?’ I had no name for him. Il Sindicato’s security rules militated against client names. It was up to the client to provide one if he or she chose.

  ‘I am Fabrizio.’ Though the name was Italian, his English was mid-west American.

  We clasped hands. He had a rather loose grip. Too soon after our introduction to judge him on it.

  ‘Come and meet my sister,’ he said.

  Surprise number one. A female client was not usual. Nothing against it, just that women in general weren’t very active in the world of contract killing.

  ‘Your sister.’ I wasn’t querying it, just confirming I had heard aright.

  His sister was on a bench seat in the Champs de Mars, shading her doey brown eyes with a newspaper. Thirtyish, sleek black hair, olive skin, some resemblance to her brother. Dressed in white pants that ended just below the calves of her legs; curvy figure.

  Another handshake, an improvement on Fabrizio’s. At her invitation, I sat beside her. The brother remained standing, positioned between us. A couple at the other end of the bench got up and wandered off.

  ‘You are Mr Talbot,’ she said, similar accent to her brother.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Call me Eleonora.’ Both of them using their first names seemed to be an invitation to use mine.’

  ‘Stephen,’ I invented.

  ‘Hi, Stephen,’ she said, a quick smile enhancing her generous lips.

  Preliminaries over, I broached the purpose of our meeting. She was the older of the two by ten years by my reckoning, so I took it she was in charge.

  ‘You want someone disposed of.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Two people actually – one male, one female.’

  Killing women was always repugnant to me. I had never accepted a contract to kill a woman. Now here was a woman hiring me for that precise task.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, when she paused.

  The sun was hot on my head. The shadow thrown by the tower was on the side away from us, and most people were congregating there. From a security viewpoint, it was an advantage. A man in a wide brimmed hat walked past with a miniature dog in tow, literally. The dog kept trying to dig its heels in and investigate a smell but the guy just forged ahead heedless.

  ‘These people killed our brothers,’ Fabrizio said, stooping and speaking in an undertone.

  ‘They killed your brothers?’ I said, but not because I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. The ability to put on a poker face was an asset of mine. My mind on the other hand had just shifted up a couple of gears, assimilating the data: two brothers killed, a man and a woman the killers. A prickling sensation on the back of my neck signalled a warning.

  ‘Where are you based?’ I asked, already sure I knew the answer.

  ‘Reno,’ Eleonora said, ‘Why?’

  ‘Just gathering information. I never operate in the same part of the world twice.’ Which was true.

  ‘I understand. You will take the job?’

  ‘Sure.’ What else could I say? That I was negotiating with the brother and sister of Silvano and Cesare Tosi was not in doubt. ‘Tell me what happened?’

  Eleonora exchanged glances with Fabrizio.

  ‘The woman shot my brother for no reason except that he pulled up beside her car and wanted to speak to her.’

  An over-simplification, and I knew it better than them. I had been present when Maura defended us by zapping Cesare Tosi.

  ‘You have her name?’

  Eleonora nodded. ‘Yes. But not the name of the man who killed our other brother. He was a professional, like you.’

  Not like me. He was me. For the second time in less than a year I was being hired to take out myself. If we were making a movie, nobody would believe such a coincidence. Nevertheless ...

  I fanned myself with Paris Match and wondered how to handle it. The prospect of setting up another fall guy was a non-starter. Even if I had been willing to go that route again, the mere suggestion of killing Maura made me feel physically sick. I would sooner kill myself. Eleonora was scrutinizing me, puzzlement in her eyes.

  ‘Is something wrong, Stephen?’

  ‘The woman bothers me,’ I improvised. ‘I’m not saying I’ve never dumped a woman, but I’ve always tried to avoid it.’

  ‘Well, it can’t be avoided this time.’ This from Fabrizio. ‘The Syndicate said you’re the best. They didn’t say you’re squeamish.’

  I exhaled hard, keeping my ire in check.

  ‘Don’t worry about my squeamishness. If I take this contract, I’ll do what’s necessary.’

  ‘If?’ Fabrizio echoed.

  ‘We’ll talk later, finalize the details.’ I stood up, brisk and businesslike. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Pullman Paris. We could meet there this evening.’

  ‘Sure. About seven okay for you?’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Fabrizio said, and his sister nodded.

  ‘We’d better meet in your room. No eavesdroppers.’

  ‘Yeah, right. I’m in three-one-six. Eleonora’s next door.’

  Now Eleonora was on her feet, expression still quizzical but hand extended. I shook it, Fabrizio’s too. They departed in the direction of the artificial pond with its twin fountains and frolicking children. Eleonora with her arm through her brother’s, her hips swivelling suggestively. A lot of male eyes would be on her. They were ingested by the crowd, and I turned away to admire the tower while tourists flowed around me as if I were an island in a stream.

  From this angle the Eiffel Tower looked like a missile on its launching pad. The skeletal, obeliskoid shape was stark and black against the flawless blue July sky. For over a century this behemoth of iron had stood there, defying the German occupation and Hitler’s insane command to demolish it. It would probably still be there when I and billions of other members of the human race had returned to dust.

  It brought home to me the futility of trying to prevent the inevitable.

  It made me feel puny and powerless and insignificant, just a small, sad man in a big, bad world.

  THE END

  But the end is not the end for André Warner. Read on and learn what comes next...

  ANDRÉ WARNER, MANHUNTER– VOLUME IV

  REACTION

  OF THE TIGER

  will be published as an eBook in spring-summer 2017

  on

  amazon.co.uk, amazon.com, amazon.ca and others

  André Warner, ex-British Secret Service operative, excels
at the killing of evildoers. Demand for his deadly skills is constant. Unfortunately, as he had learned to his cost in the past, the death business is unforgiving of errors.

  Warner has his own moral code and sometimes it doesn’t fit in with his employers’ wishes. Insubordination brings repercussions. Called to account at the headquarters of his employers, Il Sindicato, he requires all his wiles to extricate himself.

  Dodging one threat is not enough. Fresh trouble is never far away he finds as he reluctantly embarks on a new contract that takes him to London and Ireland. New enemies come within his lethal orbit, all with their own agenda: first a Russian oligarch has a score to settle, then Scotland Yard’s finest get in on the act, and even a former SIS colleague comes calling with an old favour to be redeemed – in blood.

  To further complicate matters, Warner’s love life is still a bit of a mess, and his heart is once more torn between his latest love, Maura, and an even newer one. Being his lover or friend can prove dangerous, if not outright fatal.

  Finally, he faces seemingly overwhelming odds in the arctic wastes of Finland, where people will die – and not only the bad guys…

  This is how it begins…

  REACTION OF THE TIGER

  ONE

  They had never asked me to kill a woman before. Now they were, though it wasn’t exactly an ask.

  Along my corpse-littered trail through life as a hired assassin, women had died. Been killed, I should say. If not at my hand, then because of me. Four in all. But – and this was an important factor for me if not for the women – never for money. Call it collateral damage, the way they do in the British Secret Service, of which I was once a salaried employee. If that sounds cold, it’s because I had to think of it coldly and without emotion.

  Remembering their names required no effort. The first was German, Ingeborg Thomashoff, wife of a powerful politician and industrialist; mistress of a French mobster. She died from a bullet fired by her lover, but it only happened because I had been sent to kill him. I was at least the catalyst.