Caesar ignored it for now and returned to his shot, bending over his new Ping Sigma G putter – with its lightweight elastomer shaft – and eyeing up the hole. He had to get this one in.
Had to.
Every single shot today had veered off into the skirting board and he was about ready to kill someone.
He adjusted his grip on the club and eased back on his swing as the door went again and Raaz Terabyte put her head around. “Caesar, I’m sorry to bother you but— Oops!”
She’d swung the door open as he took the shot and the door clipped the ball, sending it scuttling across the carpet. Another skirting board job.
“Bloody, bleeding shit. That was going in.” Caesar leaned back from his swing, putter in hand.
“S-Sorry,” Raaz stammered. She looked down. “Wait. Is that a Barbie doll head with no hair?”
“I was out of golf balls,” Caesar snapped. He gripped the club in both hands. “Let’s have it, then. Have we heard from Barabbas?”
Raaz shut the door and moved over to the side of the room, her eyes on the golf club. “In a way.”
Caesar glanced over at Doris and Ethel, who shook their heads in unison. Something was wrong.
“What do you mean?” he asked Raaz. “Stop being bloody cryptic.”
“From what I can see, he was logged onto the system about thirty minutes ago.” She paused, swallowed. “He had a problem connecting, by the looks of it. But I didn’t notice straight away because I was on the line with Magpie. She’s over in Hanoi and—”
“I don’t give a flying tit about Magpie,” Caesar yelled. “Tell me about Barabbas. And Acid.”
“I think Barabbas might be dead,” Raaz stuttered.
“Excuse me?”
Raaz backed away. “I checked his feed – he managed to sign in and was recording the job. There’s footage of the mark tied up. Barabbas readying himself to eradicate her. But then – well – it’s sort of unclear, but I think the mark bit him. Then there’s some sort of commotion, and his phone hits the floor and switches off.”
“I do not bloody well believe this.” Caesar’s first impulse was to wrap the putter around Raaz’s head, cave her skull in. It was the least she deserved, and no one would blame him for it. No one in this room, at least. But he needed her if they were to remedy this. “I take it you followed this up?” he growled.
“Yes. I checked on Acid Vanilla, but her phone was dead too. So I did a comparative search and, as I suspected, the triangulation had them all at the same place. Barabbas, the mark and Acid. I got CCTV footage from the area. Saw them all entering the basement of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés church.” She went quiet, her voice breaking. “Three go in, but only two come out. Acid and the mark. I assume Acid killed Barabbas and…” She trailed off as Caesar held up his hand for silence.
“Right. Everyone shut up.” He paced up and down in front of his desk. “We can still get in front of this. Where is Alan Hargreaves right now?”
“Belgium, I think. I can check. But that’s not all, boss. Sorry. It gets worse.”
“Worse? How the chuffing fuck can this get any worse?”
Raaz fidgeted with a leather bracelet on her wrist, her eyes still fixed on the golf club. “I’ve had a call come through on the protected line. Kent Clarkson. He says he wants answers. Sorry, boss, I told him that’s not how it worked. That he shouldn’t be calling us. But he’s demanding to speak to you.”
Caesar clenched his fists around the club. He could do without this. His whole organisation seemed to be crumbling around him. The deadliest assassins in the world and they were all acting like clowns.
He selected another Barbie head from a bowl on his desk and dropped it onto the carpet. “Fine. Put him through. I’ll talk to him.”
Raaz moved over to the desk and pressed some buttons, patching the call through to Caesar’s phone.
“Okay, boss.” She stepped away and mouthed the words, “You’re live.”
A voice crackled out the speaker, “Hello, is anyone there? Can you hear me?”
Caesar composed himself, getting into character. “Loud and clear, old boy. Everything okay in the old US?”
“No, it’s not. I’ve been on hold for twenty minutes. What sort of half-assed operation are you running over there?”
Caesar didn’t flinch. “Mr Clarkson, I presume?”
“Who am I speaking with?”
“You know who I am. You called me.” He eyed the angle of his shot, sticking his tongue out in concentration.
“Whatever. I suppose you know why I’m calling?”
“I said I’d call you when the job was complete.”
Clarkson scoffed audibly. “Well, we kind of needed that to be yesterday. Hell, we needed it to be last week.”
“Yes, my apologies. We did have a few issues, I’m told. You have to appreciate, dear boy, that these sorts of jobs are a little… unpredictable, shall we say. But we have it all in hand. I assure you.”
“I was told you were the best. That you’d have it done in a couple of days.”
“We are the best.” Caesar closed one eye and took his shot. The bald Barbie head bobbled along the plush carpet, missing the raised hole by a few inches. Caesar grimaced, but held it together. “Like I say, there were a few unexpected hold-ups, but it’s done.”
The voice on the line went muffled, like the mouthpiece had been covered and another conversation going on. Then louder, crisp again, the voice returned. “We can be certain of this?”
“Yes. It’s done.” Smiling through gritted teeth. “You have my word.”
Back on the line, the voice sounded cheerier. “Well, that is good to hear. Can you also confirm you have the recording? I mean, we wouldn’t want that falling into the wrong hands.”
Caesar looked at Raaz. “Don’t you worry, my friend. The problem has been eradicated, and all items have been recovered. Which means, of course, you can now release the second half of our fee.”
The phone went silent, more muffled voices. Then, “Tell you what. You send me the recording first – proof – then we’ll release the money. I’m going to be in London for the next three weeks so you can courier it over. I’ll email you the address.”
“Excellent.” Caesar scowled at Raaz. “Is that everything?”
“Sure,” Clarkson said. “I look forward to receiving the package. I’ll see you later.” He hung up.
“Bloody bollocks!” Caesar yelled into the ceiling.
Raaz started. “Why did you tell him that—” but he cut her off.
“What else was I going to say? That our operative is helping the mark to escape? Jesus.” He lumbered over to his desk and sat. “Okay, get Alan on the blower, Banjo too. Tell them to drop whatever they’re doing and get to Paris. I need that fucking mark eradicated. Today. Tell them I’ll double their normal fee. And they’re to bring Acid Vanilla to me.” Raaz stood there a moment. “Well, go on then, piss off.” Caesar blasted the words in her face and threw the putter against the wall as she ran from the room. “Jesus-bloody-pissing-hell.”
The Sinister Sisters did little to hide their thin-lipped smiles. They loved it when people messed up. As Annihilation Pest Control’s top clean-up squad, it was their bread and butter.
Caesar picked up a jewel-handled letter opener from his desk and held it up in front of his face, balancing it between his fingertips. “What the hell is Acid playing at? After everything I’ve done for her. The stupid, ungrateful bitch.” He threw the dagger down. “You know, I should have seen it coming. All this talk about holidays. The sloppiness on recent jobs. She’s lost her edge.”
Everyone suspected Caesar had a soft spot for Acid Vanilla, and maybe he did, but he would not stand for this reckless disobedience. Favourite or not, she’d killed a fellow operative and now, for some senseless reason, she was helping a mark to escape. That was too much. Far too much.
Caesar turned to the sisters. “This won’t be a concern for long,” he growled. “Hargreaves and S
hawshank will get the job done. The client never has to know. Then Acid is going to pay for this. You mark my words.” He sat back and put his hands behind his head, an outward show of bravado to try and dampen the niggling voice in his head. “Leave me,” he told Doris and Ethel.
The old women looked at each other, then placed their cups and saucers down and quietly shuffled out of the room, shutting the door behind them.
Caesar waited a minute, made sure they were far enough down the corridor, then let out a loud groan.
“Shit!”
He looked at his watch. Alan and Banjo would be in Paris by this evening, ready to do what was required. They’d get it done. He was sure of it. He had to be. With any luck, news of this tremendous fuck-up would never get out. His reputation would be safe.
Yet, even as he told himself this, even as he left his desk and strode confidently around his office, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. He tried to ignore it, puffed his chest out, raised his head high. But the voice kept on. Growing louder. Becoming incessant. And what it was saying was clear:
Do not, under any circumstances, underestimate Acid Vanilla.
Twenty-Five
Acid opened her eyes and sat bolt upright on the large velvet couch, unsure where she was but sensing it was vital for her to be awake. Across the room she could make out blurred red numbers. The cooker’s digital clock display. She peered around. Other objects came into focus: the large bay window that looked out over Paris, the basic but expensive décor, the original artwork on the walls. It was Whitman’s apartment. She narrowed her eyes at the clock. 8.35 a.m.
“Shit.” When the bats were around, Acid didn’t need much sleep. In fact, she couldn’t sleep most nights. But she must have dozed off. That wasn’t good.
She padded over to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, drinking it down in one go. She examined the room, happy to find that old sop, Clement – Whitman’s neighbour from across the hall – was nowhere to be seen. He must have slipped away after Spook disappeared into the bedroom and Acid’s feigned tiredness turned into actual sleep. That would have been around five. She remembered because every hour that ticked by had felt like another nail in her coffin.
The plan after leaving Bar Hemingway had been to grab Spook’s passport and get the hell out of Dodge. Annihilation knew they were here, together. They were sitting ducks. But after logging onto the airline, the first flights available weren’t until the following evening. Her next idea was going to a hotel – somewhere off-grid so they could lie low until it was time for the flight – but whilst getting Spook’s stuff, a drunk and tearful Clement had appeared at Whitman’s door with a bottle of expensive vodka and invited himself inside. He hadn’t shut up until he’d literally sent them both to sleep.
Still, Clement was an interesting enough guy, full of amazing tales. As his tongue had gotten looser, he’d told them how he’d been a decent photographer back in the day, had albums heaving with candid shots of Paris nightlife and exotic parties. After that he didn’t take much convincing to show them his collection, and with all the drink and exuberance inside him he hadn’t noticed Acid as she palmed one particular photo into her jacket pocket.
She took it out now and examined it in the cold light of day. A young Kent Clarkson, taken in Whitman’s apartment, maybe ten years ago. At some seedy party he’d been throwing. Acid curled up her lip in disgust at the image. The more she found out about these bastards, the more she wanted to put a bullet or two in them.
No.
She pushed the thought away and stuffed the photo back in her jeans. Right now she had more pressing issues. Like getting out of Paris alive. She put down her glass and went to locate the American, finding her in the main bedroom, face down on the super-king-size bed.
“Hey. Wake up.” Acid rapped her knuckles on the door. “We need to move.”
“Ugh.” There was a hint of movement from the bed, a muffled grunt, but that was all.
“Spook! Get up,” Acid yelled. “You are being hunted by trained killers, remember? Not the time for a bloody lie-in.”
Spook sat up. “Crap. What time is it?”
“Don’t worry, it’s still early,” Acid told her. “But we need to get a wriggle on.”
“Yeah, sure, but where?” Spook asked, feeling around the bed and locating her glasses under a pillow. “We need to hide, right?”
“Yes. But we’ll call at my hotel first,” Acid said, looking around the room. “Get your stuff together and let’s get out of here. How many bags have you got?”
Slowly Spook got to her feet. “An overnight bag and my rucksack. I’ve been staying in the small room, they’re in there.” She sniffed at herself and pulled a face. “Eugh. I need a shower.”
“Later,” Acid said. “We were stupid staying here last night. We’ll find a hotel, somewhere off the beaten track – we can wash and rest up there. Our flight’s in nine hours.”
Spook rubbed at her eyes and stumbled across the hallway into the smallest of the three bedrooms. Acid took a deep deliberate breath and followed on behind.
“Bloody hell. What have you been doing in here?”
Spook was stuffing clothes and books into a small suitcase on the bed. She stopped and looked up.
“How do you mean?”
Acid gestured at the toilet rolls and comic books littering the floor. The half-eaten croissant on the nightstand. The piles of wires and hard drives on the bed. “It’s like a teenager’s den in here.”
Spook picked up a small black thumb-drive, held it up triumphantly.
“Is that it?”
“Sure is.”
“Well, there you go. Have you made a backup?”
Spook slipped the thumb-drive in the front pocket of her rucksack. “This is the backup. The original is on my laptop.”
Acid walked over to the window and peered through a gap in the curtain. “And you’re still thinking of leaking it?”
“I have to.”
“Well, be careful,” Acid told her. “Get somewhere safe first. And don’t leave any trace to your whereabouts.”
“I’m not stupid, you know,” Spook replied. “I mean, it’d be easier with a partner…”
“Don’t,” Acid told her. “We’ve been through this.” She picked up a dog-eared copy of Iron Man from the bed and flicked through it. Why anyone on the run from a hired killer needed this many comic books was beyond her.
“But after everything we talked about,” Spook said. “With your mom. Don’t you want to get justice for that poor girl? What was it – powerful, rich white men not caring about people like us?”
Acid snapped her a hard look. “Stop it.”
“Help me expose them, Alice.”
Acid was over there and on her in a second, jamming a sharp fingernail into Spook’s chest. “Do not ever call me that. You hear me?”
Spook gasped as though her breath had frozen in her throat. Then, without speaking, she side-stepped away from Acid’s white-hot rage and finished packing up her stuff. Acid watched her for a few more seconds then strode back into the kitchen, punching the wall in the hallway as she passed through.
In the kitchen she filled up the kettle and flicked it on, locating a jar of instant coffee from one of the cupboards. It was a nice place Whitman had here. Modern, is what you’d call it. Stark. The kitchen appliances were as unused as the guest bedrooms. The toaster was box-fresh. The kettle too. Acid made a cup of hot black coffee and as she drank it, hip resting against the counter, she peered around the rest of the apartment. The more she looked, the more she saw. Or rather, didn’t see. No family photos, no ornaments, no shelves rammed with books or DVDs. Not even a cupboard in which to throw those things when visitors came calling. It didn’t look like an apartment that was lived in, nor even one that was used as a second home. It looked like a showroom. Or a backup plan. An if-all-else-fails hideaway. In her experience, there were only certain types of people who had that kind of security. And they weren’t
to be trusted.
Acid finished the coffee and went back to the bedroom. She leaned against the doorframe and rested her head on the wood. “Look, I’m sorry for being a cow.”
“It’s fine,” Spook snapped. “I get it.”
“I’m stressed right now, that’s all. And I need you to focus. These are professionals, Spook, and they mean business.”
Acid watched the young American as she absent-mindedly stuffed an old jumper into her suitcase. Then she stopped and sat on the bed, stared out the window. As though she had all the time in the world.
“For heaven’s sake, kid, get it together. We need to move.”
“Sorry, yeah. I’m done.”
Spook zipped up her bag and slung her rucksack over both shoulders, then went out into the lounge area. Acid gave the room a final once over before following her out. Spook was stretching in front of the window.
“Nice morning, isn’t it?” she said, not turning around. She’d opened the curtains and was gazing out on one of those autumn days where the air felt good. Cold, but crisp.
Yet something else spiked the air this morning. Acid sensed it as she joined Spook at the window. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The bats were already awake, chattering across her synapses and prickling her nerve endings. She looked out the window, scanning the bare trees down the side of the boulevard and in the small park, registering the piles of dead leaves, crunchy and brittle, that covered the pavements and pathways. Then, as her eyeline rose, she took in the tall buildings opposite. One building in particular stood out from the rest – a white stone apartment block with fine neo-classical pillars and ornate balconies up one side. It was next door to Lucas’ place. But that wasn’t the reason for her racing heartbeat. Something had caught her eye. In a window. Two-thirds of the way up.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 13