by S. C. Abbey
Looks like it’s a pro. At least I’ll have some fun before I kill him, or die trying.
Squeak—
The sound came right after the thought passed his mind. The twisting of the door knob sounded like it desperately needed oiling. Spector kept his eyes closed, but tightened his grip on the knife. The door swung open with an equally screechy noise. Spector heard the first step into the room exactly two seconds later. The squeak came again along with a click. Door’s closed. He mentally counted another two seconds before he opened his eyes and swung his blade out, tip toward the entrance.
Thud!
The tip of the blade didn’t connect with its unknown target. Maksim Trzebuchowska took a quick breath as he recovered from the surprise attack, his hand holding onto Spector’s wrist. Spector was already out of his hiding corner, his expression as impassive as the man he had tried to attack. Spector drove the palm of his non-dominant hand down at the pommel end of the blade—the maneuver drove the blade toward the man’s neck. Its tip kissed the surface of skin before it came to a complete halt again.
Maksim’s eyes widened at the close call. He quickly used his body’s massive weight to lean against the grip he had on Spector’s wrist and managed to push the man away from him. Spector stumbled back into the room. He was a good eight to nine feet away from Maksim when he spotted the pistol Maksim had pulled from the side of his belt. He took a step forward with his left foot and took the weight off his right, drawing power from his hips. By the time Maksim had the gun up at a 45-degree angle, Spector’s right foot had already connected with the thumb wrapped around the pistol’s grip. The shot hit a single brown-stained tile and it instantly cracked, while the pistol skated across the span of the ground.
Maksim took a step back from his spot. He then settled for a swing of his massive right fist, aiming for Spector’s face. Spector held an elbow up, bracing for the blow. The impact was heavier than expected. It threw him onto the bed. As soon as he felt the bouncing of the mattress, he rolled to the left off the edge. Spector stood instantly, his knife once more in front of him. Maksim was trying to locate his pistol when Spector lunged forward with the blade facing his opponent—this time aiming low, for the gut of the dirty-blond-haired man.
Maksim took a surprising step to Spector’s left and drove his elbow down on Spector’s forearm. The knife fell on the floor with a sharp clanging sound, but Spector swiftly drove his left knee into the man’s midsection, driving him back. Maksim took the blow square on as he took a couple of steps back toward the door, his glance cast downward in the reflex. By the time he looked back up, it was too late to block the forward kick that came from Spector. Maksim was thrown back, his frame crashing through the inferior door. He pulled himself from the rubble into a single-leg kneeling position and looked like he was trying to catch his breath.
Spector unholstered his firearm. Time to end it, he thought. He pointed the barrel at the man on the floor and squeezed the trigger. The man had rolled to his left, a split-second before the bullet hit the ground—behind the wall where the wardrobe stood. Spector continued to fire across the wardrobe, judging that without a doubt the bullets would go through the thin walls. He emptied his magazine and cursed. He briskly bent down to pick up his knife and sheathed it, all the while keeping his eyes on the splintered door.
Spector then turned and hopped onto the open window’s ledge, leaping into the night.
Chapter 40
HARVEY AND KATIE stood by the ticketing counter of the Athens Railway Station, the main one of Greece’s capital city. It was located right smack in the middle of Kolonos, where it shared its spot with the Larissa Metro Station. The rail station was packed with people going about their businesses—trying to catch the last few trains before the rail service ceased for the night. The crowd made it perfect for Harvey and Katie to be concealed in plain sight—not that anyone had any reason to look for them. At least none they knew. The summer heat was still evident despite the Mediterranean sun giving way for the moon.
“He’s late,” said Harvey, spinning back and looking at Katie. He then turned back to look out for the man they were supposed to meet. It had been an hour and a half since they had leapt from the window of a shabby, bedbug-infested motel and ran from an unknown threat. Alastair Spector had promised to be here in an hour—he was evidently running late. Katie watched as Harvey paced the space in front of her.
“Don’t worry, Harvey,” she said. “If he can survive a plane crash, I don’t think anything can stop the man.”
Harvey stopped his trotting and turned to Katie, eyes widening. He then let out an uncontrollable, unconvincing laugh. “Kat—that was like what? Twenty five years ago? I’m sure age has blunted his formidable prowess.” The humor was more of an attempt to console himself than anything else.
Katie smiled in return.
“What’s so funny?” said a voice that appeared from thin air.
“Dad—! I mean—Spector,” said Harvey, jumping in surprise. “You’re finally here!”
“Sorry for being late, loves,” Spector said as he tried to neaten his hair. “I had to battle an ogre. Took me a while.”
Katie threw him a side glance.
“You look ruffled up,” said Harvey, eyeing the less-than-perfectly ironed suit from before. “What happened?”
“Nothing exciting,” Spector replied, trying to catch his breath. “I just ran a couple of miles here. I think I’m entitled to be tired.”
“You ran all the way here?” asked Katie with an incredulous look on her face.
“Nah—I’m just pulling your leg.” Spector chuckled. “I hotwired a car and drove—didn’t want to keep you guys waiting.”
Katie’s expression didn’t falter. “Is that another joke?”
“I’m afraid not.” He breathed normally now. “It’s sitting outside by the road—don’t worry it’s a beat-up tin can, no one will realize it’s gone. C’mon, we have to go!”
“And exactly where are we going?” asked Harvey.
“To the safe house. I’m out of rounds. Unless of course, you prefer to walk.”
“Were you firing at something?” said Katie with a frown forming.
“It’s nothing—just some man, with an ugly head, and a large body,” said Spector with a serious look on his face while elaborating his words with animated hand actions. “I doubt he’s dead, though. And that’s why I’ll be needing more bullets!” Spector cracked up, before sauntering off in the direction of the stolen car.
Harvey and Katie took a second to react. “I think I need some time getting used to your Dad’s sense of humor, Harvey,” said Katie, as she moved forward with Harvey to catch up with Spector.
“Me too, Katie.” Harvey shook his head. “Me too.”
Chapter 41
“MAKE YOURSELVES AT home,” said Spector, pushing the door wide open. He approached the open kitchen island counter and threw his bunch of keys into a glass fruit bowl.
Harvey and Katie entered the apartment behind him. Spector took an empty whisky glass and poured a shot of Glendronach fifteen-year-old scotch for himself, draining it in a mouthful before filling it again. He sighed in content. “Can I offer you all a drink? Whisky, beer, coffee?”
“No thanks,” said Katie.
“I could do coffee.” Harvey perked up at the idea of caffeine.
Spector cast his son a smile as he turned around and started to prepare the beverage with a Nespresso machine.
Harvey took a quick scan of his surroundings. The apartment was a comfortable-looking abode situated in an expensive district in Athens. The open kitchen meant the living area looked larger than it was and brought a sense of unconstricted space. All the furniture he could see looked brand-new, or at least hardly used. The kitchen also seemed well-equipped enough, even to a fussy house-maker. The aromatic smell of coffee began to fill his nose.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” said Harvey.
“It�
�s not mine,” chuckled Spector, “it belongs to the British government.”
“I would have expected a spy’s safe house to be more—austere,” added Katie.
“Life is too short for that.” Spector handed Harvey his hot drink. “We’re not savages, you know.”
“Hmm—I have to say, perhaps Interpol could take a leaf out of MI6’s book,” she said as she spun around. “Is there somewhere I can freshen up here?”
“Sure, guest room is on the left.” Spector pointed. “There’s an in-suite bathroom in there. Towels are in the cabinet under the sink. You’ll probably find toothbrushes and everything else you need there as well.”
Katie muttered a “thank you” before she disappeared into the guest room.
The silence seemed to take a dive in temperature when Harvey realized he was finally alone with his father—something he’d very much wanted over the past twenty five years. But now when his wish was put on a platter and served to him, he didn’t know what to think of it.
“So,” said Spector, taking a sip of the single-malt whisky, “what’s up with you guys?” He pointed at the guest room and then Harvey. “You all seem so…jittery.”
Harvey didn’t expect that. “It’s nothing, really,” he said. “We had something going on, but that was a long time ago.”
“You’re not old enough to be allowed to use ‘a long time ago.’” Spector cracked a smile.
Harvey shrugged. “That’s subjective, not definitive. Besides, she’s kind of…intense.”
Spector responded to that with a soft, “Oh”. He then took another sip of his drink. “Did you know how your mother and I met?”
Harvey shook his head, taking a sip of his piping hot coffee. “I’m afraid I was never told.”
“We met in Paris, 1981,” said Spector with a tender expression, “it was during a beautiful summer in the French capital.”
“Judging from the location, I can already imagine this to be a sappy tale of romance,” said Harvey, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.
“It was,” Spector agreed. “First time I laid eyes on your mother, I knew she was the one I had to marry. I didn’t care who she was or where she was from or what obstacles we had to face—I didn’t care about anything.”
“And Mom…” said Harvey. “She felt the same way?”
Spector nodded with vigor. “In hindsight, she did. Though at the moment, I couldn’t be sure–I just had to do what I had to do if I didn’t want the girl of my dreams to slip through my fingers. Fate is a fickle-minded thing, you know?”
“Mom’s German, right?” asked Harvey.
“Schmitz—that was her last name. And it was during the Cold War. Living in Germany wasn’t the most comfortable of places, albeit being from the west. Her parents were against us getting together, right from the start. But love always prevails, I say.” Spector kept the warm smile.
“Hindsight is always perfect, after all,” Harvey agreed. “But I’m glad it did work out, or else I wouldn’t be here at all.”
Spector laughed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you think she’s the one, you’d better do whatever it takes. Don’t give regret a chance to mar your life.”
Harvey nodded. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand what Spector was saying, he just didn’t know what to do next. But he kept that thought in his mind anyway—there were other pressing curiosities at hand. “D-Dad,” he struggled, not used to saying the word, “do you know where Edgar is?”
Spector’s normally cheerful demeanor quickly became grim. “I don’t know where your brother is,” he said softly. “By the time I realized Bertram had only managed to pick you up, instead of the both of you, it was too late—he already went missing. I’ve been searching for him all these years to no avail. But I promise you, I won’t stop. I won’t stop until I find out what happened to him—whether he’s dead or alive.” The last few words came out as a whisper.
Harvey didn’t reply. He pondered if he could have asked Bertram to look for Edgar—if there was one person who was good at looking for people, it was probably his foster father. Harvey couldn’t have done anything more himself even if he wanted to—he wondered why he never did ask Bertram.
“And this is probably the first thing I should have said, but didn’t,” Spector said, as he shifted uncomfortably in his spot, rubbing his palms together. “I’m sorry, Harvey. I’m sorry I broke my promise.”
Harvey didn’t reply immediately. He knew exactly what promise his father was talking about. He was brought back to the night the police knocked on their door when he was barely six years old…
Helena Nolan had suffered an asthma attack on her way back home from grocery shopping. The sudden loss of breath had caused her to lose her foothold when she was alighting the bus—she rolled down the steps of the vehicle. By the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late. No one had realized that it was an asthma attack she was suffering, and not the fall from the bus, that made her struggle in pain on the ground—her inhaler lay scattered on the road along with the other contents of her bag, inches away from her debilitated reach.
“Is Mom coming home?” Harvey asked his Dad.
“I’m afraid not, Harv,” Alastair answered. He then bent down and hugged the boy where he stood and whispered, “It’s just the three of us now. I promise I’ll never let the both of you go. I promise...”
“I promised,” said Spector.
Harvey shook his head and bit his lip, but he didn’t reply. He chose to change the topic instead. “You didn’t exactly explain how your death was faked, besides the plane crash.”
“Explain what?” said Katie as she sauntered out of the room. Her hair was drenched and she was drying it with a pink cotton towel that didn’t really suit her. Her clothes were still the same. She picked up the television remote and switched it on. The news was on.
“I will,” replied Spector, standing from the kitchen counter he leaned on. “But not now. You should try to rest, and I have work to do. We’ll talk again when all this is over.”
Harvey hated to admit it, but his Dad was right, that wasn’t the most important thing they should be discussing right now.
“No way—” cried Katie.
Harvey turned to the Interpol agent with a questioning look. “What is it?”
Katie spun to face Harvey and pointed at the television.
Chapter 42
“IT’S DIRECTOR PANAYIOTIS of the Acropolis Museum. He’s dead.”
“Say that again?!” said Harvey with a puzzled expression.
Katie’s comment seemed to have stopped Spector in his tracks as well.
“What did you say?” said Spector as he approached the television, following behind Harvey. “Panayiotis is dead?!”
“Well my Greek’s not good but—okay, I don’t speak Greek at all, but the scene with the flashing police sirens plus a photo of him on the side of the screen…” she said as she pointed at the television again, “I’m sure he’s dead.”
“Let me through,” said Spector, pushing his way to the front of the television. His Greek was rusty, but he could still pick out words and phrases from the news broadcast. They listened in silence for a few minutes before Spector spoke again, “He’s dead all right.”
“What happened?” asked Harvey, giving his father with a questioning look.
“It was an attack at a popular market square—I caught the word ‘terrorists’—one hundred and sixteen people died in total,” said Spector, turning back to look at the pair. “I’m afraid that’s all I caught.”
“Jesus,” said Katie, running her hands through her still-damp hair. “A terrorist attack?”
A scowl started to creep up Harvey’s features. “Don’t you think this is too much of a coincidence?”
Spector raised his eyebrows.
“What was Panayiotis doing at a market square?” said Harvey. “Isn’t it a little too convenient for him to die now?”
&n
bsp; “I totally agree,” said Katie. “Smells way too off to be an accidental misfortune.”
“I think—” said Spector. “I might know who killed our Greek historian.”
Harvey and Katie just stared at him in response.
“It’s a hunch—but it’s probably the same man I was attacked by at the motel,” said Spector.
“Have you figured out who he was?” asked Katie.
“No, and I don’t think he’s with the NIS.” Spector scratched his nose. “But I’ll bet he’s involved in the deal between OUBO and the Greek government somehow—there’s no reason for him to be in the motel otherwise.”
Harvey glanced at the television as he thought he caught a glimpse of someone familiar on the screen. His eyes widened in recognition. “Wait a minute!” He pulled out his cell phone and approached the television, quickly taking a snapshot of the screen. It was a scene of the police at a huge mansion which looked like it was connected to the terrorist attack. Harvey zoomed into the photograph to take a better look. “That’s him!”
“Who?” said Katie, turning her head to look at Harvey’s cell phone.
“Sergeant Linard! The officer at the morgue—the one who first asked me about the timber box,” replied Harvey.
Katie snatched the cell phone off Harvey’s hand. It was a snapshot of a reporter doing the news while standing in front of a mansion. The said sergeant was walking past the police cordon behind the reporter, moving across the screen. Beside him was a taller, skinnier young man that was in an equally well-cut suit, same as his. “He doesn’t look like a regular police officer,” said Katie. “Too well-dressed.”
Spector cocked his head so that he could see the screen. “I agree.”