The Game

by Tom Wood

  ‘Sounds as if I’m more of a prisoner than a guest.’

  ‘You may elect to use whichever word you think is most suitable to the situation, but those are the terms of your employment and they will be obeyed without argument.’

  ‘Then I want more money.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Kooi. I would have not have expected otherwise. Shall we say a twenty-five per cent increase in your fee?’

  ‘Thirty per cent.’

  ‘Agreed. I am now your boss and you are my employee. This is your place of work and you will follow my orders and respect my decisions, and in return I will make you a very wealthy gentleman.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me what the job is yet.’

  ‘For now, Mr Kooi, the job is to wait. But tonight it will begin with a little excursion.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Location unknown

  Darkness: all around her, impenetrable black that made her think her eyes were still closed when she knew they were open.

  Movement: a swaying and rocking underlined by endless vibration that made her entire body tremble.

  Sound: incessant rumbling that filled her ears.

  Pain: a throbbing ache that originated in the back of her skull and seeped throughout her head.

  None of it made sense. Why had her alarm not gone off to wake her up before Peter surfaced, always hungry for breakfast, decreasingly hungry for morning cuddles? Was it the middle of night? Why was the bed shaking? Where was her duvet? What was going on in the street outside that caused the noise and vibration? Why did her head hurt so much?

  Lucille Defraine thought about the bottle of prosecco in the fridge, not remembering but imagining she had drunk it before bed and now was paying the price of a killer hangover. But that didn’t make sense of all that she was experiencing. That didn’t explain the lack of light or a scent in the air that she realised was exhaust fumes.

  She sat upright, squinting because the movement sent a wave of pain from the back of her head and straight down her body. She touched the source of the pain and found hair matted with crusted blood and a scabbed wound. The sensation made her feel nauseous. An image flashed through her mind.

  She put fingertips to her cheek, picturing a slap. A man had slapped her. Who? When? Then she had slapped him, she remembered that clearly. A tall blond man. No, that wasn’t right. She’d slapped a young man. A soldier with acne. But she had slapped him first, not the other way around. But why? Then she’d fallen. She must have hit her head on the pavement. That was why the back of her head hurt. That was why she couldn’t remember getting into bed. Why was it so dark? Why could she smell exhaust fumes?

  The memory strengthened – the Turkish chef trying and failing to rile her; walking the sitter to the bus stop; the three soldiers waiting there; waving the sitter goodbye; the young men harassing her.

  The blond man, tall and strong.

  He had helped her. He had slapped the man who’d slapped her.

  Now there is parity, he’d said.

  Lucille gasped, an avalanche of memories assailing her. He’d killed them. The blond man killed all three of the soldiers. She pictured a white face lying in the gutter, eyes open and staring after her as the blond man carried her away to…

  Peter.

  She cried out and stood, struggling to stay balanced against the swaying and the vibrations. She searched in the darkness, remembering the blond man taking her son and putting him in the back of a white panel van. Then she’d been put inside too. She realised she’d been lying on a mattress in the back of that van. The vibration and fumes were because the van was moving. The blond man had taken them.

  Lucille blindly felt along every square inch. She ran her palms over the foam rubber that covered the walls and floor.

  No Peter.

  She screamed. She banged her fists on the sides and floor and roof, screaming for her son.

  The blond man had taken him. The blond man had him.

  She screamed and screamed.

  Then the van stopped and she was thrown forward. She bounced off the spongy wall and fell onto the floor. She lay on her stomach, crying and screaming.

  A noise. Metal. A bolt sliding. Light, as a door opened at the rear of the van. It blinded her. She couldn’t see. A shape emerged through her tears. The blond man. Another shape in his arms.

  ‘Peter…’

  Her son was smiling. ‘I’ve been up in the cab like a big boy.’

  She sobbed, relief and fear overwhelming her equally. She pulled herself to her knees.

  ‘I didn’t want him to get bored,’ the blond man said. ‘And you needed to rest. He’s been having a good time, haven’t you, Peter?’

  He ruffled her son’s hair and he grinned. ‘The best time. We’ve been playing red car.’

  ‘And you’re winning, aren’t you?’ the blond man said.

  ‘I’ve got nine,’ Peter said, proudly. ‘He’s only got five.’

  ‘Your son is very observant. You should be proud of him.’

  ‘Give him back to me. Now.’

  The smile fell from Peter’s face at her tone.

  The blond man said, ‘There’s no need to be like that, Lucille. You don’t want to upset your son, do you?’

  Lucille tried to control her emotions for Peter’s sake. He didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t want to scare him, but she couldn’t stop the tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘Come with me, Peter.’ She held out her hands.

  ‘Why don’t we ask Peter what he would like to do?’ the blond man said, then to Peter, ‘Would you prefer to sit with your mother in the dark or ride in the cab like a big boy?’

  Peter thrust his hand in the air as if he was answering a question at school. ‘In the cab, please. Please.’

  Lucille wiped her eyes with the back of a wrist and tried to smile. ‘Come to your mother, Peter. She misses you.’

  Peter didn’t seem to notice. ‘Can we play red car again?’

  The blond man nodded. ‘Of course. Go and get back up front.’ He put Peter down. ‘But I’m going to win this time.’

  ‘No you won’t. No you won’t.’

  Peter ran out of Lucille’s sight and more tears wet her cheeks. The blond man smiled at her, but his eyes were dead.

  ‘Who are you?’ she gasped.

  ‘I am the devil who wears men’s skin.’

  The door swung shut and darkness enveloped Lucille once more.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Lazio, Italy

  Victor had never driven a Rolls-Royce before. He’d never driven a limousine either. People talked about life being about new experiences, but for Victor new experiences were almost exclusively bad. He didn’t know how this one would turn out. He clunked the door shut and adjusted the seat back a notch – the previous driver, Dietrich, was a couple of inches shorter. The driver’s seat wasn’t as large or as luxurious as those in the back of the vehicle, but it was still exceptionally comfortable as far as car seats went. Still, considering the price tag of the Phantom, Victor would have expected nothing less.

  The door windows and rear windscreen were tinted with a dark stain but the front windscreen was left clear. The glass was almost an inch thick with alternate layers of toughened safety glass and impact-resistant polycarbonate. The result was a shield that would stop most bullets. No good against a high-velocity rifle round, but only snipers of exceptional skill in a perfect position could hope to score a hit on the occupant of an enclosed moving vehicle. A monitor on the dashboard received a signal from a camera mounted on the back, acting as a rear view mirror when the privacy screen was closed. Surrounding the monitor, numerous buttons, dials and readouts occupied the dashboard. A clock displayed the time in both analogue and digital formats: 8 p.m. A disc-shaped pine air freshener was fixed behind the steering column but Victor’s nose still registered Dietrich’s stale body odour.

  Victor opened up the glove box and searched it, running his hand over every inch to make sure he didn’t miss anythi
ng. Not even documents or the owner’s manual. He checked the compartments in both the driver’s and passenger’s doors. All empty. He angled down the sun visors. Nothing. He reached under the seats, fingertips touching only carpet and the seat’s metal fixtures. No weapons, and no objects that could be used for the purpose. The air freshener could be used as a projectile if it came to it – but only assuming he discovered someone had a lethal allergy to artificial pine scent. He left it alone.

  He turned his attention to the set of keys dangling from the steering column. Besides the ignition key, four others hung from the same ring. A small shiny one was for a padlock, presumably the barn. Two older skeleton keys matched the locks he’d seen on the front and back doors of the farmhouse. Lastly, there was what looked like a spare ignition key. It wasn’t a spare, however. A spare key kept on the same ring as its counterpart wasn’t much use. It was a valet key that would start the Phantom’s engine and open the driver’s door, but wouldn’t enable access to the glove box or trunk. Some valet keys also restricted the performance of the vehicle’s engine, ensuring it could only be driven at minimal speeds. A useful feature when trusting a luxury car to a stranger.

  The valet key glimmered in the dim light. No scratches. No scuffs. It had never been used because there was never any need. Leeson always had someone drive for him. He didn’t need to trust his limousine and its contents to a valet he hadn’t met before.

  There was a soft rustle of static and the intercom light glowed green before Leeson’s voice sounded from the cab’s speakers. ‘Let’s have the partition window open, shall we, Mr Kooi? I don’t think there is any pressing need to be overly formal here.’

  Victor reached over one shoulder and slid across the opaque window separating the driver’s cab from the rear compartment. The window could be opened from either, but there was a catch on the other side so those travelling in the back of the limousine would not be interrupted at the wrong moment.

  A slight tilt of the rear view mirror brought Leeson into view. He sat on a rear seat, one leg crossed over the other. He was immaculately dressed in a black three-piece suit, white dress shirt and navy tie. Calm and relaxed. Victor wore a blue cotton shirt and dark jeans he’d found in his room.

  His gaze met with Victor’s. ‘Somewhat more civilised, I’m sure you agree.’

  Victor watched Leeson’s mouth move, but the sound that reached Victor’s ears came from the speakers, resulting in a disembodied effect.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Victor asked.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Well,’ Leeson said, looking at his gold watch, ‘if you’re not hungry now then you will be by the time we get to our destination. And if not, you will be when you smell the food. That I can promise you.’

  ‘We’re going to dinner?’

  ‘Does that surprise you?’

  ‘A little.’

  Victor’s answer seemed to amuse Leeson. He said, ‘Take me north, Mr Kooi.’

  ‘To Rome?’

  ‘Yes, to Rome. I can guide us if you’re unsure of the route, but kindly ignore the satnav.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘I have a nine p.m. reservation and the drive is about an hour, so do please take a liberal attitude with the speed limit.’

  Victor set the vehicle to cruise control and unhooked the valet key from the key ring. It had never been used.

  It wouldn’t be missed.

  Victor didn’t know the exact route from the farmhouse but he knew where the city was in relation to it and he could read the road signs. He didn’t want Leeson to know that, however, and made sure to ask for directions when Leeson failed to supply them.

  The limousine had a big engine that as standard put out about four hundred and fifty horsepower to drag its three thousand kilos along to a top speed of over one hundred and forty miles per hour. Victor had expected the extra twenty per cent weight from the armoured plating and glass to be offset with extra power beneath the bonnet to the tune of at least another fifty horses, but he found this wasn’t the case. There was no extra power. As a result the Rolls-Royce was painfully slow to accelerate. The brakes were standard too, and the vehicle was equally slow to decelerate.

  The twisting country lanes that led from the farmhouse were difficult to negotiate efficiently. Stopping for intersections and then pulling away into traffic was even worse. Victor had no concern about accidents, however. It would take an eighteen-wheeler to put a dent in the limousine. If there was a collision, the small European cars that appeared on the roads would practically bounce off.

  ‘Not the kindest of motor cars to drive,’ Leeson commented, as the dusk became twilight.

  ‘Something of an understatement.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it, eventually. If Mr Dietrich can master it, I have no doubts you can.’

  The Rolls-Royce was easier to drive once they’d joined the motorway leading to Rome. The sun had set in the west and Victor paid attention to the headlights that glowed in the rear view mirror and the dash-mounted monitor. He paid attention because he always did. He paid particular attention because he noticed a pair of headlights in his mirrors that had been there since he’d left the country lanes. They stayed two cars behind. An innocent position, as there had to be one vehicle occupying that spot, or a tried and tested tactical placing.

  In the darkness the vehicle they belonged to was too far away for Victor to discern any details, but the headlights were notably higher from the ground and further apart than those belonging to the two cars that followed directly behind the limousine. The arrangement of the lights didn’t match those on the people carrier that had been parked outside the farmhouse on the day of Victor’s arrival, but they belonged to a big SUV of some kind.

  ‘Somewhat smoother when you can keep your foot down, yes?’ Leeson asked.

  ‘Much,’ Victor answered, gaze flicking between the road ahead and the rear view monitor.

  Behind him, Leeson bent out of sight briefly and Victor heard the clink of glass. When Leeson sat back he held up the crystal decanter for Victor to see.

  ‘Can I interest you in a little something to smooth the edges of your stony demeanour, Mr Kooi?’

  Victor shook his head. ‘Not the most sensible of ideas when driving.’

  ‘I’m sure a man such as yourself can handle his liquor. One tipple of Scotland’s finest is hardly going to send us crashing into the embankment, now is it?’

  ‘Nevertheless, I prefer not to.’

  Leeson poured himself a Scotch and set the decanter back down. ‘Your choice, of course. You are the driver.’

  ‘Is that why you hired me?’

  ‘To be my driver? Hardly.’ Leeson laughed briefly. ‘But I’m paying you for your time and your services, Mr Kooi. At the current moment I require you to drive.’

  ‘I haven’t been paid as yet.’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘When do I start doing the work you actually hired me for?’

  ‘All in good time,’ Leeson said again.

  ‘I’m beginning to grow tired of this game.’

  Leeson smiled. ‘Then you shall be refreshed soon enough.’

  Victor glanced at the SUV’s headlights. They still shone from two cars behind. ‘Why isn’t Dietrich driving for you, or Coughlin or Jaeger?’

  ‘Mr Coughlin is currently busy performing his duties. Jaeger consumes even more than you would believe and more noisily than you could comprehend. And can you dare imagine what dining with Mr Dietrich would be like?’ Leeson shuddered. ‘Horrific beyond words, I’m certain. Besides, I expect he eats leather and drinks motor oil.’

  ‘Francesca then?’

  Leeson raised his tumbler in a mock toast. ‘Far more pleasing to have on the opposite side of the dinner table than yourself, as I’m sure you won’t mind me saying.’

  Victor nodded. ‘Then why me?’

  Leeson pulled back his shirt cuff to check his gold Rolex Super President. The diamonds surroun
ding the face sparkled. He said, ‘Because I still don’t know you, Mr Kooi. And I’d really like to. I—’

  Leeson’s phone rang. Without another word, he leaned forward and slid the partition window shut. No sound came through the speakers. Victor glanced at the intercom’s light. Off.

  He gaze alternated between the road ahead and the SUV two cars behind.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Rome