“You would fail in your attempt,” said Marie, facing him, “and regret your folly.”
Josef looked as if he was about to respond when she whipped her right hand out and caught him across the jaw with her palm. It made a sound like a dry branch snapping. But even as Marie’s hand connected with his jaw, he removed a small, thin-bladed knife from somewhere, and sliced first into the blouse of her left arm and then the skin of her forearm, drawing blood.
In the silence each of them stared at the other.
“Very good, very good indeed,” whispered Marie. She peeled back the sleeve of her blouse to reveal the wound on her forearm. Blood slid lazily down her arm to her elbow.
She offered the cut to the Assassin who watched impassively as the trickle of blood gathered and formed a hanging drip at her elbow. They both looked at the red drop of blood, but then Josef’s gaze went down to Marie’s right hand, which hovered an inch from his side and contained a small vial of fluid. A needle from the vial was pressing lightly against the Assassin’s shirt.
Josef slowly replaced the knife in his sleeve, and then eased away from her.
“Oh, come now, Josef,” she said, moving a step towards him, “don’t be shy. You’ve drawn blood, you know the protocol.”
He stared at her.
“This is not the time,” he said, his eyes moving between hers and her left elbow still held in front of him.
“Drink,” she said.
“But surely…” he stammered.
“DRINK,” she commanded, and thrust her arm forward.
With a greedy anticipation, he grabbed her arm, raised it slightly, and ran the tip of his tongue up from the elbow to her wrist, savouring the sticky metal flavour of her blood.
“If we have to have this conversation again,” she said as he licked his lips, “you will feel the needle.”
Josef stared at her. He laughed and continued to lick his lips.
“Well that was excellent,” said Lench, breaking in on them. “Now, if you will excuse us, Josef, Marie and I have things to discuss. You will be told what is required of you in due course.”
Josef could still feel some trace of Marie’s blood on his chin as he bowed to her, and she returned the compliment. Then he nodded to Lench and turned to leave without waiting for a response. He walked briskly out of the room, out of the front door of the house and into the cold country air.
Outside he looked across at the two remaining vehicles parked in Lench’s drive, and the comparison only served to reinforce his place in the world. His car was a scuffed pale blue Fiesta, instantly forgettable, a tool of his trade. Then next to it, gleaming in the dark, he could see the sleek Iridium Silver of Lench’s just purchased SLK 350. The boss had boasted about this latest purchase, indulging himself by taking up the offer to fly business class to the manufacturer’s premises and picking up the car personally. It was, the Assassin knew, just the kind of ostentatious gesture that Lench would love.
Josef felt a sudden desire to urinate on the bonnet of the Mercedes, but he found the strength to resist that indulgence and got into his own car and drove away.
Watching from the window, Lench drew on his cigar and released the curtains.
Marie placed her hand on Lench’s arm; the blood had clotted fully now.
“He is spent,” she said, simply, looking straight at her leader.
“I will be the judge of that, Marie.” Lench smiled and blew more smoke into the air between them, “but you,” he said, turning to her, “you are most definitely not spent. You are going to get a chance to prove yourself. The master requires your services, and I am relying on you.”
“I am ready to do anything that is required of me, anything.”
“Good. You understand that we simply can’t fail again. We cannot.”
Marie remained silent and Lench placed the cigar in a large crystal ashtray.
“What do we need to do?” she said.
“Sit down,” he replied, “I have no desire to conduct another stand-up discussion with anyone this evening.”
She sat neatly in the armchair opposite his desk, the inverted pentagram swinging slightly before it came to rest against her breast. He could not read her eyes through the dark, almost black irises. Was she impatient or expectant? Indifferent or maybe full of all kinds of hunger, he could only speculate.
Lench was not, as a rule, a man taken with passions of the flesh, but he did find Marie’s intensity, her focus, rather alluring. He considered the wisdom of having her strip naked now right before him, as a kind of test of obedience. The idea lingered in his mind before he dismissed it; she would have done what he asked, of course, and more; but she would know it was a pointless exercise and would not think well of him for it.
He took a photo from his pocket. “This,” he said, “is Alex Masters’ brother, Conner Adams.”
She studied the photo, her face expressionless. “I know of him.”
“This is our target, their weakness. If we can destroy him, we will destroy their company. We need to attack both his character and his body, and in the process crush him. The advantage we have is that he is both their weak point and the chief source of income in the next few months. If we can remove the boy, then we remove that income stream, and their whole empire will fall. You and I will each take one aspect of the plan and execute it. I am going to go after his integrity and his calling; but you must go after his body.”
“How?” she said.
“You will lure him to the safe house, obtain some pictures of yourself conducting some abuse of him, you will be in disguise of course. Josef can bring him to you, and support you in the process, meanwhile I will do what I need to, to destroy his integrity.”
“How much I am allowed to do to the boy?” she said.
“Well, feel free to enjoy yourself,” said Lench, waving his arm casually so that the smoke swirled above their heads, “but he must not be damaged too much. Perhaps some light blade work, decorate him, but don’t harm him, the devastation has to come from within.”
“It will be done,” she said.
“Excellent.” Lench shifted in his seat. “And now perhaps we could indulge in a little sport I think.”
“As you wish,” said Marie. “In here?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Lench.
It was an indulgence on his part, a rare physical event for him, a diversion, but he saw no harm in it.
“Well, you have come a long way,” he said after they had engaged. “The nice Christian girl now serves the master.”
“Do not speak of my past, please,” she said. “I do not wish to remember.”
This was as close as she got to emotion, and Lench thought he could see a flush of anger on her cheeks.
She pulled on her blouse. “They have made their choices,” she continued, “and I have made mine.” She hung her jacket over her arm, covering the tattered and bloodstained blouse sleeve. The wound had reopened in the midst of their activities, but she had ignored it. He had considered offering to get a bandage for her but had decided she would decline the offer.
“Well, goodnight then,” he said.
“Goodnight,” she said, and left.
Caleb jolted out of his dream and stared at the ceiling, the words already on his lips.
He was immediately alert, a state he never normally achieved in the morning until after he’d had a nice cup of tea. He knew he must get up, immediately, but quietly; if his wife woke up and saw him like this she would think he was having some sort of seizure, but the only thing seizing him was an utter conviction that God required his attention, now.
He felt disorientated, and just a little nauseous. It was like this sometimes; when the good Lord completely failed to respect his preferred morning routine. In the past Caleb found himself roused at all sorts of unreasonable hours of the morning often for things that, from his human perspective, might possibly have waited. On such occasions, he reluctantly hauled himself from his warm bed and out of obedience ra
ther than enthusiasm, he wrote it all down, prayed it all through, and then usually, fell asleep again.
Wrapped in dressing gown and scarf, he walked into the study and eased into his most comfortable chair. He reached down and unlocked a desk drawer, removing a thick, dog-eared notebook; the pages interleaved with bookmarks, Post-it notes and thin strips of material.
He laid the book on the leather of his desk and fished for a pencil from one of an array of commemorative mugs before him, and then he started to write.
Thursday 23rd January –
The Lord has stirred me with a portent that the enemy will strike soon. First, there was a dream; I saw Alex standing with her cousin Daisy behind a high and glittering shield. I am convinced that this shield was of the Lord’s making, a protection for them both. But on their faces, I saw horror. Looking further on I saw a man in the darkness with hot and vengeful eyes, a scar across his face; but surprisingly, when I saw him, I did not feel fear or anger, but rather the Lord’s compassion for a broken soul. I saw him attached to a set of threads, as if he were a puppet or mannequin; and the threads connected to a frame held aloft by another figure, the puppeteer. As I looked more closely, I saw that some of the threads had become detached from the frame, allowing the man some independent movement. This other figure, the puppeteer, intrigued me, for he is surely the mind behind the enemy’s attacks. I should not be surprised that things have come to this. The dark forces are gathering again.
He put down his pencil and looked across the desk to a photo. This was a rare snapshot from a family party, and staring at him intently amongst the crowd of faces were the images of Alex and Daisy. In his vision they were safe behind the shield of the Lord, secure and protected. But what was special about them? And if they were protected, who was not?
He leant back and breathed out in a sigh, beginning to wonder what was different about Alex and Daisy. What was it that made them safe?
A thought came to him, like a voice speaking in his mind:
“They have met the enemy and they have overcome.”
Of course, they had had their encounter with two of the enemy’s people, and they had faced them both down. There was the man who had caused a scene in Alex’s café, and the other one who had confronted them by Alex’s car.
But these were still dangerous men, and not everyone was safe behind the shield.
Whatever it meant, he knew that after a period of relative calm the battle was, once more, about to begin.
“God have mercy,” he said. Then he pulled himself to his feet and headed out to the kitchen.
4
Daisy pushed on through a small group of French speakers clustered around a large stand, jostling them from their discussion.
“Pardon!” she shouted joyfully. “Pardon, monsieur!” Then she took a sharp right, following the edge of one of the exhibition stands round and off again in a direct line towards her destination. Conner trailed behind her, struggling to keep up.
Around her, Parisian couture blended with fabric and design from across the world. Amongst the chatter and the heat, an mélange of ideas and colours met, coming together from different places and cultures, and Daisy’s senses buzzed with the sights and sounds of it all.
Conner caught up with her and stared at the splendour around him. Left to himself he would have browsed the stands at his leisure, casually exploring this world of fashion and fabric under one roof, but Daisy was on a mission. She pushed on, clutching a portfolio case and pulling at Conner’s shirt as she moved off.
“It’s here, here just past these people and…” She ploughed between a pair of smart-suited Italian buyers as if she were determined to interrupt an intimacy between them. They eyed her with a mixture of suspicion and bewilderment. Conner followed behind, trying to convey an apology in his expression.
“Here! Here it is, look,” she said, and stopped.
Conner was still trying to give a visual apology to the Italians when he bumped into Daisy, nudging her into a large man who was resplendent in a red and gold waistcoat and green silk cravat.
“Good morning, madam,” he said, “admire and enjoy.” He moved his right hand in a graceful arc indicating all of the fabrics before them. Conner pulled his gaze away from the dazzle of the waistcoat and ogled at the display before him.
“This is it,” said Daisy, “just look at them, aren’t they beautiful?”
“Yeah, absolutely, Daisy,” he said, and he meant it.
Amidst the bustle and the heat, Daisy stood completely still.
She gazed out at a kaleidoscope of African colour and texture – rolls of material fanning out, the bounty of a continent. She leant forward so that her lips were close to his ear. “I want them all, Conner, all of them. I want to take them home with us.”
Conner had a vision of himself staggering back to the hotel, weighed down with bundles of material.
“Is that allowed?” he said. “I mean how much money can you spend here?”
She laughed. “What are you? Aiden’s secret assistant?”
“No,” he said, “but they did give you some sort of budget, I mean you can’t buy it all.”
“Calm yourself,” she said, “we’re just getting some samples.”
“Well, you get whatever you want to,” he replied defiantly, “but don’t expect me to drag it back halfway across Paris.”
She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Now don’t be upset with me, Conner. Just look at this.”
She opened the portfolio case and removed a pencil drawing of a loose-fitting jacket. The vendor peered over her shoulder, nodding slowly at the designs.
“What about that, Conner, what fabric could we use for that?”
Conner blinked a couple of times and peered through the haze at the fabrics in front of him. He was desperate to give her some sort of answer and so he pointed at a crimson material shimmering in the warmth.
“That one’s nice, I could see you using that,” he said, but he wasn’t sure whether she even heard him. Her eyes moved on to some of the other fabrics there.
Daisy could see that Conner flagging, and it wouldn’t be long before he was complaining about the heat and his aching feet.
“Come on, Conner,” she said, putting her arm around his shoulder, “don’t give up now that we are here. Look at this design again and tell me what fabric I should use for it.” She pulled another sheaf of paper from her file.
He was about to tell her to work it out for herself, when another voice cut in on them:
“I think you should try using the Kente cloth from Ghana.”
In Conner’s head, the noise of the exhibition receded, and he heard that single, female voice. He turned to see who had spoken.
She was about Daisy’s height, dressed in a cornflower blue blouse and cream cotton slacks, and in the heat of the exhibition she looked as if she was surrounded by her own bubble of coolness and calm. She had clear green eyes, framed by ginger curls, and he looked at her and smiled.
And she didn’t notice him, because at that moment Daisy pushed past him and flung her arms around the girl.
“Poppy!” she said. “Oh my God! What are you doing here?”
“Looking at fabric of course,” said Poppy. “Rather like you I suspect, although my team are pretty much finished here now. It’s wonderful to see you again, what have you been up to?”
“Well,” said Daisy, “you’d be so impressed. I’m working as a buyer for a fashion and media start-up in the city, they’re going to let me design my own range.”
“Wow,” said Poppy, “they really must love you, that’s so exciting for you, well done!”
“Real clothes!” said Daisy, waving her designs in front of her friend’s eyes. “Not just tee shirts and sweats.” She paused, feeling the excitement again, and then became aware of Conner fidgeting next to her.
“Oh, and this is my colleague Conner. He works for them too and he’s here giving me a bit of a hand. Conner, this is a friend of mine from
design college, Poppy Martinez.”
“Hi, Conner,” said Poppy, “so are you involved in the fashion side of this business too?”
There was a curious movement in Conner’s stomach, as if some of his internal organs were fidgeting next to each other.
“Well, no not really,” he said, “actually I’m a bit of a musician.”
“Really,” said Poppy, “what do you play?”
“A bit of acoustic guitar, and I sing as well.” They looked at each other for just a moment then Daisy laughed.
“Bit of a musician,” Daisy mimicked Conner’s voice. “He’s very modest,” she said. “He’s actually the lead singer in a band that the company are sponsoring, they get loads of hits on YouTube and they are going on tour later this year.”
“Really,” said Poppy, “so what’s your band called?”
“We’re called Joel’s Garden,” said Conner. “Pop, rock, a few ballads, that’s us.”
“Oh, I think I’ve heard of you guys,” said Poppy. “I’ll look out for the tour.”
Conner blushed and grinned, stupidly.
“Well,” said Poppy, “we should all meet before you go, if we can; I want to have a proper catch-up with you.”
“Sure, let’s do it,” said Daisy. “So anyway, what were you saying about some fabric from Ghana?”
“I think you should try using Kente cloth from Ghana,” said Poppy. “The material has a deep spiritual significance for those who produce it.” She looked at Daisy’s sketch once more. “There’s a particular fabric from the region, Nyanknoton, it means ‘God’s eyebrow’. It’s the name the indigenous people there give to a rainbow; I think it would be an excellent fabric for your design.”
The man in the waistcoat eased himself into the conversation.
“We have Kente cloth here, madam,” he said. “I can show you the fabric if you would like to see it.”
Daisy nodded, and the man bustled around amongst the rolls of material. He returned with something that could only be described as a riot of colour.
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