The Assassin's Keeper

by John McClements

“Very well,” said Gustavo. “Let’s get started, Pedro. Here is the new file. He lives in the UK.”

  Pedro lifted the cover, but only enough that he could see inside. Pedro nodded, thoughtfully, recognising the photograph within.

  “Okay, leave it with me,” he said, keeping his micro-expressions carefully blank.

  Pedro slid the file into the briefcase he had brought along entirely for this purpose. He didn’t want to say too much, not with Gustavo watching him. Instead, he shifted on his barstool, like he was rearranging his weight. Gustavo got up and shuffled his feet. Absently, he scratched his head and held his hand out to Pedro, who shook it, surprised.

  “Yeah, we probably won’t meet again,” said Gustavo.

  Pedro cocked his head curiously. This was more detail than he had come to expect from Gustavo.

  “Okay,” he said, guardedly.

  He took the briefcase he rarely used and made his way back to the car, recognising this as a dismissal. Every step of the way he could feel Gustavo’s eyes boring into the back of his head, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  ***

  Back at the office, Pedro slumped into his desk chair. For a few minutes he simply gazed out of the window at the city he had come to call home. He sighed, pushing the air out of his cheeks with an audible huff. He was putting off the inevitable.

  With some reluctance he pulled the file Gustavo had given him out of the briefcase and laid it flat on the desk. He flipped through the file, his mind hundreds of miles and several years away. It had all happened such a long time ago. He had begun to dream that he could simply walk away, that no one would worry about an old renegade like him. He could vanish and no one would ever know anything – except for Gustavo and the people he worked for. He would have to do as he was instructed, all those years ago.

  The trouble was that he had never really believed that this day would come, and the longer he had lived in America, far from the tensions and certainties of his home, the more he had come to believe that perhaps that day shouldn’t come.

  For years now, Pedro had fantasised about retiring, about trying to make a normal life for himself.

  A fool’s hope.

  It had been so long that his contacts in the government were not what they once had been. Almost all of them were either dead or retired now. There had been a time when he had known exactly who among them he could trust, but time changes many things and he couldn’t say for sure that he could trust any of the few still left. He knew now that he was on his own.

  His thoughts turned to an old associate: Silva Milan.

  Milan had been working in Essen when they met, as an intelligence adviser. The two of them formed a ruthless partnership, working together on several seemingly impossible projects since. Pedro liked Milan because he was the mirror image of himself; intelligent and pragmatic, he never got caught up in the emotional component of things. This and the way they viewed the world had fostered a deep, mutual respect between the both of them. They made the perfect team: Milan’s quick mind and Pedro’s heartless, crush-the-enemy-at-any-cost attitude.

  There were plenty of people who didn’t like Silva Milan. For all his keen sense of justice, sometimes he played dirty. He wasn’t one of those men who had to do everything by the book. The last time they had met, having taken the measure of one another, they had obliquely admitted that they were each aware of the other’s part in the coming action. Milan had told him – and he could see for himself – that the revenge Astiz had in mind for the enemy was not far away. Zaffaroni must be found, wherever he was, and protected.

  That was Pedro’s purpose: to keep the man alive until he could complete his mission.

  With a practiced eye, Pedro ran through his current caseload, making adjustments that would allow him to work out a workable timeline. He needed to make sure that when the time came he wouldn’t be missed.

  His mind full of calculations, he fumbled for a cigarette, lit it and took a deep, soothing drag. The rush of nicotine calmed his nerves. He held the smoke in his lungs longer than normal before exhaling, running through all the possible pitfalls in his mind. A gulp of scotch burned his throat before picking up the phone to talk to Milan.

  “We need to meet, now,” he said, when he was sure he had the right man.

  Pedro felt a strange rush of adrenaline as he slammed the receiver down. For years he had hoped that this day would never come, but now that it had he was itching to get started. He slid his chair back with an unpleasant screech. He grabbed his keys and unlocked the door of his car and climbed inside. His foot was itching to push the engine as hard as he could. The Ford squealed through a hard left, drifted slightly and came to a controlled stop. Driving – and driving well – was one of Pedro’s passions. He switched off the engine and strode across the dark gravel expanse of the parking lot, heading towards the main entrance of the Sixty-One Club.

  The familiar din greeted his ears as he stepped inside, took a sharp right and moved at a brisk stride up two short flights of marble stairs.

  Silva Milan stood in the doorway, a look on his face that suggested he, too, had been contacted and that he was struggling to wrap his head around it. His hair was cut short and neat, as was his moustache. His slim, fashionable glasses and sharply cut suit gave him an air of unassailable dignity. The dark pinstripes and highly polished shoes got him in and out of all manner of institutions without the need of Pedro’s series of fake IDs.

  Together, they went into Milan’s office and flipped through the file together. There was a moment of silence as he digested the information, then he groaned. Every part of his body language screamed ‘You have got to be kidding me’. This Zaffaroni thing had put Milan in a foul mood – not that he was known for a bubbly personality at the best of times. Today, though, he was unusually stand-offish.

  Pedro dropped his chin against his chest, thinking hard. He began pacing from one end of the room to the other, turning quickly to face Milan. He wagged a thoughtful finger.

  “We need to recruit,” he said, sharply. “Are you in?”

  Milan’s expression tightened. Suddenly, his focus shifted to some distant point in the past, hidden from Pedro’s gaze. He nodded and cleared his throat. He knew exactly how badly this could turn out, and he was tempted to say so. He knew, however, the less said the better, even to an old friend. Pedro watched these emotions chase one another across the man’s face.

  Now almost sixty years old, Milan worked for one of the city’s top law firms and had been looking forward to a relaxing early retirement. He knew he’d lost the focus of his cause.

  Pedro read it in his eyes.

  “You know we can’t avoid this,” he said, irritably. “You need to consider your options carefully.”

  “As do you, old friend.”

  Pedro let out a tense chuckle, conceding the truth of this. They had known one another for twenty-five years and trusted his judgement. Sometimes, probably because of his legal training, he could be a little officious.

  Together, they stood on the second-storey balcony and talked cautiously for hours. Pedro leaned lightly against the metal rail, his leg bouncing impatiently. He was anxious, now, to get the belated operation underway.

  The conversation kept turning back to the importance of Milan’s part in the coming operation and how fortunate he was to be in his position. Pedro was careful not to sound like he was threatening his old friend, which Milan appreciated. He didn’t give anything away, however.

  Pedro reached into his pocket and retrieved a small roll of film, no bigger than his fingernail. He told him it was the only photograph they had of their mark.

  Pedro rubbed his head and asked the most basic question, “How in hell do we find him? He will have changed in the last few years – this is an old image.”

  Milan nodded.

  From his pained expression, Pedro could guess the direction of his thoughts. Milan had never liked being the centre of attention. He was far more used to being a m
an working behind the scenes than taking part of a central operation. He knew that their chances of success were remote. This man had proven extremely elusive over the years; up to this moment, very few people even knew he existed. Chances were, sleeper agents all over the place were waking up to the knowledge that Zaffaroni was a person of interest for their operation.

  Their best starting point would be London. It was an easy place to disappear in. Locating him might be one of those operations that quickly became tedious and drawn out. They could take months or even years. Every so often, though, a shortcut might present itself. The trick was to recognise it and to know when to take advantage of it.

  If there was a chance here, they couldn’t waste it. Pedro knew there wouldn’t be a second. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  “It will change everything,” he said. “Years of work and we would be the ones who make it happen.”

  Milan gritted his teeth. He knew that Pedro was quite correct.

  “I will do what I can,” he promised. “But now I must check on my client. I got her acquitted, but she relocated to San Francisco and she’s not coping very well. I get the impression I’m the only person she talks to now other than her mother.”

  Pedro chuckled.

  “You always did have a soft spot for a damsel in distress,” he said. “I’m heading south myself to Miami. The CIA have me assigned to a cruise ship.”

  “We will speak soon, my friend,” said Milan, and shook his hand.

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  Chapter 4

  "Hello?"

  She winced as her voice rasped. Gone were the days when her voice had bubbled out of her mouth as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Drinda, it’s Milan.” There was a pause, and she could almost see him contemplating how to phrase his next words. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied, almost managing to keep the bite from her tone. It wasn’t his fault that she’d had her mother on the phone earlier asking her the same question every three minutes. Drinda shoved a hand through her hair, grimacing as her fingers snagged on a knot. “Sorry, it’s been a trying day.”

  “I understand. Listen, I’m heading out your way – I was thinking I’d drop by and see you.”

  There was nothing but the sound of their breathing for a moment as her brain struggled to figure out why he would come all this way to see her.

  “Sure… I mean, it’s not as though you’re crashing any plans…”

  “Wonderful…”

  ***

  Three days had passed since Milan had called her; three days since he said he was coming to see her. Drinda moved agitatedly around the confines of her apartment as she waited for him to arrive. She’d heard people say that time healed any wound, but she still felt the suffocating pressure of not being believed – of being framed for something that she’d never even contemplated despite all of her troubles with Lee.

  She was startled out of her reverie by the doorbell. It was hopeless to think that the buzzer from the street door would go – there were so many people coming and going from the block that it would be simpler to just have a revolving door.

  Casting one last glance around in the dim light of her kitchen, she moved to open the door. Checking briefly that it was, indeed, Milan, she opened the door. Her smile was brittle, but polite. He stepped forward to give the air near her cheek a kiss.

  Drinda eyed him up and down until he offered his hand. Taking it, she responded with another smile – this time slightly friendlier - and opened the door wider for him to come in. Belatedly, she realized that she was still holding on to the dish towel she’d picked up in the kitchen, and began twisting it nervously in her hands. It was disconcerting how little he’d changed over the last seven years.

  She raised her eyebrows and lifted her chin as he remained silent, causing her earrings to jingle. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here because I think your life will soon get better.”

  “What?” Her eyes followed him as he moved around her apartment, trying to convince herself that he wasn’t judging her on the piles of random crap that had accumulated.

  Milan moved towards the window and pulled the shades open.

  "It's like a cave in here. You need light, woman."

  Drinda flinched, closing her eyes against the sudden infiltration of bright light, making a small noise in the back of her throat as her lips settled in a moue of rebuke. Blinking her eyes carefully open, she watched as Milan stalked to the kitchen and –pulling the blind in there up as well – picked up two glasses from the draining board and set them on the small kitchen table. He pulled out a chair, and folded himself gracefully into it before eyeing the bottles she had collected there. Picking up a bottle of vodka, he poured a measure into each glass before flicking his steely eyes back up to her and leaning his elbows on the table.

  “Sit down with me,” he said, nudging the chair opposite him out from under the table.

  Slowly, hesitantly, she moved towards him, wondering just how much her life would change – it already had in the five minutes that he had been in her apartment. Drinda watched with apprehension as his gaze moved over her, coming to rest on the dish towel that was still wrapped around her hands. Her breath caught as he reached towards her and yanked it from her grasp.

  “Drink,” he said, his tone brooking no argument, as he raised his glass to his lips and tipped his head back to swallow the measure in one.

  Her hands shook as she raised the glass to her lips and shuddered as she forced herself to swallow. The vodka was neat; it had been a while since she’d touched neat vodka.

  “Things have been tough for you, Drinda… am I right?”

  “I…” She watched him pour himself another measure.

  “The thing is…” he swirled the liquid in the glass, “you can’t keep on like this. All this hiding and pretending that you’re fine.”

  There was a pause as he sipped at the vodka this time.

  “It’s not been easy you know,” Drinda snapped in the momentary silence. “I’m constantly on alert – I feel like I’ve been damned even though you got my name cleared. My mother…”

  “Loves you too much to let you wallow,” Milan interrupted. “But that’s no reason to shut yourself away from everyone – everything. I came because I have a proposition.”

  “Proposition?” Drinda suddenly wished her hands weren’t shaking as much as they were – that they would be steady enough to let her down her vodka at the calculating measure of his words.

  Milan quirked his lips and dropped his eyes back to his glass. “I’ve decided that you deserve a vacation.”

  “A… what?”

  She snapped her eyes from his fingers that were tracing the rim of the glass to his face, searching for a hint that he was joking.

  “You’ve been cooped up here too long. There’s a cruise ship leaving at the end of the month. I think you should be on it when it sails.”

  Suddenly she was far away in her thoughts, remembering a dinner conversation that she’d had early in her relationship. “Lee always did say that he’d take me on a cruise one day…”

  “Let’s discuss details over a drink,’ he suggested smoothly, as though this was how he’d planned it all the way. “There’s someone I want you to meet, first. I'll just make a quick call, then I’ll explain in the car.”

  ***

  Milan picked up the phone as he watched Drinda walking unsteadily to her bedroom to change. It was shocking really, he thought as he dialed, how much she’d let herself go since she’d been accused of murder.

  After the third ring, the call was answered.

  “Yes?” The sound of a pen tapping against a table top carried over the line, and Milan felt an eyebrow rise at the sign of agitation.

  “Pedro, that cruise ship you’re going on – I need you to travel with someone for me.” Milan said, turning away from Drinda’s bedroom door, talking quickly and precisely.

&nb
sp; “Who?”

  “My damsel in distress, as you so wonderfully dubbed her.”

  “Her? Why?

  “She needs to remember how to live. Look, her boyfriend was murdered – stabbed in the neck by someone who wanted him out of their lives – and she ended up being framed for it. No-one believed she was innocent until I came in, and got her acquitted. She’s never moved past what happened. At least meet her.”

  Milan could hear Pedro’s pen stop its tapping and the line crackled momentarily. He imagined Pedro scrubbing a hand over his face.

  “Fine,” Pedro grumbled eventually, “but you owe me.”

  ***

  When she emerged from her bedroom, Drinda wore a dark red sweater and a black pantsuit that hugged her curvy hips and fell straight down over her long, thin legs. She was momentarily conscious that she wasn’t wearing any make-up and that her hair which she wore tied back, was probably sticking up somewhere. She was nowhere near the refined elegance of Milan, but she was at least out of the over-large, slouchy jumper and leggings that had been her refuge for so long. They spoke little as she locked her apartment door and they made their way out of her building – some of her neighbours looking curiously at the man accompanying her.

  Outside in the car park, Milan led her over to a silver Mercedes and opened the passenger door for her; she slid into the leather seat.

  They were silent as they travelled. Drinda stared out of the passenger window at the setting sun, the street lights flickering into life as the darkness swept along the road. It was strange, seeing Milan so soon. Clasping her hands tighter around the seatbelt, Drinda tried to ignore the wave of memories that threatened to crash across her consciousness. She could still remember the hard bed and sense of frustration and disbelief that no-one believed her.

  ***

  She glared at Milan with a tear-streaked face.

  "You need to stick to your guns; relay the facts and refuse to be intimidated."