“You can trust me,” said Pedro, staring at John levelly. “But you can’t trust anyone else.”
John thought about this for a moment, before replying with, “I wouldn’t have come here today if I’d never trusted people.”
Pedro smirked, continuing to stare at John in that calm way of his. He was very clearly a professional; John knew straight off that he was way ahead of him. It was also obvious that Pedro had been trained to think ahead, and to always cover the gamut of possibilities in any one situation.
"Your job may require long periods of sitting and watching while trying to act as if you aren’t watching," he said after a while, breaking the silence.
"Does that mean I’ll become the worthless sort of man who hangs out at cafés for long hours?" replied John with a smirk. "Drinking and working on crossword puzzles, and reading important-looking books."
"If you want to fit in, if you want to pass the time without looking like a private eye, or a policeman, you have to look busy," said Pedro, nodding.
"So, would my look be okay?"
John hadn't shaved for a few days and his face was covered with thick black stubble. Pedro thought that might help.
"We could assume you had adopted some kind of disguise," Pedro smiled. "Look, John, here’s the bottom line. I'm easy to deal with, as long as you don't try to fuck with me."
John leant on the table and looked directly into Pedro's eyes.
"This is serious business," he said.
"And it's best to know right now where we stand," replied Pedro.
"That's fine," John said.
Pedro suggested they take a walk, as there was a problem with sewers in the building, hence the smell. As they walked down the stairs, the stench made John want to gag.
Pedro screwed up his face. "Let's just get out of here and grab a glass of wine," he suggested.
"That sounds good. I can barely stand the smell myself," John replied, grateful. He hadn't eaten and his stomach was seriously protesting at the lack of food. Maybe they could grab a bite as well as the wine.
Chapter 9
It was a bright, crisp afternoon and the sidewalk was heavy with a blend of locals and tourists. The Americans were easily identified by their girth, their bulky clothes, fanny, back, or otherwise. Europeans were a little more difficult to pick out, but they all shared the same interest: eating.
Pedro took him to a high-end restaurant for lunch. The waiter raced forward but John got there first, sliding out the chair from underneath the table and sitting down. After glancing only briefly at the wine list, Pedro chose the Chateau Cissac 1978.
The waiter wheeled a trolley around the room displaying cuts of meat, and when he stopped at their table, John chose the two fat entrecôte steaks. Pedro actually cracked a smile and then wiped it away with a grimace as he tasted the wine. He gave the waiter a sideways glance as he set the glass down. The waiter arrived with a fresh glass and a new bottle. He poured a little for Pedro to taste. After it was approved, he poured more into the glass, set the bottle down, and retreated.
"It's something I enjoy, eating fine food while working undercover," Pedro said. "Over the years, I've spent many hours sitting in restaurants. I know I'm good at it, that's why I still do it."
"I think that you still being alive is proof that you’re good at it."
"Okay," Pedro said, sounding more serious now. "I need an honest answer from you. I need a verbal commitment. You need to look me in the eye and swear that you are going to answer this question honestly."
John hated being penned in like that, but he didn’t have much choice. "Fine."
"I won't bullshit you, John. Ask away and I'll always tell you the truth. But first, are you in? All I ask, John,” he continued, “is that if our relationship is going to work, I need you to understand certain things. When I tell you I want something to happen immediately, it needs to happen."
"I understand."
The dark red liquid that he swirled around in his glass was helping him to focus, and he looked at John with his deep, sharp eyes. "Listen, John. I'm very busy and I don't always have time for the smaller cases. I've got a lot of jobs I'm trying to tie up right now. That's why I need help."
All of a sudden – and after only two big gulps of wine – Pedro called the waiter over and asked for the check. "We gotta go, let's move. Come on," he spoke so quickly that the words tripped off his tongue as one. They both stood, and Pedro dropped a fifty dollar note on the table. The waiter eyed him and held open the door.
They walked out of the building, Pedro murmuring something about the quality of the wine as a reason for why they’d left so abruptly.
They continued walking, their faces stunned by the sudden chill. John still hadn’t got used to the fact that even after a hot, sunny day in San Francisco, temperatures could suddenly drop once the fog rolled in. Pedro suggested they go for a drive, and John nodded towards Pedro’s '76 Ford. They slid into the leather seats and drove back to town. John was deep in thought, taking mental notes; he was also trying to decipher a sheet of paper that had fallen on the floor. What the hell does that say? Is it a ten?
"John, there's a really nice bar which I go to occasionally. I sometimes bring my newspaper and sit and have a glass or two."
They stopped and parked the car. Pedro swung open the bar door and they walked in. It was a noisy place, but it had a great feel to it. There was a line of men sitting at the bar, all eyes aimed at their drinks, shoulders tense. A lethal-looking bottle of pure vodka caught John’s eye. He saw a clump of men in the corner drinking and playing cards. He nudged his way through to the bar, hoping to get a shot. Pedro stared at him, opening his eyes wide. He flicked his fingers to get his attention.
"John, do you know that I really enjoy good wine and I consider myself a wine expert? It's an interesting fact, isn’t it, John? Ask a dozen winemakers how they know their grapes are ripe enough to harvest and chances are you'll get a dozen different answers. Try this glass of wine – it’s a Chardonnay." John hadn’t even noticed him order it.
Pedro scanned his face as John's left eyelid drooped slightly. "I must admit, I really am a vodka drinker." Though it never mattered to John if he drank fancy wines, as long as they were cold he didn’t care. He just needed to hear the clink of glasses. However, John got the impression that Pedro had another reason for stopping here; his eyes were everywhere, darting from one group of men to another. Apart from the regular glances he gave John, he kept checking the door as though he was expecting someone.
One guy walked in with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The man loitered for a moment before exchanging glances with Pedro and giving him a knowing nod. He looked Latin American.
"Please excuse me, John," said Pedro. "There’s someone I know. I just want to say hi." John wasn’t sure why, but Pedro’s words sent a shiver down his spine; his tone had been more than a little off.
The guy had a small briefcase which he left on the floor next to him. He showed very little emotion. The body language of both men told John they didn’t seem to know each other. The guy was tapping his hand against his leg while he was talking to Pedro. They stood with their shoulders hunched, their faces towards each other. The guy looked impatient, as if he was in a hurry. They talked for a moment and the guy then turned around.
"I know," he said with an easy smile.
"It's been a long time," Pedro responded. "Your reputation was far beyond mine back then."
A few minutes later, the man pushed away from the corner of the bar and headed towards the door; he slid out but left his briefcase behind. Pedro remained tight-lipped as he looked around suspiciously, and, as he picked up the briefcase from the floor, he turned his back to John as if he was trying to hide something. He shrugged indifferently.
"My friend has forgotten his case," he said.
Sure, John thought to himself as he stared at him, waiting for the info.
John noticed that the case was made of brown leather, and it feature
d a metal badge on it with the letter T engraved onto the metal. A few moments later, two police officers came into the bar.
“Not to worry,” said Pedro calmly. “They’re just checking out the bar.”
John, however, overheard the officers questioning a couple of guys, asking if they had seen a tall, dark male in a black leather jacket and blue trousers. The description definitely sounded like the person Pedro had been talking to just moments earlier. After a few more questions, the police left. Pedro was quite cool and calm and did not seem at all disturbed by the police asking questions.
Suddenly, quarrelling seemed to break out amongst the men in the bar, as if they were continuing with some argument.
"I think we should be on our way now," said Pedro, suddenly sounding anxious. "Drink up." He glanced at his watch and set the half-empty glass of wine back on the bar, leaving some money – including a generous tip – under the glass. John swallowed the last drop.
Outside, Pedro started his car and cranked up the heater while John dropped his head back onto the headrest and groaned. He wanted to ask, What the hell was that all about? but he stopped himself.
They drove on for a while. It was a rainy day and they were getting low on gas. "Let’s stop here," said Pedro. While he was filling the car with gas, John noticed in the wing mirror the man he’d seen at the bar earlier. He had a feeling that the man was following them. John thought he should keep it to himself and just see what happened; he knew he was dealing with a meticulous and observant personality. They parked the car outside Pedro's office, and he suggested they should meet up again tomorrow.
"By the way, I keep meaning to ask you. Why me?" John was fidgeting from one foot to the other, feeling uneasy. He wondered how on earth he would be able to do this. Maybe he should just stop now and move on.
"John," Pedro replied, "you are a very observant person, and quick to notice things. We like that." This compliment made John feel good. Pedro really knew what to say and when it mattered. "We first noticed the suspicion you showed on the ship," continued Pedro. "There aren’t many who would have guessed what you did."
"To be honest, I don’t intend to stay here for too long."
"That’s okay," Pedro said. "One day, I will come to London to see you. I need to go now – I have some reports I need to write up. Goodnight." As Pedro turned and left, John crossed the road and went into a coffee shop, choosing a seat at a table from where he had a good view of the entire length of the street. He could clearly see Pedro's office. A plump, amber-eyed waitress took his order, returning moments later with a black coffee.
He began hearing worried murmurs, upset-sounding exclamations and gentle reassurances from other people with their own problems. He felt a burst of anger inside him, making him wonder. He was just halfway through his coffee when he accidentally spilled a little on the table, and he flicked his fingers out as if he was trying to rid himself of something sticky. At that moment, the man who had been following them appeared. John could see him looking around the outside of Pedro's office, and then he went inside.
John waited, eventually checking his Timex: the man had gone through the door nearly fifteen minutes ago. Finally, he saw some movement and the man came out with a small paper parcel under his arm. Even in the light of the hazy street lamps, he was easy to make out. This really got John thinking. He thought back to when he was in the bar – had he witnessed a drop off? Or was it something more sinister? Things settled into a slow pattern as John slowly realized what had just happened.
As he was about to jump onto the moving tram to take him home, he noticed another person enter the building. A tall, dark-haired woman.
***
The next day was another crisp, bright sunny morning, but John was feeling a surge of angst. He thought about the night before. What a fucking day that had been! He went down to the North Park and, standing in the middle of the piazza, he gazed up at the pale blue sky while he pondered on the wisdom of what he was getting involved in. He’d dropped about ten pounds in the last week and had got a new haircut in an effort to feel good. He had tried all night to find an alternative explanation for what he was doing, but had come up with nothing. Well, not exactly nothing; for a while, John had toyed with the notion of catching the next flight back to the UK, or maybe to one of those hot islands. He had hoped it would all turn out for the best, but now he wasn’t so sure.
He was just about to call Pedro when he remembered he’d mentioned to John he was taking some time off with Annabel. He needed at least one day out of the month to step away from it all and try to gain some perspective.
Annabel was a refined woman who oozed confidence, and was older than the smooth-talking Pedro. They’d met a few years ago when Annabel was running around doing all kinds of bad things for the CIA. There were days when Pedro's job sucked, but this was not one of them. Tonight he seemed to be a happy man, which was hardly surprising: this woman was beautiful and classy, and he was proud to have her at his side. Her long, black, wavy hair was shorter than he remembered it, cut to just below the ears. A few wrinkles had appeared around the eyes and mouth, but in a strange way it made her look even sexier. That a woman could age so gracefully was something that turned Pedro on. Whether it was due to genetics or some daily regimen, he didn't care. The end result was all that interested him, and the end result was a gorgeous 45-year-old woman who had never tried to place any constraints on him. Annabel was a married woman now and they only met two or three times a year. For Pedro, it was just business and he was only focused on one thing: his cause. His love life would have to take second place.
Chapter 10
The next day, John didn't want to go in too early: someone might notice him hanging around. It was nine o' clock, and he was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against a car door with his eyes trained on the entrance to the office. John's only real worry at this point was whether anyone would show up. Pedro was not due in until later.
John opened the office door. The light blinked on and, taking a deep breath, he walked inside. He began pacing, his hands on his hips. Then, as quickly as he’d begun, he stopped. His senses were a little off-balance. A slowly rotating ceiling fan cast its shadows across dingy white walls, and his eyes drifted across the room to the big plate glass window framing the rear wall. After a moment or two he walked over to a small table in the far corner of the room, upon which sat a small box. Inside were a variety of transmitters, some as big as a pack of playing cards, others as small as a dollar. The reason why he carried them was that many of his subjects were under extreme pressure, the kind of pressure that could cause certain men to do stupid things. He could not help but notice a sheet of paper with a handwritten text in Spanish. He paused. It was a long pause that grew longer. With the morning already half gone, John decided to push the letter into his pocket.
Later that day, Pedro arrived. He unbuttoned his black jacket, took it off, and draped it over the back of the corner leather chair in his office, before lighting his cigarette and popping his head round the doorway. He told John he didn't want to be disturbed.
Over the plastic pitter-patter of John's computed keystrokes, he heard a phone receiver slam into its cradle. He stopped typing and strained to listen. Pedro called out to John. He knew he was in trouble. "Can you come here?" Pedro barked, pointing at the uncomfortable chair. "Sit!" John did so without hesitation. Pedro grabbed a small stool by the wall and dragged it over, placing it in front of John.
"Have you taken any papers from my desk?"
"No," said John, but he knew Pedro didn’t believe him: he was eyeing him with what could only be suspicion. He was very quick to blame, and did so without evidence. It was amazing how he'd eliminated any other options. John flashed him a smile and told him that the many long years of his pouring over paper files had probably made him forgetful. A touch of anger crept into Pedro's voice. "You seem to be confused about something, John. I'm your boss. I'm your superior. I'm the one who gives the orders."
&n
bsp; John wondered what he had stumbled onto. His mind was racing. This might be an opportunity to get a better insight into Pedro's state of mind, he thought, if he kept pushing for answers. He then realized that Pedro was ahead of the game. Way ahead. In retrospect, John believed he had wanted him to see the document. If he had known the devastating impact it was going to have on his life, John would have left the damned thing there.
"John, let's stop wasting each other’s time," Pedro said, without turning to look. John just smiled and gave a nod. Pedro was excellent at reading people.
It was Friday afternoon and it had been a long week; he just wanted to get on with things. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out an envelope which he then handed over to John. It contained three $100 bills, which he said took care of business for the last week. John got the feeling that he was keen for him to stay interested. John considered this for a moment, though. He wasn't sure how precarious things had become. He wanted some separation in case luck turned against him. What worried him more was the thought that he could be hauled off to jail if all this should go wrong.
"Look, John, so far we’ve made a deal that you will do things my way, and I expect you to honor our deal." Pedro softened his hard stare. "I'm someone who can make you a lot of money. All I need to know is, are you in or are you out?"
The Assassin's Keeper Page 10