They were both quiet as the tension began to build around them – a tension that John didn't like at all. All things considered, this was not an ideal partnership, or whatever it may become.
"So, what's your answer?"
John didn’t reply right away. He thought about it carefully; he wasn't really sure why Pedro was keen for him to be a part of his operation, or what role he wanted him to play. John regarded Pedro for a long moment before nodding. A twinge of pain came with the question and John couldn't help but think of how he'd pictured this conversation going a few days before.
"Fine," he replied. "I'm in. But I'm warning you – don't mess me around, and don't make me do anything I'm not happy doing." John started to think about the last few days then, and he simply had to ask the question.
"It wasn't a coincidence, was it? That guy showing up at the bar the other day."
"Here we go." Pedro rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.
"Okay. What was in the briefcase?"
Again, Pedro refused to answer. They both went quiet for a moment.
Pedro could never share everything, but maybe he could just give him enough. He was the first to break the ice. "Look, John, there are things that I can't tell you and this is one of them." Pedro reached behind him for his wallet. "Considering the trouble I'm causing you by dragging you into my chaos..."
John waved away the offer. "No, seriously. You don't have to do that."
They both agreed to meet later at Drinda's apartment and have a few drinks, and a few minutes later, John's cab arrived. As soon as he entered his apartment, he mixed himself two stiff drinks, which he drank as he watched TV, waiting until it was time. He dozed fitfully for a while, constantly going over what he had discovered in his mind.
Checking his Timex, he realized he was running late, and he telephoned Pedro to say that he was on his way.
When he arrived at the apartment, Pedro offered him a drink and told him to sit down. He didn't seem too concerned.
"Right."
"John, you have no idea what kind of paperwork and red tape you have to go through just to follow up these reports. Do you know there are a lot of people in this town who are jealous of me?" he asked. "Because unlike others, I never underestimate my enemies."
"I understand." John started to feel like he was being tested. Pedro brought out two more lowballs, tossed in a few ice cubes, and filled them to the rim with vodka. Although he liked it before, John was definitely beginning to get the taste for vodka, as he was drinking so much of it – some days, a bottle a night. Just then, Drinda phoned. She was on her way. She liked the sound of a few drinks.
Later that night, he dragged himself up from the armchair he’d collapsed in; he must have fallen asleep after one too many vodkas. His stomach was aching, his head spinning. Basically, he felt like shit. It took five minutes to raise himself from the chair and cross the hall to the bathroom, and then he stared at himself in the mirror over the sink. He looked as bad as he felt. Cupping his hands beneath the cold running water, he rinsed out his mouth and then washed his face.
He was disturbed by the memory of a conversation that Pedro had had with Drinda earlier. He’d overheard Pedro saying that he knew John had stolen the identity of a person he’d been working with on the ship. The name of the person was Tony. Pedro then went on to say that John would do what they wanted him to do.
Then the tone of the conversation changed.
"I'm not sure how to put this," he’d heard Pedro say, “so I'm just going to come out and say it. Is there something between you and John you haven't told me about?” Pedro stared while waiting for an answer.
"Alright, okay ..." Drinda seemed not to have taken in anything that Pedro had said. Her face went blank and it took a few seconds, but he sensed the exact moment when the pin dropped. She shifted until she was facing him, one leg curled up beneath her on the sofa.
"I'm sorry, but haven't you listened to anything I've said about him?" he asked impatiently.
"Shit. What are you talking about? I was answering your question," she murmured. "I've listened to everything, but you've given me too much to think about." She got up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. "Just trust me." She knew what Pedro was getting at.
"You've fallen for him, haven’t you?"
The look she gave him grudgingly confirmed that she had, but her mouth said otherwise. "What are you talking about?" she said in a disbelieving tone, following him outside.
"Drinda! Take it easy. I'm not saying anything. Sorry, I shouldn't have teased you."
She ignored his apology, too distracted by the multitude of thoughts running through her mind. She walked over to the window, wiping her tears away and trying to pull herself together. Drinda liked John, and beneath her embarrassment, she was scared of what Pedro would think.
"Stop playing fucking games. You're acting like a prick," she said with a full-on scowl. "You and I both know there's no love lost between John and me, but what you're doing is messing with his mind. Take away all this craziness and he's a really nice guy. Down to earth."
She jumped up and darted aimlessly about the tiny room, changing directions every few steps. She was right about one thing: he certainly didn't want to spend the next few days feeling miserable.
"I didn't make him any promises," Pedro mumbled.
"Oh, he's well aware of that," she replied. "He saw us both on the ship together. He's not stupid. Look, I didn't sleep with him. I guess I just wanted to reach out to someone who sort of knew what I might be feeling."
Pedro turned his back stubbornly. "And sure, I'll be totally mortified if we all can't get on."
"I'm not talking about this anymore."
He said they would talk later. He had a meeting with the CIA – they wanted to talk to him about the Wilkinson trail. He paused to take a deep breath and his earnest expression softened.
"Okay. See you shortly." She smiled approvingly and waved him off.
John was feeling a little worried after overhearing their conversation and decided he should be more careful. In fact, maybe he should just quit right now. This can't be happening, he thought. And what the hell was this? His curiosity… or sudden obsession… or whatever was going on here. He felt an overwhelming urge to march back into the room and force them to tell him what the hell was going on. He frowned and rubbed his hands over his face, knowing that he had to get a move on. He pulled the curtain over the bath and had a lukewarm shower, then pulled on his jeans and a denim shirt. He went over to the kitchen door and stuck his head in.
For a while, John just stood there, his arms folded across his chest. He was about to say something, but he stopped himself. He was infuriated, and he didn’t know what to do with himself; he unfolded his arms, dragged his fingers through his hair, folded them again. He made a valiant effort to box the thought back up, but it wasn't budging. What if – okay – what if, maybe, it's all a trick?
He tried his best to look uncomfortable after what he heard. He stared at his own shoes for a moment and then at her. When he thought the proper amount of embarrassment had been conveyed, he looked her straight in the eyes and smiled. She blushed back.
Drinda was putting on her make-up, including a really deep red lipstick, and when she blushed it was almost the same color as her lips.
John decided he needed a drink, so he poured two large brandies and placed them on the living room table. She plopped down in one chair and he took the other. She had been thinking about how much she should tell him. They both sat motionless for a few moments, then John reached out and downed his drink in one go. She took a sip and shook her head. She was a little dizzy and had tears in her eyes.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, intrigued despite himself.
"John, you are just a nice guy. There are lots of things I would love to tell you, but you know I can’t."
Emotion was playing in her eyes as she sat there, idly scratching the side of her face with her long fingernails.
He asked her what she had meant by her comment.
"What things would you love to tell me?" He looked her straight in the eye, so that she could see he was sincere. The thing with Drinda was that he never could tell if she was going to slap him or let him kiss her – he kind of liked that unpredictability. John wiped her eyes.
She was clearly annoyed with herself for letting the words come out before considering the consequences, and her face turned pale as she tried to change the subject. Taking a tube of hand cream from her bag, she squeezed it, and began to slowly massage the cream into her fingers. "You know," she said, "I can't remember now. I think it's just too much brandy. Gone to my head."
She stood, then slumped herself down on the beige sofa, suddenly realizing that she was actually drunk. She leant forward, slapped her hands on her knees and cackled. "There!" Then she started to cry again and began to tell him about her boyfriend, who’d been murdered.
"He only got what he deserved," she sobbed. "That bastard wrecked my life. I hate it. I hate it," she said. "Sometimes I can’t get it out of my mind. I used to believe love could fix damn near anything – love and brandy, that is. I just need larger doses of both of them."
John put his arm around her. "It’s all over now," he told her. "You have to get over it and keep focused." He poured her a small brandy. She looked down, swirling the brandy around the glass. Then she sat up straight and composed herself, gently squeezing his hand. She was trying as hard as she could to stay calm, but it wasn't easy. A crazy mixture of dread and elation was flooding through her body.
"Listen," he said. "I know last year has sucked for you and I know how hard it is to get back to normal, but you can’t just give up." More tears fell. "It doesn't have to be that way."
As they were both tired, they decided to call it a day, and John made himself comfortable on the sofa. He found it difficult to sleep as so much was going through his mind, but eventually, he nodded off.
In the morning, he met Drinda coming out of her bedroom, still fully-dressed.
"What the heck?" she mumbled, rubbing her temples with both hands as it all started coming back to her. She shook her head, and in a voice filled with desperation said, "This just keeps getting worse."
"Take it easy," he told her.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "I just need a drink to calm me down. Actually, I don't normally drink this much. You sure everything's cool? What did I say last night?"
John blushed and his eyes darted away. "Yeah…" he sighed.
"Listen, I'm not sure what you might've heard…" she said.
He quickly thought about his answer. "I didn't hear anything," he reassured her. "Although… are you sure Pedro wasn't telling you to stay away from me?" he asked.
"No, no. That's not it," she rasped. "He's just been keeping an eye on me after what happened. He's my friend, like you're my friend."
He bit himself on the side of his cheek to keep himself in check. Who knew what would come out his mouth if he opened it now?
Drinda swiveled around, the blood draining from her face as she looked at him. He knew, yes, but he wasn't going to let on. He noticed how upset she was and grabbed her shoulder for a quick squeeze.
"Oh, that makes me feel much better," she said. John blinked, wanting to believe it, but he was seeing way too many holes in her story, way too many potential lies.
The trust was now gone.
* * *
Realizing that he’d left his keys in the office, John went back there; he knew that Pedro was away at some meeting in a hotel, so he knew he wouldn’t be running into him.
As soon as he arrived, John noticed that something was wrong: papers had been moved and drawers had been opened, but there was no sign of forced entry. It just seemed odd. John phoned Pedro, who was held up in the hotel and being scrutinised by the CIA. After what seemed like an eternity, he phoned him back.
"I think we're getting too close on the Wilkinson trial," Pedro said.
"What shall I do?" asked John.
Initially, Pedro hadn't thought that the case had anything to do with this break-in. But he was wrong: it had everything to do with it.
After some more searching, John noticed the Wilkinson file had gone. He was still worried. They must have had a key.
"It's unbelievable. I don't get it. If I didn’t know any better I'd say it was a set-up." His words tumbled over each other; he knew it wasn't making any sense. John shook his head.
"You need to change the locks," said Pedro. "I'll see you later in the red bar."
"Y-yeah. No problem," John answered, trying to hide his irritation.
The line went dead. John stared at the phone for a second, every instinct telling him there was more to all of this. Why couldn't people leave well enough alone? He had to tread very carefully here. He wondered if it had been the CIA, but he couldn't reveal that until he had some solid evidence – if this investigation turned out the way he feared it would.
He took a deep breath to steady himself and to get the sudden tumult of questions in his head in order. Why would someone need these papers? And why make it look like an inside job? John agreed and disagreed at the same time. Why would it matter, though?
"I don't know," he said out loud to himself, while pondering what to do next. But there were always orders to follow, and Pedro had made his intentions clear: he needed to change the locks.
That night, after securing the new locks on the door, John had a quick rummage through the file cabinets, looking for some – any – background information. He was wondering if there was anything to what Pedro was telling him. So far, not much. He didn't like where this was headed, and he hoped there weren’t any surprises in store.
On the way home he stopped at the red bar, and after two big mouthfuls of wine, he called the waiter over and asked for a cold, neat vodka. He took a big gulp. He was trying to sort through the different possibilities so he could put this thing out of his mind when just then, Pedro walked into the bar. John stood and held up his glass as a salute.
"Sit," Pedro commanded. He flagged down a waiter and asked for a glass of white and a full bottle to follow. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and retrieved a three quarters empty pack of cigarettes, then paused as he tapped one out.
"I get the feeling you have some things you'd like to discuss," said John.
"John, men like us can always find something useful to talk about," replied Pedro, staring at his cigarette instead of at John.
"I'm sure that's true, but I know you’re not telling me everything. There's more to this Wilkinson thing than you’re letting on." He let the words hang in the air, willing Pedro to fill the silence.
After a while, Pedro just shrugged as if to say “guilty as charged.”
"Listen, John," continued Pedro, "we are going to have to be careful. Someone doesn't want this Wilkinson thing to go to trial." He started sorting through the possibilities, quickly realizing that it wasn't what, but who.
John slowly turned his head to say something.
"Shut up," snapped Pedro. "I'm thinking ... It has to be someone high up. Perhaps another intelligence agency is involved."
"What makes you think that?" asked John, intrigued but annoyed at how Pedro was talking to him. It made him feel so inferior.
"Too many questions from the department. And isn't it a coincidence that the file has gone missing?"
While he was talking, Pedro had been keeping an eye on his car through the window, and he now angled his chair to the right so he could see down the length of the street.
"How do you know these people won't just show up at our apartments?" asked John, watching Pedro look out the window.
Pedro swirled the wine around in his glass and said, "Trust me, it's a little bit more complicated than that. They have what they want. Maybe we have to let this one go."
Pedro sighed angrily; he had more important things on his mind than to worry about this. He'd been waiting for years for someone like John to come along and he sure as
hell wasn't going to change his plan now. He stood and stabbed out his cigarette in the foil ashtray, then neatly folded his newspaper and left it on the table top with his empty glass and a five-dollars tip under the glass.
Watching him do his usual paying routine, John suddenly realized they were spending far more time in the bar than they needed to; it was becoming a bad habit, especially as Pedro hardly ever finished the drinks he ordered. He didn’t stay in one place long enough.
Pedro started walking off. "John, I'll see you tomorrow."
It was late, so John called a cab to take him home. He didn’t want to be anywhere else right now.
Chapter 11
John wanted to throw open one of the windows and suck in a deep breath of cold, fresh air, but he knew he couldn't; the recent break-in had prompted Pedro to fit locks on all the windows, and now it was stuffy and uncomfortable. In the corner of the office room, John could see him sitting in an armchair reading.
Pedro looked up and smiled, then shut the file. He reminded himself that it was time to move on to the next phase of the operation, so leaning forward in a businesslike manner, he cleared his throat, as if preparing to deliver a well-rehearsed speech.
"It’s that Wilkinson case. It won't go away. I just heard that a man who goes by the name of Rimier intends to trade information."
"About what?"
"The truth about the Wilkinson trial."
John, who was more focused now, was making copious notes. Pedro reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a cassette tape, which he passed over to John.
"When you get a moment, have a listen. We don't know what Rimier looks like, but we know what he sounds like. We also know that he is a tall person: about six foot four and built like a bull, right down to his big, rounded, heavy-rimmed glasses and doughy complexion. But that's all we know. Listen, I need you to watch their office."
"What I am looking for?"
"Anything strange. Look, you have to be well prepared for tomorrow's operation; it's important you follow Rimier. We need that package; those papers are important."
The Assassin's Keeper Page 11