Pedro already knew that, but didn’t say so. Rosa introduced him, and the journalist complimented her on a wonderful performance.
This man was feared and adored. He knew who used to be married to whom, how they made their money, what schools they’d gone to - and, most of all, who they were sleeping with. Little wonder that when he arrived at a function, a frisson of discomfort swept the room. He set about deflating the egos of the idle rich and pricking the pomposity of the powerful.
When asked, he would say his revelations were never motivated by personal vendettas but by his belief that the public had a right to know.
Pedro told him that he admired his work and always read his articles with great interest. The two of them stood in the corner for a couple of hours drinking. When the waiter Rosa had hired for the evening offered the journalist a glass of champagne, he declined. “No. I dislike the stuff."
Pedro called the waiter back and asked for two glasses of Chablis. He had done his homework and knew that this man had a camel's thirst for Chablis. Pedro was one of those affable sorts to whom you are drawn the instant you meet. Inevitably, their talk turned to royal gossip and then to wine.
"I have a good story to tell you," Pedro said. "You should know that a friend of mine recently got married. He has a pretty good wine cellar. It gives him and his wife a lot of pleasure. Anyway, he decided that they would have their wedding at a resort in the lakes. Naturally, they decided to take some of the wines with them, better to enjoy the moment. So, on the morning of their wedding day, they started loading up the car with wine for them to drink over the weekend. Before he put the wines in the trunk, he showed them to his wife. ‘I thought we were saving those for a special occasion?’ she said. ‘Well, unless you have plans for the waiter that I don't know about.’ The wife explained that she wasn't thinking.” The journalist burst out laughing, and Pedro joined in.
Desperate to make this contact, Pedro offered his services to the journalist.
"What do you do?"
Pedro explained,
"If a situation is so bad as to seem impossible, I can help. Or if you ever need to find anyone I can help too. My contacts can provide a little more focused information and attention than the police can offer."
The journalist gave his warm approval and they exchanged business cards.
"One of the best nights of our lives, don't you think?" Rosa said. The room had slowly been emptying over the past hour or so, with only a few stragglers left. She'd handled the journalist with perfect poise and charm, but she was also clearly star-struck after meeting the great man in person.
"To be honest, so was I. I just didn't let on." Pedro said when she confided in him, "And yes, definitely in the top ten or so."
He was teasing her. Pedro knew exactly what he was doing, calculating every possibility and risk. He was a consistent chap. He had such an exact mind that he would fold the same strip of card in exactly the same way he had been doing for years, or place his Parker pen pointing in the same direction on his desk every day. He would never change his habits, and always reacted in the same way to certain situations, both physically and mentally.
***
Pedro was aware of Santiago’s arrival in London, and the reasons behind his trip. What Rosa didn’t know was that Santiago’s real name was Jorge Zaffaroni: He was her father.
Zaffaroni was here for one thing, and one thing only: revenge against the British government. A government which he blamed for the Dirty War and his enforced defection to the US.
Zaffaroni had checked out of his hotel. He called Rosa. "Hey, where are you?" He sounded nervous. Rosa's voice was too loud when she answered and she quickly dialled down the volume "Yes. What?"
"I have to go away for a few weeks, and would very much like to give you a present before I leave."
She agreed to meet him later that day at her studio.
It wasn't easy for the taxi driver to find a place to park; the large studio was surrounded by cars and the usual detritus. Zaffaroni crossed the road and paused on the porch steps to give the street a discreet once-over before pulling the door open. He looked around for Rosa.
"Over here, Santiago! Very nice to see you again."
Without preamble, he replied, "Rosa, I have this letter I would like to give you. It’s something your grandma wants you to do. When you have your next live performance, I would like you to give this letter to the journalist who was at your dance evening last week. I know he comes a lot and he enjoys your dancing."
"But why?" She looked puzzled.
"As I said, Rosa, it’s one of the reasons you are here. Your grandma has arranged this moment for you, and she would expect this of you. Please don't ask any more questions."
Searing pain shot through her head at hearing his words, and she wondered whether she should sit down for a minute to catch her breath. How was it possible that less than a week ago she’d felt that she could trust this person, even felt responsible for him? She felt like she wanted to say something, but kept silent, glancing around the room, alone with her thoughts. She was confused, but knew this was important. She put the letter in her safe.
"Once again, Rosa, in one week you have another dance night. Please give the letter to the journalist as soon as he arrives.” Then, after a pause, "Rosa, I am going away tonight but I will call you soon."
Chapter 31
Feeling a little lonely and sad, Rosa called Pedro but he was busy explaining details of a case to one of his staff and had his mind on other things. And yet, he couldn't get Rosa out of his head. There were people you met whom you made a connection with, and such people were just too hard to let go of. Rosa was one of those: She'd got under his skin and he couldn't stop thinking about her. But he knew that he had to stay focused on his cause.
Later that day Pedro called her back and they met for dinner at a local French restaurant. Rosa was not her usual happy self. They sat and drank champagne but she was quiet and didn't say much.
"What's wrong?" Pedro asked.
"It's nothing. I just feel quite embarrassed.”
"Don't feel like that."
The waiter was hovering near the table.
"Are you ready to order, Sir?"
"Just a salad for me," she said.
"I’ll have the sea bass."
The waiter brought a nice bottle of wine. Rather annoyingly, he kept topping up their glasses every two minutes. Aware that Rosa wanted to tell him something, Pedro told the waiter to please leave the wine to him.
Rosa started to feel a little more relaxed now, and she started to smile like she used to. He asked her if she had any more dance nights planned.
"Yes, I have, next week."
"Actually, sorry, Rosa, you did tell me. I just forgot. Maybe we can dance together again."
She was still not completely herself.
"Come on then, what's wrong?"
"It's something that happened the other day. A friend of my grandma came to see me and it was strange. It all seems so secretive, and like it’s a mystery. I’ve met this guy, his name is Santiago, and I think I remember him from many years ago. I was a little girl and he was sitting with my grandma, but the really strange thing is that it was the day my mother disappeared. Santiago has asked me to look after a letter for him, and to give it to that journalist – the one you were talking to at the dance evening."
"Now I understand why you’re down. But look, maybe there's a reason for everything and maybe it's all meant to happen this way."
"I don't know, Pedro, it’s just a funny feeling I have."
He took her hand. Both felt as though there was an electric shock shooting down their arms: They had not even shaken hands before. Pedro paused to get control of himself; he was a little too tempted to grab her and just hold her tight. Suddenly, Rosa burst into tears. Pedro gritted his teeth.
"Do you need some water?" He grabbed a glass from the bar and skirted the edge of the table to place it in her hand. Instead of taking it, she shot to
her feet and threw her arms around him, sobbing for all she was worth, and spilling the water over his forearm. Pedro patted her hair and her back with a rough hand. She was latched on so tightly that he was experiencing every quivering breath she took.
"I'm so sorry," she cried. He patted her again.
Pedro knew exactly how to manipulate and mislead her. When Pedro wanted to, he could win anyone over with his charm.
"I’m going to tell you something important. Santiago is your father."
Rosa went very still. It took a few moments before she responded.
"What do you mean he is my father? How do you know this?"
"Listen, Rosa, I don't know all the details but I know for sure that he is. And I really think that you should just follow his instructions. I am sure there must be a good reason."
"But?” she asked, biting her lower lip furiously, starting to look a little scared.
Pedro needed to calm her down.
"There may be days when you get up in the morning and things aren't the way you hoped they would be. That's when you have to tell yourself that things will get better. There are times when people disappoint you and let you down. But those are the times when you must remind yourself to trust your own judgement and opinions, to keep yourself focused on believing in yourself. Look, Rosa, this is what my mum would say to me whenever I was down."
Pedro just couldn't tell her all the details about her father. It would have been too risky. It was important to accomplish what he needed to do.
"I don’t know where to start. I've just found out that everything I ever believed is a lie and that my parents are the ones who started the lie."
"You're probably angry. But think about how hard it must have been for them."
Pedro suggested they leave now. Walking slowly towards the car, he grabbed her hand tightly and told her not to worry. Rosa asked Pedro if he could stay the night as she felt very lonely and afraid.
He inched the car slowly into the driveway. When they got to the front door, Rosa was shaking hard and couldn’t remember the entry code.
"Calm down, Rosa."
She cried, and Pedro hugged her and told her not to worry, that everything would be fine. Rosa tried again and this time she keyed in the correct numbers. The inside light was not working. She held Pedro's hand and guided him up the narrow staircase. Inside her flat, she switched on the living room light and wished she'd cleaned it up. She hadn't counted on Pedro visiting her.
"Please have a seat, can I get you a coffee?"
Safe in the knowledge that Rosa had now fallen for him, Pedro was sure that she would do whatever he wanted.
His eyes rested on the pictures of Latin dancers on her wall. There was also a picture of her grandma, a tiny old lady with a little girl. Presumably Rosa.
"She used to have an old violin. She said it was a very special violin and she told me that I should look after it forever. She used to say to me. ‘Fifty years ago, nobody wanted old instruments because everybody thought modern ones were better than the old ones. Like a camera - the modern version is better than the old. But if you find a camera from 1870, and you see the photographs of that time, they are fantastic, and you cannot take those great portraits in black and white with the best modern camera. You cannot make these pictures.’ This is the reason why she told me I should look after this old violin."
"Your grandma was a very good teacher."
"I never thought that I'd ever be in your room," Pedro whispered solemnly, slicing through Rosa's memories, his eyes still flitting from place to place in the room.
"I didn't see this coming, either." She had to clear her throat to get the words out. She lifted her hand and gently clasped the side of Pedro's neck, giving him time to back away if he needed to.
He put his arms around Rosa and gently kissed her on the lips. She responded. Pedro was exploring the silken skin of her back upward to her shoulders. Seeming to remember where they were, he slowed, reluctantly pulled back and touched his forehead. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely." . . Got carried away."
"It's okay, really."
Pedro stayed the night. In the morning Rosa said, with a smile on her face, that she just couldn't sleep. But a man like Pedro was well-trained in treating intimacy with the same glib attitude with which he treated every thing else.
"I’ve always been able to turn myself off like a light. I usually tell myself, ‘I'm going to sleep,’ my hands in the prayer position against my cheek, but not last night," she said.
"Try to go back to sleep," Pedro suggested.
"Are you coming on Friday?"
He leant forward to kiss her cheek and whispered in her ear, "Good luck." She looked back at him with a cheerful smile on her face.
***
The second dance night was a sell-out again. The cars rolled up to the door with their VIP guests. A couple of the press had arrived, and they were taking photographs of the dancers, and the who's who of the entertainment world. Trays of champagne and canapés were on offer. Looking out for the journalist, Rosa finally spotted him in the crowd.
"Excuse me, I was asked to give you this letter."
He thanked her with an astonished look on his face and went into the corner of the room to open the letter. When he’d read it he looked as though he had seen a ghost.
The letter announced that an especially prominent member of the establishment would die on a certain date, and that it would not be an accident.
As far as the journalist was concerned, this was sensational news, but of course nothing had happened, as yet.
In the meantime, Pedro was carefully watching what was going on. He knew that the journalist would try to sell this information to a newspaper, but what Pedro really wanted was to expose the British Government for what they were.
The journalist understood the importance and the significance of the letter only too well, but he worried about what to do as he did not want to cause any unnecessary issues in case the content proved to be untrue.
For the next few days Pedro had the journalist followed wherever he went, and he had his house bugged. He knew that if something bad happened, and this information was leaked to the public, there was no way the government would take responsibility. Which meant that the very fact that this information was being hidden would be proof that the government had a dark secret to hide.
The journalist booked a table for two people at a well-known restaurant in St James’s Square. His guest was going to be a well-known politician. Pedro hoped he would be able to record their discussion about the impending high-profile death. The fact that it had not even occurred yet did not matter – that they would do nothing to prevent it despite the warning that it would not be an accident was enough to implicate them. And the perfect opportunity to expose the British and show the world that they’d withheld the evidence.
Chapter 32
Pedro kept calling John, keen to meet him again, but this time in a well-known restaurant in St James’. The number of phone calls were beginning to worry John: He was still trying to keep Pedro a secret and hoped that none of his family overheard the conversations he had with him.
"John, I would like you to help listen in on a conversation in this restaurant."
"You mean eavesdrop. On who?"
"It’s not important, just some royal correspondent for a daily newspaper. He’s doing a story on the royals, if you come down to the office I can wire you up."
John was up early. When he faced the mirror, he couldn't look at himself. Eventually, he forced himself to open his eyes and found those brilliant hazels staring right back, filled with uncertainty. He knew the sooner he got on with it the more quickly he could get back to normal. His eyes shot to the clock on the wall. He had an appointment to sign a contract for the purchase of another restaurant in Twickenham as the lease on his current one was coming to an end, and had to be in the West End soon.
He crossed the walled courtyard and knocked on the ironbound front door. A dark-suited man to
ok his name and left him in the reception hall. It was an enormous two-storied room. Mr Lawrence ushered John into his office, and offered him the brown-leather chair facing him across his desk. Then he opened the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk and pulled out the contract for him to sign. John finished the coffee Mr Lawrence’s secretary had brought him and stood up. He looked at his watch, remembering that Pedro was expecting him. He’d have to get a cab from Grey's Inn to Chiswick.
He hurried down the corridor to Pedro's office, knocked and walked in simultaneously, catching Pedro whizzing his model globe round on its axis with his right foot. Part of the reason why John found talking to Pedro so exhausting was that he never knew the right answer. There was always a right one and a wrong one – he was very black and white – but he gave no clues and was disturbingly unpredictable about everything. His views were fixed. It must have been something to do with his brilliant, original mind, and he made life hellishly hard for anyone who tried to cross him.
"So, tell me again," John asked him.
"I will make sure you’re well paid."
"I'd like to be well off, I don't know about well-paid. There's only so much money I need – a lot more than I've got now, that’s for sure. But what I want is not so much the money. And that's something we both already know."
There was a potent edge to their meeting; an inescapable sense of involvement that told John he was either going to go crazy or fall in too deep. He did not trust Pedro. He did not trust himself to make the right decision.
There was a sort of calm to the room. In the kitchen to the left you could hear the gentle drip of the coffee machine, and the only movement came from the gentle floating of a million specks of dust suspended in the air, highlighted by the slits of sunlight that penetrated the louver blinds.
A little later, John went to the toilet and was about to open the door when he overhears Pedro talking on the telephone in Argentinian Spanish. This was the first time he’d heard him speak in his native language. John stopped in his tracks and listened. When the name ‘Diana’ was mentioned, John was startled: Things started to make sense now. And all of a sudden, he understood the real reason why Pedro had come to Britain.
The Assassin's Keeper Page 25