The Assassin's Keeper

by John McClements

  As soon as John pushed open the door, Pedro stopped talking and looked up at him, clearly shocked to see him.

  "Come in," he said.

  He had the ceiling fan on full power and was playing his usual music in the background. It suddenly occurred to John that behind Pedro’s vivacious facade, he was nothing but vulgar.

  Pedro shook his head and held his hand up to John, telling him, "One sec" while he began searching for some paperwork in one of the stacks of folders. John waited in tense silence to hear what he had to say. He could not help but notice the brown leather briefcase with the letter T engraved on it, and next to it a sheet of paper with a list of names and times. He could just make out one of the names which looked like Princess Diana. John ran his hand over his mouth, a sure sign and that he was extremely upset, and something he only did that when he was freaking out. Overcome by dread, he looked around the room for some kind of inspiration, for a hint of what to say or do.

  "Look, Pedro, I’m fed up with this, with the phone calls, everything. You’re causing me a lot of stress. I feel that you’re just playing with me. Just tell me what you want, and let’s get on with it; let’s get it over and done with so I can lead my life."

  "Don’t worry, John, we’re very close to the end."

  Hearing those words "very close to the end" sent a chill right through his body. Pedro then repeated himself and continued,

  "Just one more job and both of us will be free. Here's the wire, let's test it. See if we can record at the other side of the window." Pedro gave him a hard stare. "Yes, John. We've been friends a long time and we know a lot of heavy shit about each other." John paled but didn't make a move to speak. He didn't want to come across defensive, even though he felt every defensive wall inside him clicking into place.

  "Let's be realistic here. I trusted you, but I’m more than a little scared here. Why should everything be different now, or as you say, ‘Just one more job and both of us will be free.’ I find that hard to believe."

  Pedro's throat tightened and he tried to loosen it with a gulp of warm water left over on the office desk. The silence that followed was heavy.

  "What do you want to hear?” Pedro snapped, I told you it's going to be over, now come, on let's take this forward."

  Pedro hooked up the tape recorder and stuck a bent paper clip to its metal frame to hang the microphone down on his side of the glass window.

  "Perfect. You must keep it facing outwards. We must be ready as we won’t get another chance. I would like you to meet me at this restaurant tomorrow night at 7.30 p.m. and take your wife. I have already reserved you a table, but be sure to be seated by the window, or close to it. I‘ll be on the other side of the room, in case the reporter moves tables. Here is the small tape recorder which must be connected to the transmitter."

  "What if it goes wrong?"

  "It won’t. Just try to keep close to him and when he talks, don’t you talk."

  Increasingly scared, John began to head down the hallway without saying another word, but Pedro slid in front of him, blocking his way and slamming the door shut with his body.

  "I don't know why you're running away." The anxiety was now bleeding into his words and Pedro took a couple of deep breaths to control it.

  John stared at his shoes and mumbled something that Pedro couldn't hear before lifting his eyes.

  "I'm not running, I'm tired." But John knew he had no choice.

  He was sweating and his hand was tightly clenched his fingers were going numb. If Pedro disowned him, then so be it. There was no relief in the telling - no weight coming off his shoulders. He just knew the next few minutes would determine whether or not he would be able to handle it. Pedro clipped the receiver to John's hip and ran the wire up the inside of his jacket. After wrapping the coil around the back of his ear, he wedged the little flesh-coloured earpiece into position. He turned up volume and did a quick radio check.

  John cleared his throat impatiently. "Okay."

  Chapter 33

  “Home, sweet home..." John mumbled as the taxi drove away thirty pounds richer. He wanted to be with her even more now, and tell her everything, but he knew that would probably be a mistake. Whether or not John told Sonia everything about himself, this was something he had to do in his own time. He was hurting pretty bad at the moment.

  Sonia was still half asleep and seemed shocked to see him tonight, she thought he was working at the restaurant.

  He’d brought her a bunch of roses and left them at her bedside. She didn't have time to dwell on the generosity because he closed the door quietly behind him. Several hours later he gently opened it again. “Would you like a cup?" She smiled sleepily. "I’d love one."

  Downstairs, the heels of her shoes were clicking gently against the polished floor tiles. They were both proud of their house, the warm colours of the intricately woven rug and the extensive use of delicate moulding. The room was a masterpiece. It resembled the cover of a fancy magazine. It was elegant and warm. She loved it.

  "By the way, do you fancy going out for dinner tonight?"

  "Hmm. That’s why the flowers?"

  "What are you implying?" he asked impatiently.

  After a long silence she looked at him with compassion and honesty.

  "I mean what on earth do you need to be sneaky for? If you want to go out, just say so."

  "Actually, I call it being romantic."

  * * *

  When they arrived at the restaurant dead on 7.30 p.m., the room was already starting to fill. The restaurant was very upmarket and there seemed to be more waiters than customers. Pedro was seated at the bar. His clothes were immaculate: his suit and shirt as pristine as if he'd just bought them at Savile Row. John tried to avoid eye contact with him but it wasn't easy - he was constantly looking at him from the corner of his eye.

  John had told Sonia that they were here for an early birthday meal. There was an awkward pause in their conversation: It seemed she wanted to say something but couldn't push out the words, and he was trying to think of things to say to her, but it was difficult to stay focused. They talked about the time he’d left to work on the cruise ships and Sonia had met another man. He told her that he didn't blame her: She just fell in love with someone else. But just because he didn't blame her didn't mean he didn't feel it. He told her that he wasn't angry with her, but somehow he thought that she wanted him to be. She always told him that he never showed enough emotion, that he never got mad. He didn't feel mad, just sort of deflated. Like when you let the air out of a balloon really slowly. Usually it went in circles if you let it fly around on its own. That was sort of what his head was doing.

  They were seated near the window. Three tables across, Terence Conrad was sitting with a well-known actor whose name John couldn’t remember. Along came the wine waiter.

  "Sir, here is our list."

  It was like a book – at least five hundred different wines in its contents.

  "Could you direct me to the white section?" Sonia said pointedly. "You know the wine we drink."

  "Do you have the Meursault 79?" John asked the wine waiter.

  He was so deep in thought it took him a moment or two to realise that Sonia was squeezing his hand.

  As they waited for their wine, the reporter and his guest arrived and were seated at the table right next to theirs. He could just catch Pedro's movement in his eyes telling him that it was him. He had connected the device to his leg and it was set to high volume, so anything that was being said would be picked up.

  Their first course arrived, but John was barely registering what he was eating. He couldn’t help but try and listen in on the conversation at the next table. Predictably, it was mostly about recent newspaper stories, including one about the Royals.

  "Apparently she drinks a lot," the journalist said.

  John froze when he thought he heard that “they” didn’t want any individual of “Middle Eastern” origin in the family.

  "Look at this letter."
/>   Discreetly glancing over, John could see shock on their faces. He knew this was something big.

  It was getting late and the conversation was still recording. As the two of them were still deep in conversation, John picked up the odd well-known name. He was a little concerned that the tape might not last, but luckily the reporters seemed to have stopped talking.

  He noticed that Pedro had asked for his bill and paid. As John and his wife got up to leave, the two journalists did the same. Pedro was waiting outside. The journalists had already got into the first taxi waiting, and the doorman asked if John and his wife would like the second. John could see Pedro in his mind’s eye, waiting for him to find him and hand over the tape. Something inside him told him not to. He told the cabbie to take them to Waterloo Station.

  When they arrived at the station, Sonia told him she needed the Ladies, giving him the opportunity to duck into the Gents and remove the listening device. Back in the terminal, he found a locker and deposited the device inside it. When Sonia met him back outside the Ladies to complain about the long queue, she stopped in her tracks and remarked that he was sweating profusely and looked a bit nervous.

  "I think the wine has gone to my head."

  Realising that they had less than four minutes to board the train, they hurried to their platform. On the way home, he silently stared out of the train window pondering what had just happened, and wondering whether he should have given Pedro the tape.

  That night the phone rang. Sonia answered.

  "Hello, who's this?"

  There was a rustling at the other end. She turned over to John and shook him awake. He slowly came to, blinking as he opened his eyes.

  "Pass it here."

  It was Pedro.

  "I have to go."

  "Where? Why?" Sonia sounded alarmed.

  She grabbed his hand and looked up at him with her big blue eyes. He gently extricated his hand from hers, got up and put on his trousers, looping the belt round and clipping it into place. Thinking too himself that surely she must have noticed that he’d changed a lot over the past couple of years.

  He went outside to the telephone box and called Pedro to tell him not to call any more. But Pedro was having none of it, all he was interested in was the return of the tape. He threatened to report John to the police for what happened in the States.

  "Why don’t you get a life and leave me alone!" John shouted down the phone.

  Everything Pedro did was strategic planning, always outthinking his opponents, especially when it was a question of life or death.. Every move, every variation of each move would be analysed. John knew that this would not be easy. But how could he be sure that once he’d given Pedro the tape he wouldn’t report him to the police?

  Safe in the knowledge that Pedro wouldn’t do anything to him while he still had the tape, he decided not to give in.

  That night Zaffaroni flew to Paris. Two days later, on the way back to the airport, he read the French papers and was satisfied with the results of his work.

  Chapter 34

  John was having breakfast with Sonia and reading the newspaper.

  The papers were still dominated by the news about Princess Diana’s tragic death in a car crash in Paris, just after she’d left the Ritz Hotel with her companion Dodi Al Fayed, the son of Harrods owner Mohamed Al Fayed.

  "Have you read this?"

  "What, the Princess Diana story?" Sonia looked up.

  "It's a conspiracy,” John said. “Look? There are doubts over the accident, and questions over whether the establishment did not want any Arab connection."

  "Don't believe everything you read, John."

  "They feared that Diana would convert to Islam."

  “It doesn’t bear thinking about, imagine the implication that would have on the church and state."

  "My theory: one or more rogue cells in the British Secret Intelligence Service hatched and carried out a plot to kill her, or some offensives were in operation as Diana was a threat to the throne, and therefore the stability of the state."

  John had another theory, but wasn't saying.

  The phone buzzed. He looked over to Sonia and nodded, picked up the receiver from its holder and walked into the other room. He already knew who it was. The line went silent for a few seconds, then the voice at the other end spoke. John slumped down into the chair and took a deep breath before dropping his head into his hands and swearing. "What the . .?"

  "I need that tape, John, and I will be there tonight to see you."

  He told Pedro to calm down, and that the tape was safe. He was happy to hand it back, but he wanted to make a deal with him.

  "I want you to leave the country and not come back."

  "John, be careful what you say. Remember I know what you have done."

  "Pedro, I’m not afraid of you any more. There’s no proof that I did what you say. Anyway, you seem very desperate to get your tape."

  "I will hound you forever, believe me."

  "I know what's been happening, Pedro," John said. "And I know you had your reasons."

  "You don't know the half of it! What happened to you was awful but it had to be done," Pedro said.

  "I know more than you think."

  "Do you?"

  But John laughed and told him that he really didn’t know anything. Pedro sounded a little upset now - he must have hit a nerve.

  "I knew about you and that false name you went under," he said.

  Then he laughed. It was a brittle sound. And he went on to tell John that even Drinda had never cared one bit for him.

  "Actually, I knew that." But all this had made him think: Was this the revenge Pedro was talking so much about? John had never seen him so desperate to get hold of something.

  John left the restaurant early that night. As he was getting into his car he got a feeling that someone was behind him, and within a split second he was pulled back by his hair onto the ground, and kicked on his leg. His head throbbed, he felt as though someone had punched him really hard. Pedro was standing over him.

  "John, this is your last chance, I need that tape now."

  "Pedro, hear me now - why don't you just piss off?"

  "Yeah, piss off," Pedro said.

  "Leave the country," he told him, “and it’s yours."

  "You have by midday tomorrow to hand it over. I tried to be nice to you, John. Would it help if I begged?"

  He needed a moment to let that sink in, with Pedro just staring, waiting for his answer.

  "No."

  He walked back towards the car, but Pedro followed him, got in next to him and said, "Look we used to be friends."

  John gave a laugh, the kind that wasn't entirely sympathetic. "You're completely out of your mind if you think I'm going to let you get off scot-free doing what you did to me."

  There was another worrying silence. Eventually, John expelled a short exasperated breath.

  "Where are you?" A voice in the darkness.

  John breathed a sigh of relief. "Over here!"

  It was one of his waiters. He was supposed to meet him that night to give him his wages.

  Joe approached the car. "John, do you know how long you'll be?"

  Pedro hissed, “Tell him to go away.” He didn’t want any witnesses. Finally he got out of the car, turned around and walked away. John was fighting against the urge to chase after him, to slam him hard against the wall and shove his weasel teeth right down his filthy Argentine throat. The slightest movement hurt.

  While he was waiting for Joe to return, he rolled up his trouser leg and examined the damage. There'd be a mighty bruise by tomorrow but he didn’t think anything was broken, and the damage to the rest of his body was only superficial.. There was an ache in his shoulder and in the eye, caused by what he regarded as a lucky punch. Joe returned.

  "Are you okay?" he asked. "Your face..."

  Now that Joe had mentioned it, he became aware of a harsh stinging sensation along the left cheek and forehead. His left eye wasn
't feeling so great either. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he glanced down and saw the smears of red. He peered into the rear window. “The little shit has drawn blood. Great! By tomorrow I'll look like I've been in a goddam cat fight."

  "They’ve done a damn good job on you," Joe said.

  But that was the least of his problems. His right leg felt like it had been put through a crusher. And there he was, thinking that Pedro always played by the rules. Perhaps he didn’t know him as well as he thought.

  Joe put out his hand.

  "Give me the car keys then?"

  When he had the keys, he jiggled them between his fingers for a moment, gazing at the dashboard.

  "You can drive, can't you?" John asked anxiously.

  "No, I just thought I'd come over and play dodgem with your bright red Golf," Joe said.

  "Just put the key in the ignition," he told Joe, "and switch on the engine."

  "There's no need to look so worried. I’m only savouring the delights of being behind a wheel again. My motor spent so much time in the garage I had to scrap it."

  "And you haven't got another because . . .?"

  "Because waiters get paid a pittance in wages and I figured it was cheaper to use public transport."

  "Maybe it's because you like a drink or two."

  "Right," he said.

  He told Joe to drive straight on and head towards the exit.

  "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to take you to hospital?"

  "No, thanks."

  Joe glanced down towards his leg.

  "It's not broken is it?"

  "No."

  When he snatched his hand away, the abrupt movement increased the ache in the shoulder. Joe started to ask questions.