“The only thing is: How do I really know that it will be over?"
"Look, John, there's only so much I can tell you, but please trust me. It will be over."
“If only that was true, “ John mumbled.
"Why is everything so difficult with you?" Pedro sounded angry again. “Come now, my dear John. I know things did not end well between us, and I am sorry for that. Surely we can be professional about this."
Pedro closed his eyes for a moment and clenched his fist. John still was not sure he could trust him. Accuracy and truth had no sanctity to Pedro. For him they were devices to be used to advance his agenda and schemes.
"Let's end this now." Pedro stood up and straightened himself while looking directly into his eyes.
"Okay." John suggested they meet outside Euston Station the following day. "I now know why you want this tape. It’s something to do with the death of Princess Diana."
For a while, Pedro just looked at him and said nothing.
"John, I really think it’s best for both of us that we part as friends and end this now."
"Maybe you’re right, but all of this does worry me a bit. And why do you need the tape? To take revenge? On who, and for what?"
"John, you know what I am capable of. All I want to do is expose an injustice, uncover a liar. That's all I ask."
"I don't know how you managed to pull this extensive masquerade off, Pedro, but I suppose we're going to find out soon."
"I’m in a position where I think – call it arrogance, if you must – that I know what's best. I know what's damaging and I know what's not damaging, and I know what the British are really all about, and I know what's best, and I'm going to act on that."
"You are totally without principle. There's no right or wrong, no morality or immorality in your eyes. You only want. You manipulate people and you don't see yourself as different from others."
"Only smarter. And in my view everyone is corrupt."
"No, you are wrong. Can you overcome the dark, brutal secrets of your past you talk so much about?"
Pedro stared coldly at him while the words sank in. John was going along with this. But oh, was he worried what would happen to his family. He didn't want them hurt by vicious accusations against him. No matter how ridiculous and untrue.
Before long, he was pounding the pavement. He had to see his wife and daughters, and hold them in his arms, tell them he loved them, try to explain that whatever wicked stories they might hear weren't true. Or at least, that there had to be some reasonable explanation for what could affect their lives. He toyed with the idea of going out for a few drinks but he shrugged the notion away. He had to be up early next day, he needed to have his wits about him. Too much was at stake.
He got up early the following morning, worried about this meeting. It just did not feel right. Clearly suspicious, Sonia questioned him,
"Why are you leaving so early?"
It was awful having to lie to her all the time, but he had no choice. That was the trouble with lying: Once you started you had got to keep doing it.
He wondered whether he should he leave a note explaining what was happening, just in case it all went wrong. But what would she think of him? He considered himself to be a very proud man, and if there was anything Pedro had taught him it was "Never give up and never show your weakness." But honesty was difficult.
He had a very quick coffee before he left the house through the back door. Rather strangely, it wouldn't open until he yanked it really hard. It felt like a warning not to go, but he told himself not to be stupid, the door was just a little stiff. It was about 5.30 a.m. and still dark.
Pedro could be waiting for him, or maybe he was following him. John drove to the station and took the train to Knightsbridge. He did not want to be observed or mistaken for any reason. Although the street wasn't busy, he was checking behind him every second. He needed to stay focused. Usually the traffic would be streaming past, but this morning there was only the odd car, headlights reflecting off the surface of the road as people set off early for work, or returned from night shifts.
He quickly got off the train and walked swiftly up the escalator. He went into a coffee shop, bought an espresso and sat down for five minutes just to calm himself. This also gave him the opportunity to make sure that nobody had followed him. He walked out of the shop and carefully checked, but all seemed to look clear. He passed Harrods. It was a sunny day. He walked down to Green Park where he stopped a taxi and asked to be taken to Waterloo Station. Getting out of the cab, he observed a tall well-dressed man watching him. He was pretending to look the other way, but kept looking from the corner of his eyes. John started to feel nervous; maybe he should abandon today’s mission and give up completely. He stood for a moment with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, kept his chin tucked in and his eyes uninterested as though he were just another labourer heading off to work.
Maybe he should walk around the corner and wait a little. The clouds turned grey and it started to rain. Everyone in the street rushed to take cover. Wearing only a light, short jacket, he quickly ran towards the station.
He still didn’t trust Pedro. There was a possibility he was being followed. When he was sure that no one was watching him, he entered the station. More questions started to go through his mind: What if the items had gone from the locker? How long did they wait before they reopen a locker? And what about hidden cameras in a major train station like Waterloo?
The terminal was getting busy now with hundreds of people milling around. He felt himself losing it for a moment, but he knew this was it and he had to try to keep himself together. There was the locker - it was located near the gents. He purchased an espresso from a vendor and used his wait to casually determine if anyone was watching him. Unable to spot anyone suspicious, he slowly walked over, all the while checking around him. He took the key from his pocket and pulled open the door: There it was the little carrier bag with the recording equipment and tape. He picked up the bag quickly and looked around before making sure that nothing was missing. He decided to take a seat for five minutes just to settle his nerves before he went down to the Underground.
Not normally someone to panic, he started to feel increasingly anxious now. At that time of day you noticed people more, and started to imagine them watching you. He very nearly got on the wrong tube. Keep calm, he kept telling himself, and eventually he got on to the correct train. It picked up speed and as it went into the tunnel the lights dimmed and it became dark. Euston station was only two stops away, but it seemed like an eternity.
He wondered whether Pedro would be there or not.
He finally arrived at the station and walked outside to check if he was there. He had not seen him inside the station, so he supposed he was waiting outside. There he was.
He was standing near the kerb, seemingly aware of a man nearby on his left-hand side who was regarding him with some amusement. He looked like your average businessman of thirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the queue waiting for a bus.
For a moment John thought that Pedro was going to abandon this meeting. But he was wrong - this was his only chance. Nothing could have been better. And Pedro seemed to think so too. He turned away for a few seconds, then composed himself. John noticed he was panting frantically as he fumbled hurriedly in his waistcoat pocket and then raised his hand to his lips. There was something furtive about this movement, but immediately afterwards his bearing changed. His laboured breathing lent him the appearance of a man who had just run a desperate mile, but a curious air of detachment, of sudden and profound indifference, replaced the strain of the effort. He still hadn’t spotted John.
He decided to cross over and face Pedro directly. He’d spotted John now and nodded to him, just about making eye contact before looking sharply at the carrier in John’s hand. John paused for a moment and looked at his watch. He hesitated now: Was he doing the right thing? He started to cross the road, Pedro’s eyes fixed on him in case he changed his mind. John walked slowly,
looking out for traffic.
Suddenly, Pedro stepped out into the road, presumably to meet him half way. Before John realised what was happening, he heard the sound of a speeding car breaking, the sound of a tyre screech, then a thump. Pedro didn’t stand a chance, he’d been so focused on John and the carrier bag that he didn’t look out for traffic. Just walked out and bang! He was knocked over by a car.
Stunned by the impact, John wondered whether he was dead.. The car had hit him on one side of his body and he was knocked headlong across the road. For a moment he could not recollect what had just happened. Then things came to him slowly. There was havoc, a police car racing to the scene. Pedro started to shake all over. It felt as though he’d been shot. You felt that you had died, but were not sure. He started to see things differently very quickly. And, what felt so good at that moment was knowing that it could really be over.
Would life ever get back to normal? What should John do with the tape?
He leaned over Pedro to check him out. He lay there, his eyes half open. Pedro realised John was standing over him. He felt so dismayed and confused. He raised his hand and clutched John’s jacket with all his strength, pulled his face close to his own. His eyes accusing him of voyeurism. John held his breath in disbelief of what had just happened. His eyes were drawn to something he had not spotted before: a scar just below Pedro’s left cheek, barely discernible amongst the blood which covered his face. Pedro whispered into his ear,
"Put the tape in my hand."
John hesitated. No, he thought. It was as though he were against a wall and there were a side entrance for him to escape through. It felt like a way out. Hooting horns, backfiring engines were overwhelming, the traffic was building up. The weight of all of this began to impact on him physically. For a moment he felt mentally assaulted and defeated.
He heard the paramedics shouting,” Out of the way!” He just stood there. A sudden pat on his shoulder made him jump. “Come on lad, move it.” He could see that Pedro’s body had gone into convulsions. The paramedic gently lifted him on to the stretcher and placed him into the ambulance. He asked if he could go with him in the ambulance, said he was a friend. Who had done this? He was overcome by a vague but powerful feeling of dread. He was physically run down. He didn't look too good. He started to breathe heavily, but after a few minutes it steadied and seemed to be under control.
"Stay with us, Pedro!" he called out.
Pedro opened his eyes a little, just for a second, before closing them again. His body started to shake a little. One of the paramedics started to talk loudly to him and tapped him gently on the cheeks.
"You’re a very lucky man, just relax, try to breathe slowly. We're just going to give you a small injection, try to keep still."
He was told that there was nothing he could do, as Pedro needed to rest. He went home, and early the next day he called the hospital and was told he had three broken ribs and a head fracture. But all he could think about was his missed opportunity. John was suddenly struck by the realisation that this had all gone wrong and that at this precise moment, he had to accept personal responsibility. He had to acknowledge the possibility that he should now stop all of this. The stark reality was that he was faced with a dog-eat-dog world. His family had to come first.
He decided to visit Pedro. There he was: tubes and intravenous lines penetrating his body. He could hardly move, and was clearly in a lot of pain.
"How are you?" John asked.
Minutes, hours, days could have elapsed for all he knew, because time had no relevance in an intensive care unit. Only one of his eyes would stay open. He realised that his head was swathed in bandages, and that that was why he couldn't move it. The lower portion of his face seemed to have solidified slightly. He told John he was in a bad way and lucky to be alive.
"Your nose was broken. So was your cheekbone and the other cheekbone was pulverised. That's why your eye is bandaged."
Pedro took a deep breath before making a brief sound of pure terror.
"Look, John," he whispered. "I just want to get out of here, just give me what I want and I'll be out of your life forever."
Pedro looked at John as though suggesting that he was being unreasonable. John decided to hand it to him - he knew any other action would be futile.
"You won't be going anywhere for a while. You can’t even move."
After he handed the tape to him, Pedro seemed relieved and just stared for a moment. Had John walked into a trap? He actually felt good, thinking that this could be the end. He said his goodbyes and told Pedro he'd look in tomorrow.
The next day he strolled towards the hospital with a buoyant sense of anticipation. But as soon as he arrived in intensive care, he was stopped in his tracks. Pedro was not there. He searched frantically, but there was no sign of him. He asked the nurse,
"Do you know where he went? Has he been discharged? Or moved to another ward?"
He ran his hands through his hair and shrugged, and took a deep breath waiting for her reply. She told him that two men had arrived that morning and wheeled him out.
"Did you not think to ask where he was going?"
"Sorry, looked normal to me. The two men had long white coats on, so I thought nothing of it."
He felt a layer of sweat coating his skin. He was tempted to just give up. Then he reminded himself that he had endured all of this – for what?
* * *
The leather-jacketed, thuggish man appeared to take some time to realise what he had said.
"Either you’re thick, or you're in shock," Pedro told him.
The man wore one of those strangely popular black plastic fedoras. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, took out a packet of Marlboro and lit a cigarette. He took his first deep puff, tilting his head back slightly. As he exhaled he offered the pack to Pedro, who waved it away.
"So where do you go from here? Why not use it now?" The man asked.
The mere idea that he would dare question his authority upset Pedro a great deal. He had chosen each man for his discipline and skills, and above all else absolute obedience to his orders. They were told upfront many years ago that this mission would require a great deal of patience.
"I know the risk. It's my plan, remember. We just have to keep it safe for now. Just because you helped break me out doesn't mean I owe you. Just take me to the port," Pedro told the man.
"You can hardly move," he replied.
He studied Pedro while narrowing his dull porcine eyes until they were mere slits. Then he shrugged and took another drag on his cigarette.
"That's enough. You try spending years like I did. It's a rat hole here. And if you're not cool with the way I do things . . . Don't worry, just walk away. If you stick to the plan, my plan, it will be successful." Pedro shrugged.
The leather jacket man smiled derisively.
"Okay, this will work. Just don't take unnecessary risks," he said sharply.
They waited till night-time. He helped Pedro get into the back of the car which was parked by the embankment’s main gate. As he ducked down and slid onto the seat, he was overwhelmed by a stabbing pain in his hand. Pedro cursed under his breath. Using his teeth, he tugged glove from his right hand, finger by finger, and dropped it onto the seat. His hand was swollen like a golf ball. A wave of pain peaked as he sat in the back of the car, but after a few moments the surge passed and Pedro breathed a sigh of relief. The leather jacket man was restless; before starting the engine he turned and checked if there were police around; even in the darkness several people were walking, some with dogs. They had to be careful. After a long drive, Pedro was keen to keep moving further.
"Seeing as you seem to know the plan, how are we on time?" Pedro asked.
"Perfect. Look," the man pointed to the ferry employee lowering the chain which blocked access to the boat.
The ferryman waved the BMW, first in the queue, to come forward. Pedro checked and watched in the side mirror as the car rolled forward. By the time it stopped
at the bow of the boat, another glimpse in the mirror showed a yellow Lada pulled up right behind them.
"This is where I leave you."
The leatherjacket man opened the door and twisted his bulk out on to the cobblestone ramp.
"Happy journey, my friend," he flexed his forefinger and flicked his cigarette away.
A man got out of the yellow Lada, opened the driver’s door of the BMW and sat down. Pedro almost jumped in his seat when he heard the tapping of metal on glass next to his ear. It was the toll collector using the back of his ring finger. Pedro rolled down the window and handed the man a ticket. As the fellow moved down the row of cars behind, Pedro stretched his left arm out of the window. His right arm hung limp, although he found that he could at least move his fingers and make a fist now. He tried to shake the stiffness from his limbs, ignored the pulsing pain in his shoulders and just focused on the ferryman. The BMW was in line to be the first off on the far shore.
The crossing took ninety minutes. Finally the ferry tied up on the north-east side of Jersey. The car wheels slipped and churned on the cleats of the wet metal decking as it rolled forward onto and up the cobblestone ramp. Pedro was due to catch a flight late that day to Athens.
Chapter 41
Athens
"I'm Malcolm Webb, welcome to Athens."
Malcolm stood straight and stretched his neck to one side, then to the other. He was somewhere in the reach of five feet ten inches tall. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his perfectly sculpted frame.
"It was a long trip. Longer than I thought." Pedro replied.
"Let me help you." Malcolm explained that he had a car waiting outside. He was based in Budapest. "I got back the day before yesterday and I have to go back there when I’m finished here. It's too much goddamn travel. This is the end of their summer in Athens, but I understand it never gets really cold."
Once outside the terminal, Pedro seemed to wilt before Malcolm's eyes.
The Assassin's Keeper Page 30