"The apartment stays cool," Malcolm assured him. "There are fans and you take a rest before we get started."
"I assumed headquarters told you what I have."
When Malcolm didn't reply, Pedro spoke again. "Maybe I assume too much."
"No, they told me, just not very much."
Pedro now felt perspiration forming on his forehead and had to wipe his hand across his hair line. Malcolm said that all he had been told was that he had to collect a package and get it to Budapest as soon as possible. Pedro wondered whether he could be trusted. Until he had answers, his survival instinct told him to do what he was trained to do - operate on his own. Suddenly searing hot pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm. A wave of nausea hit him and for a second he thought he was going to throw up. Ten seconds passed and then twenty, until finally the pain subsided. Pedro took a couple of deep breaths. He knew he was walking a very thin line and could only try to anticipate what Malcolm had in mind.
"I'll be back around lunchtime tomorrow. I'll let myself in with the key in case you’re asleep, so don't put the chain on the door."
Pedro knew that this was it: It was nearing the end of the line for him. The room smelled - it was a brew of sweat and other odours given off by men crowded together in close quarters, tinged with a hint of fear. It began to make Pedro feel uneasy, and less than certain about Malcolm. Groaning in pain, he dropped to his knee and reached around the back of the bed stand. The fingertips of his left hand had just found what he was looking for when he felt the floor beneath him tremble. The vibration was intense enough that he knew that it could only be caused by one thing. He withdrew his hand and rose just enough so that he could look over the bed towards the door. There, in the thin strip of the light under the door, Pedro saw a shadow pass, then another. He cursed to himself, seriously worried now.
After a few hours he decided to take a walk around the city. Up ahead he sighted a low-slung bridge with curved stone arches. The crunch of the dirt and gravel under his feet made it difficult to walk. He was still in a lot of pain from the accident, and now that the painkillers were starting to wear off, he needed something quickly to relieve the agony. Aware that he was almost certainly under surveillance, he stopped in a Jumbo supermarket and asked the sales assistant for painkillers. Next, he stopped at a newsstand and bought a copy of a major Brazilian paper, O Globo. He had chosen this route because it would force any surveillance team to move from crowded areas into empty streets where they would be easier to spot.
A car stopped next to him and Malcolm called out to Pedro.
"Yes, is there a problem?" Pedro smiled.
But he didn't react to the prompt. Instead, he watched Malcolm take out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and light up and inhale. Smoke poured from his nostrils as he talked.
"Let's start again," Malcolm said.
When Pedro just smiled in response, he continued,
"You have all the time you need; as for me I have two hours max. They sent me for two reasons. Firstly, I need the tape from you now."
Then he paused and took a second puff of his cigarette.
Pedro's deep brown eyes were fixated on the inch-long piece of ash which was precarious dangling from the end of Malcolm's cigarette.
"Secondly, my orders will be to dispose of you if you don't hand it over now."
Malcolm trained his grey eyes on him, waiting patiently for his response.
That last comment had touched a nerve, and Pedro didn't know whether his discomfort showed through. He was too weak to offer any other option. Malcolm looked at him with an expression which seemed to border on amazement. He spoke slowly now and stared at him. His tone wasn't hostile, but it was measured.
“You may not see it, but I'm taking care of you," Malcolm said, sounding like a sympathetic therapist. "This double life you’ve been living is not healthy. The mental strain can be too much, you should think about retirement."
Pedro felt a twist in his gut.
Malcolm went on to explain the psychological “toll” he had planned. That it wasn't enough to simply kill. He wanted his targets to lie awake at night and wonder who was after them. He wanted them to spend their entire waking day glancing over their shoulders, he wanted to drive them insane. Malcolm wanted Pedro to experience this fear.
"You need to listen to me," he told him.
The problem, Pedro knew, was Malcolm's maverick streak. The little shit was clever, and Pedro knew he couldn't underestimate him, but the law of averages told him that sooner or later, something would go wrong, and he would end up in a jam which could cost him his life. One of Pedro's assets was the ability to slow things down in his mind's eye. He could calculate what other players were going to do and how they would react. When things were tense, he could block out the fear and focus on what was important, and slow things down before acting. But right now Pedro felt vulnerable and exposed for the first time. Panic-induced decisions had a nasty way of leading to a bad, or in this case, fatal outcome. Pedro's cover was as good as he could hope for, considering how he felt.
Malcolm was excellent at what he did, and he had already proven his penchant for autonomy. He bristled against control, and so far, Pedro had been willing to ignore all of these transgressions because the man was so damn unique in how he operated.
"Pedro. Our country, as well as our beloved employer, has a glorious history of throwing those men who are at the tip of the spear under the proverbial bus when things get difficult."
"You can't be serious?" Pedro was genuinely shocked by his theory.
Malcolm folded his hands under his chin and leaned back in his chair.
"Justice is blind, and if you train a man to be judge, jury, and executioner . . Well, then you shouldn't be surprised if he some day fails to see the distinction between the terrorist and corrupt. Unsuspecting fools who thought themselves safe after years of United States help have gone bad." Then, after an uneasy silence, “Get in the car.”
Pedro thought about it for a moment before replying,
"I'm not sure I'm buying it. But okay, I will give you the tape. Later."
Malcolm shrugged. "Only time will tell."
Pedro began to shake with a mix of fear and white-hot rage: These people wanted to kill him, no matter what. He’d been betrayed,
Pedro walked away. From a distance, there was the sound of a click, then a thump and an explosion. There it was. Pedro had been shot in the back of the head.
* * *
Back in London, John was not sure what to do. He was trying to get his life back to normal – but what was normal after all these years of living in fear? Pedro had disappeared, and Reg Wright and Edward of all people had taken over his office, for reasons John failed to understand. One evening, he waited for Rosa outside her dance studio. She looked pale and considerably thinner than when he’d last seen her. When he questioned her about Pedro, she politely insisted that she had no idea where he was, and was clearly keen to get away from John.
He knew that he should be relieved, but driving home, he couldn’t help wondering whether he would ever see Pedro again.
THE END
The Assassin's Keeper Page 31