ENEMY -THE-

by WOOD TOM

  ‘Surprisingly, yes.’

  ‘You’ve got your answers now, and you’ve got your freedom.’ Procter said, ‘So, is this where we go our separate ways?’

  Victor had spent the last few days thinking about little else. Procter had withheld information from him, creating extra problems, extra risks. But he had revealed his identity to prove Victor could trust him. That meant a lot.

  He said, ‘I don’t feel the same pressing need to part company I felt before.’

  ‘I hoped you’d say that. But I didn’t expect you to.’

  ‘When my actions become predictable, my life will fall into the past tense.’

  ‘Does this mean that you finally trust me?’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

  Another pause, maybe for another smile, before Procter said, ‘I’ll contact you when I need you again.’

  ‘Which will be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Could be a while.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Victor said. ‘It’s been a long two months.’

  ‘For you and me both.’ Procter paused a moment and said. ‘Take care.’

  The line disconnected. Victor opened up an internet browser and accessed his other email accounts. He had another email from Alonso and two from other brokers. The contracts offered were for high figures and low risks. They would be simple to complete without Procter’s knowledge.

  Victor deleted the emails and deactivated the accounts.

  For the first time in a long time he felt truly relaxed. He made a phone call.

  Adrianna answered with a cheery, ‘Allo.’

  ‘It’s Emmanuel,’ Victor said. ‘How do you fancy a day in Sofia?’

  CHAPTER 60

  Victor met Adrianna in the lobby of the Grand Hotel Sofia. The large marble, granite and glass-fronted hotel was located in the centre of the city, overlooking the City Garden. He’d changed hotels after she’d agreed to meet him as his previous modest accommodation would not have met with Adrianna’s approval. She wore a long flowing dress that seemed to float across her figure as she wheeled an overnight suitcase behind her. Her wavy brown hair hung loose and sunglasses rested on top of her head.

  ‘You look so different,’ she announced as Victor approached. ‘I love the tan and longer hair. Very sexy.’

  She flicked a lock of hair for emphasis before they embraced and kissed. Victor was careful to pull away before her hands could drift down his back to where an FN Five-seveN handgun was tucked into his waistband.

  ‘You’ve lost some weight,’ he said.

  She beamed. ‘You noticed.’

  He hadn’t. ‘How was your flight?’

  ‘A pleasure.’ She took a tourist guide from her handbag. ‘I’ve been learning all about Sofia.’

  Once they’d dropped her case off in Victor’s room and freshened up, they set out to explore Sofia. The City Art Gallery was close to the hotel, so they began there, discussing the exhibits and which they liked and why. Afterwards they used the city’s yellow trams to visit some of Sofia’s many historic Orthodox churches, of which the highlight was the impressive Alexander Nevsky Cathedral with its one hundred and fifty feet high gold-domed basilica.

  Aside from the odd communist era tower blocks scarring the skyline, Sofia was a typically beautiful historic European capital. Victor liked the juxtaposition of architectural styles – Western and Central European, neoclassical and Stalinist, Roman and Byzantine. The ever-changing architecture gave each tree-lined street its own unique identity and feel. The roads of the city centre seemed to be almost entirely paved with yellow cobblestones.

  ‘From Vienna,’ Adrianna was quick to tell him.

  It may have been Adrianna’s first visit, but Victor had been a couple of times before, and had always found Bulgarians to be almost universally friendly and welcoming. This time was no different. He liked the climate too, warm but not hot, maybe seventy degrees today.

  They ate a late lunch at one of Sofia’s many open-air cafés, where they enjoyed the sun on their faces and the frenetic chatter of the surrounding locals. Victor knew enough of the language to get by and taught Adrianna the odd phrase. Together they tried to follow some of the lightning-fast conversations of those surrounding them, always quickly failing and adding their own fictitious translations.

  ‘He’s dumping her,’ Adrianna explained as they slyly watched a couple of middle-aged Bulgarians arguing, ‘because her breath smells like old socks.’

  He smiled as, out of habit, he watched the crowd for shadows.

  As evening came they returned to the hotel to wash and change. Chopin’s Andante Spianato et Grande Polonaise in E-flat major flowed through the room’s radio as Victor buttoned his shirt with one hand. The fingers of his other hand gently moved to the music, pressing imaginary keys.

  Adrianna, fixing in earrings, noticed him. ‘Do you play?’

  ‘I haven’t in months.’ He finished buttoning his shirt with both hands.

  ‘Any reason why?’

  ‘I just haven’t had the opportunity.’

  He couldn’t help but picture his most prized possessions, a nineteenth-century Vose & Sons Square Grand piano, which was now only ashes.

  ‘I think there’s a piano in one of the hotel bars. I’m sure they’d let you, if we ask.’

  ‘I’ll be too rusty. I don’t want to embarrass myself,’ he said, using the pretence of shyness to hide the fact that years of trying to remain unnoticed had conditioned him to find such acts as publically playing a piano to be an impossibility.

  He finished getting ready, and while Adrianna was in the bathroom, tucked his gun into the waistband over his right hip. He would make sure she walked on his left side only.

  ‘What do you think?’ Adrianna said as she emerged back into the bedroom.

  She looked gorgeous in a black evening gown, pashmina wrapped around her shoulders, and her hair tied up.

  Victor didn’t disappoint, and said, ‘Stunning.’

  Her glossy lips formed a huge smile.

  The National Theatre was only a block away from the hotel. Elegant uplights bathed the grand early twentieth-century building in a golden glow. At the box office, Victor collected tickets for a performance of Puccini’s Turandot. They sat in a box on the south-west wall and watched the performance with opera glasses, Adrianna enraptured by the spectacle and moved to the point of tears by the arias. Afterwards, they walked through the gardens set before the opera house while they discussed the performance.

  Other opera-goers did the same, and tourists snapped photographs of the theatre. Couples sat on stone benches and held hands.

  Adrianna linked her right arm with Victor’s left and said, ‘I’ve had such a wonderful day. Thank you for inviting me here.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Victor replied.

  ‘After Linz, I wasn’t sure we were going to see each other any more.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  She took a moment to answer, either struggling to articulate her thoughts or just hesitant of what she was about to say. ‘I’m not sure really, but you seemed so different the last time I saw you. Like a different you. I wasn’t sure if I would fit in with the change, that’s all.’

  ‘I didn’t know I had changed,’ he said, without meaning it.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she replied, hearing a tone he hadn’t intended her to. ‘I think it’s a positive thing.’ She examined him, and ran slim fingers through his hair. ‘Definitely a good change.’

  He smiled to show he agreed, even if he didn’t. ‘I’m glad you think so. And I take it you’re happy I called?’

  She smiled and lightly hit him on the arm. ‘Of course I am.’

  They walked some more.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a woman said in British-accented English, stepping into their path.

  She was in her late twenties, accompanied by a man who looked thirty, presumably her boyfriend or husband. They were both in casual clothes, jeans, T-shirts, athletics shoes. The guy�
��s hair was dark, the woman’s blonde. She had a camera in hand. They were both smiling. Big, excitable grins. Tourists.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the woman said again, speaking slowly, deliberately, as if to a child, long spaces between each word, drawing out each syllable for emphasis, ‘would you take a picture of us, please?’ She made a big deal of pointing at the camera and then to her boyfriend and herself.

  ‘Sure, of course,’ Victor said back.

  He would have thought it impossible, but their smiles grew wider. ‘Oh, you speak English. Great. Thank you so much.’

  Adrianna said, ‘You’re British, right?’

  The blonde woman made a small laugh. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘British people have a certain way of speaking abroad.’

  ‘We do, don’t we? Thanks again for doing this.’

  He said, ‘It’s no trouble,’ even though it was. Had he been alone he would have pretended not to speak the language and moved on. He didn’t like any contact that was not on his terms, but he didn’t want to show that in front of Adrianna.

  The female tourist handed over her camera. ‘If you could get it so the opera house is in the background, that would be great.’

  ‘No problem.’

  He gestured. ‘You might want to move closer together.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure.’

  She leaned closer to her boyfriend, wrapping her arms around him as though he might run away if she didn’t hang on tight. He put his arm around her shoulder, though somewhat stiffly. British reserve.

  Victor stepped back and went down to one knee to get them both in the centre of the frame, with the opera house in the background, said, ‘Say cheese.’ and took the photo. He handed back the camera. ‘Your first photo in Sofia,’ he noted from the camera’s display. ‘I’m honoured.’

  The couple looked at the image. ‘Oh, that’s perfect. Thank you so much.’ She nudged the boyfriend. ‘Wait ’til Andy and Meg see this.’

  With lots more thank-yous the couple departed, leaving Adrianna and Victor alone again. Adrianna took his hands in hers.

  ‘Those two made a cute pair,’ she said, ‘didn’t they?’

  Victor nodded. He wasn’t sure what was cute and what wasn’t.

  ‘I can imagine them old and grey and still just as in love.’

  Victor nodded again. He found it impossible to imagine such things.

  She rubbed his arms. ‘Do you ever think about settling down, Emmanuel; finding yourself a nice wife to pass you your slippers?’

  ‘Do wives still fetch their husbands’ slippers?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I guess for the right man they might.’

  There wasn’t anything in her eyes Victor couldn’t read. He asked, ‘What would you like to do now?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Are you hungry yet?’

  ‘I could eat if you’re ready for dinner.’

  ‘I’ve been ready for dinner for the last two hours. This diet is killing me.’

  Victor knew a good Indian restaurant about twenty minutes’ walk north, but Adrianna was too hungry to wait so they took a cab. He had aloo tika ragda to start, followed by paneer makhani. Adrianna started with bhel puri and then ate mushroom matar hara pyaz. The food was excellent, aromatic and flavoursome but without being excessively spicy. For dessert they both ordered mango ice cream. It came in a cone shape. After their meal they drank milky Indian tea while Adrianna talked about the possibility of going back to university.

  ‘I’m thinking about getting a PhD,’ she explained. ‘I miss studying. Reading History at Cambridge was one of the best times of my life. I miss books. I miss being academic. I hardly ever even get time to read the paper these days. It sounds overly dramatic, I know, but sometimes I feel like I’m letting my intelligence slip away.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? I think I have.’

  ‘Would you go back to Cambridge to study or somewhere new?’

  Mentioning Cambridge made him remember the British couple. Specifically, the blonde woman. Tourists didn’t usually ask him to take pictures. Victor gave off a subtle leave-me-alone vibe that most people subconsciously heeded, but it didn’t always work. He could only go so far with negative body language. If he was too unapproachable, people would remember him. Better to be the kind of man some people were happy to talk to, than the kind of rude man no one forgot. And in Adrianna’s company he would seem more approachable.

  She asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t hide anything from you, can I?’ he said, again surprised that she could read him so well. ‘I was just thinking about work. Sorry.’

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  He shook his head. ‘Work is boring. Let’s talk about you. So, Cambridge?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I did love it there, but maybe somewhere different would be good. I’m all for new experiences.’

  He nodded and enthused as she talked about her plans, but all the while he replayed the incident with the tourists in his mind. There was nothing suspicious about either of them. The guy hadn’t spoken, but he seemed shy compared to his outgoing partner. No, it wasn’t the tourists that were bothering him, it was himself, for his inability to lower his guard and take a picture for a couple of dumb tourists without feeling exposed because they had taken him by surprise. He wondered how he had become this facsimile of a person – a jigsaw with pieces missing – and if it would ever be any different.

  Adrianna continued, ‘Columbia University is very highly regarded, of course, and I absolutely adore New York. Though I’d run the risk of doing more shopping than studying.’

  Victor nodded and sipped his tea, telling himself that his paranoia was excessively keen in this instance. Mossad were chasing leads in Barcelona, according to Procter. There was nothing for them to find there that would lead to Bulgaria.

  ‘You’re the first person I’ve told about this,’ Adrianna added with a shy smile.

  Victor said, ‘I’m honoured,’ and immediately remembered saying the same words to the British woman. He’d commented on having taken their first picture in Sofia, according to the camera’s display. The woman had not responded to his remark. Not a single word or even gesture. A personable tourist, as she clearly had shown herself to be, would have replied with some kind of explanation. Maybe they had only just arrived, or it was a new memory stick in the camera. But nothing.

  Victor cursed himself for not understanding sooner.

  He didn’t know how, whether they’d somehow tracked him or followed Adrianna to him. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that they had found him.

  The Kidon were in Sofia.

  The charade with the camera must have been to make a positive ID. With his longer hair, tan and beard he looked notably different from the man caught on camera a month before. They had needed to get close to make sure he was really their target. It was brazen, risky, but they hadn’t been aware Victor knew they were after him.

  Procter had been wrong about Barcelona, or maybe his intel had just been out of date. Across from Victor, Adrianna continued to talk about universities and studying, completely unaware of the mortal danger they were both in.

  They were being watched at this very moment, Victor knew. He detected no shadows in the restaurant, which would be unnecessarily close, but they would be waiting outside, ready to follow him and Adrianna when they left.

  He had an advantage – they had no idea he was on to them. When would they strike? He didn’t know. Probably not at his hotel. Hotels were notoriously difficult places for actions to go down – he knew that better than most – but that wouldn’t stop Kidon operatives. Mossad had successfully pulled off more hotel assassinations than anyone else. But they didn’t want to kill him – at least not yet. Otherwise they could have gunned him down outside the opera house the minute he’d been identified. They wanted answers first. They wanted to kno
w who he was and who sent him and why. A kidnapping was more difficult than an assassination, so they would have to make an attempt on the streets, somewhere with the fewest possible witnesses to see him bundled into a van.

  So long as Adrianna was with him Victor couldn’t escape the Kidon. Alone, he might have a chance.

  ‘So you see,’ he became aware Adrianna was saying, ‘I can’t quite decide between Columbia or Cambridge.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe I’ll do a PhD at both.’

  ‘It’s a tough decision,’ Victor said. He stood. ‘Excuse me for a minute.’

  He headed to the restrooms, knowing the Kidon watchers outside would see him go, but they wouldn’t be worried because Adrianna was still sitting at the table, awaiting his return. While she sat there, Victor gained time.

  The restaurant’s bathroom was compact and clean. A small window was set high in the back wall above the furthest stall. Victor entered it, knocked the lid down on the toilet, stood on it, worked the latch, and opened the window. Cool air flowed in and over his face. He peered into the alleyway beyond. It was dark but empty. The Kidon were watching the front. There was no reason to watch the back.

  In three minutes they would start to wonder, in five they would begin to worry. By six, they would send someone inside to check. But with a six-minute head start he would be long gone, in a cab or on a bus, heading out of town. They wouldn’t catch him.

  Their attention would turn to Adrianna as a solid link to him, even if she was anything but. They wouldn’t believe that she knew nothing about him. They would have to be convinced. He tried not to picture what they might do to her to extract information she didn’t have.

  But together they couldn’t avoid them, and if Victor sent her away first it would only make them suspicious and any chance he had of escaping would vanish.

  Victor didn’t have true friends. He cared about no one. It was one of the ways that kept him alive. His relationship with Adrianna was an act they both played, and she played it for money, nothing more. She used him like he used her. There was nothing else between them, nothing to stop him now.