by Helena Maeve
Streetlights cast eerie, alien shadows on his face. At times his eyes seemed orange, at times yellow. Mostly, though, they were as dark as the night that surrounded them. He didn’t see fit to satisfy Arthur’s incessant need to talk.
“You probably did,” Arthur reasoned. “You two are tight, yeah? You two and Manuel Sosa…and the songbird.” A lousy name for the kind of spymaster he pretended to be, in Arthur’s view.
Klaus changed lanes, overtaking a produce truck with Polish plates. He gave no inkling that he’d heard Arthur. He hadn’t exhibited any emotion since that brief show of slight surprise back at the loft.
Arthur might as well have been driving with a robot.
The ribbon of the highway stretched out before them, three smooth lanes charting a course into the unknown, not a pothole in sight. According to the dashboard clock, they had put the city behind them a little over an hour ago. Arthur wished for a GPS so he could pinpoint their exact position. It would make it easier to time his next escape attempt.
That he had to clear out before Klaus delivered him to Cairo went without saying. He had no desire to meet the infamous Robin, or suffer whatever tortures he had in store.
Besides, every hour spent with Klaus was an hour he could be getting farther and farther away from Section and his former employers. He didn’t know this Robin character. He didn’t trust him to provide shelter.
Sosa had been handed over to Section when he’d stopped being useful, too.
“Are there more of you? Is it a whole cabal…like the Illuminati?” The lack of response only prompted Arthur to dig the knife a little deeper. “You know, I’m not the only one they sent to kill Sosa.”
“Obviously,” Klaus murmured. Then, a little louder, “Who exactly are they?”
Arthur barked out a laugh. “Aha, I knew you were listening!”
Klaus swerved a little harder than was strictly necessary—it seemed to Arthur, in direct retribution—and changed lanes again.
“You’re difficult to ignore. As you must know.”
“It’s true, I tend to go on,” Arthur conceded. “It’s self-serving. I’ll give you that. We wouldn’t want you to fall asleep at the wheel, would we?”
“I asked you a question.” Klaus didn’t have to raise his voice for Arthur to guess that he was beginning to lose his patience. The tightening of his meaty fingers around the steering wheel spoke volumes.
“You want to know who hired me.”
Klaus nodded.
“Jules asked me that a lot, too. And bear in mind that I was bedridden for a solid month after she sprang me out of Section custody. Half of that time I spent delirious with pain or medication.” He’d been ripe for interrogation. Jules had known as much and she’d done her best to take advantage of his frailty. Go on, ask what I confessed.
“I see.”
It would have been simpler if Klaus threatened him or made some promise about being able to dig up the secrets that Jules could not via new and exciting tortures. His eerie tranquility wormed its way under Arthur’s skin.
“All right, I’ll bite. What do you see? Am I supposed to be quaking in my boots because you’re in league with a bunch of mercs who think they’ve reinvented the wheel?” Arthur couldn’t resist a sneer. His voice dripped contempt. “At least I don’t have any illusions about being above the game.”
“You tried to kill a man,” Klaus said.
Whether that was acquiescence or some sort of indictment, Arthur couldn’t say. “I had a job to do.” Just like Tomaso.
Klaus nodded, nonchalant. “And you failed.”
Arthur whipped his head around. “So?”
“You’re a wanted man. MI6 is just one of the agencies with a vested interest in acquiring you for their asset collection,” Klaus expounded. He flicked up his finger against the steering wheel, nails flashing pink between occasional shafts of light. “And recent events suggest that your former employers, whoever they may be, have decided to dispose of you without a debrief. Your list of potential friends is running awfully short these days.”
“Are you threatening me?” Arthur found it a challenge not to laugh. There was no mirth left in him. There hadn’t been much before he’d traveled to England to kill Manuel Sosa and he’d run out by the time Tomaso pointed a gun at him.
Seniority in this line of business wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Klaus shook his head. “You asked what I see. That is your answer.”
“Nah, that’s some reverse psychology bullshit. You think if I’m scared enough, I’ll roll over and play nice? I’d rather take my chances, thanks.”
“Very well.” Klaus signaled that he was changing lanes less than a second before he swerved. He pulled up on the shoulder with a screech of tires and switched off his fog lights.
The Audi rumbled dully on the side of the road, darkness settling around them.
“What’re you…?”
In the low light, the whites of Klaus’s eyes seemed phosphorescent. He looked expectantly at Arthur. “Feel free to walk, if you’d rather take your chances.”
This is a trick. It had to be. Jules hadn’t kept him prisoner for months only to have her successor turn Arthur loose on the side of the road. She’d threatened, sure, and mostly to jettison him out of the window, but Arthur had never believed she would follow through. He was too important.
Then again, maybe Klaus was a little off in the head. His reputation suggested it.
Maybe he hadn’t gotten the memo that the package he was transporting was, for some ungodly reason, precious to the boss.
Cars zoomed past, rattling the parked Audi. To Arthur, it seemed like they were a single fixed point in the whole universe and everything else around them was moving so damn fast.
“Why Cairo?” Arthur asked. He didn’t expect an answer, but it was worth a shot.
Klaus was silent for a long beat. Then he keyed the engine. “The door is unlocked.”
Arthur thought of testing the latch, but if it was a ploy, he’d only get his knuckles rapped for trying to get out. He was used to swallowing fish hooks. He knew to avoid bait that looked too good to be true.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
The Audi’s fog lights switched back on.
Last chance.
Arthur spared a glance at the unkempt shrubbery beyond the steel guards that girdled the tarmac. Escape had been his sole aspiration these past four months, but it wasn’t escape if he let Klaus lure him into it. He could smell the trap, even if he didn’t understand it yet.
He didn’t reach for the door.
Klaus drove them back into the third lane, gunning the engine until Arthur could barely make out the pounding of his heart. It was difficult not to feel like he’d missed his chance.
* * * *
Arthur must have dozed at some point. When he blinked awake, it was with the unambiguous perfume of fast food thick in the confines of the car and timid rays of sunshine poking through the windshield.
The sky before them was awash with light, streaks of airplane exhaust raking a white grid on a blue-orange backcloth.
It took him another beat to notice they were no longer in motion.
“Good morning,” Klaus said, speaking around a mouthful of grilled meat and cheese.
The sentiment was lost on Arthur as he scrubbed the grit from his eyes. “How long was I asleep?” Clearly long enough for Klaus to usher in the morning and get himself breakfast, but Arthur wanted precise data. He’d never been good at operating on assumptions.
Now more than ever, he couldn’t afford to wing it.
“Three or four hours,” Klaus informed him coolly. “Do you drink coffee?”
“Yes.”
A plastic cup was pushed into his hands, still warm from the murky contents within. “I have sugar somewhere,” Klaus added, patting his pockets.
“This is fine.” Arthur took a hesitant sip, self-preservation slow to kick into gear. The coffee scalded the roof of
his mouth, so he swallowed it down quickly, before he could tell if there was any hint of poison.
Klaus’ gaze lingered on him for a long moment, the slant of his mouth more amused than expectant.
Arthur willed grogginess away. “What’s the occasion?” he asked and boldly downed another mouthful of cheap coffee.
If Klaus wanted him dead, he could have made use of the bathroom back at the loft. The shower curtain could make a decent noose. Jules’ pistol could stop his heart.
Arthur was just twenty-six and he already knew fifty-four ways to kill a target using nothing but household appliances. He supposed that someone of Klaus’ age had tacked on a couple dozen more, to say nothing of the inventive ways he’d probably found of disposing of human remains.
Arthur’s stomach churned when he thought of how Klaus had dispatched Tomaso—clean and effective, without hesitation.
“Breakfast,” Klaus replied, as though it was self-evident. “We’ll be on the road again soon. If you need to stretch your legs—”
“Like last night?”
Klaus shrugged. He plucked a wrapped sandwich off the dashboard and deposited it bluntly into Arthur’s lap. A smell of bacon grease and melted cheese rose from the greasy wrapper. “Eat. We may not stop again until noon.”
“What’s the rush?” Arthur retorted. “Is Cairo on a timer?” He would have liked nothing better than to deny Klaus’ show of kindness, but he was starving and confused, and the more he sat there, inhaling the bacon sandwich, the louder his stomach churned.
Instead of a reply, Klaus chewed meditatively, staring out the bug-smeared windshield at the sky beyond. He had a squarish face, with a pronounced brow and full cheeks. A smattering of stubble darkened his jaw.
Arthur felt like a star-struck novice in his presence. He hated that.
He hated being out of his depth even more.
“You could just tell me,” he grumbled mournfully as he peeled his sandwich out of its wrapper. “Who am I going to tell? I’ve had my fill of trying to run away.” His head still smarted from Jules’ finishing blow, let alone all the other punches she’d delivered to subdue him. “You’re right…there’s nothing for me out there. I’m a wanted man. I failed my last job.” It stung to admit but there was something to be said about deferring to his jailer’s opinion. “And my clients are probably thinking up further creative ways to make me pay for it as we speak…” Sending Tomaso to kill him was just the beginning. “I get that I have nowhere else to run. I just want to know what’s going to happen to me.”
Flirtation hadn’t worked on Klaus. Neither had wheedling, or deliberately getting on his nerves. He wasn’t easily persuaded.
Arthur was just about convinced that his last attempt would come to nothing, too, when Klaus sighed.
“Your next assignment,” he said, dousing the confession in coffee.
“What?” Arthur’s heart threatened to leap out of his throat. It sounded absurd. He must’ve misheard.
Klaus met his gaze with a crooked brow. “Robin thinks you have some skill. He has decided he wants you to work for him. We’re headed to Cairo for your next assignment.”
Or you die. Arthur didn’t need to hear it said to know there was no alternative. He leaned back in his seat, bemused.
“Huh.” Of all the scenarios he’d envisioned, a job offer had never crossed his mind. “Pity I left my CV at home.”
Chapter Five
The town of Szekszárd, Hungary, was only a few miles from the border with Serbia. It resembled many of the Eastern European towns Arthur had visited for work-related purposes, the imprint of communism etched firmly onto a skyline of gray squares occasionally interspersed with the domed tower of a church or a squat, one-floor villa that had somehow escaped demolition.
If it was up to him, they would have pressed on, past Szekszárd, past the border, into Serbia, for as long as they had gas in the tank. Like everything else in the last four months, it wasn’t his call to make.
He looked up, annoyed, at what he realized was nothing more than an uninspiring hotel.
Klaus had found a parking spot just wide enough to fit the Audi and squeezed into it in a few short maneuvers. He’d been quiet since they’d crossed in and out of Austria.
Nostalgic, Arthur mused. He had taken to saving up his taunts for when Klaus was in a better state to rebuff them, but silence wasn’t his game.
As they extricated themselves from the car, he sped his steps to catch up to Klaus’ long strides. His kneecap throbbed with a dull ache.
“So are you going to tell me how you’re planning to get me all the way to Cairo without tipping off Interpol, or do I have to guess?”
“No.” The answer was a definite, wary sigh.
It became no more palatable beneath the squeak of the glass door of the hotel. Klaus marched through with a sure gait. Arthur wanted to ask if he’d been there before, if he knew the local sights. Any good bars we can shoot the shit while the noose tightens? No?
What’s good in Arse End of Nowhere, Hungary?
He held his tongue. Like it or not, he was a fugitive. He couldn’t afford to attract attention to himself.
Klaus sauntered up to the front desk—a wallpapered monstrosity that looked as if it had last been in fashion sometime in the seventies—and hit the bell. He was conspicuous in his tweed jacket, shoulders sloping fractionally as though to make him seem less imposing.
It worked, though it obvious he didn’t quite belong.
“Do we have a reservation?” Arthur asked, sotto voce.
Klaus shook his head.
“Then let me take care of it.”
“I’ve got it,” Klaus said sharply.
A fair-haired clerk appeared from the back room before Arthur could argue. He barely had time to conceal his useless, mangled hand.
The clerk looked about forty, but his hair was so blond it almost appeared white. He seemed marginally taken aback by the sight of Klaus, though he covered it promptly.
“Hello… What may I do for you?” he asked, his English heavily accented.
Klaus didn’t miss a beat before launching into fluent Hungarian.
Arthur had been something of a prodigy as a child. He had a knack for imitation, so languages were easy and mathematics didn’t give him trouble as long as he could rely on tricks to get him to the desired result. Naturally, he’d plateaued somewhere in his teens, but the damage had been done, enough smoke blown up his arse by teachers and social workers that he’d never bothered learning how to learn anything.
Knowledge cobbled together with cunning only got him so far. Klaus’ vocabulary, he could tell, was expansive and he made use of it with the confidence of a man who had never learned to fear ridicule.
It did the trick.
Astonishment waning fast, the clerk found them a room—just the one, Klaus requested, saying something about a limited stipend that Arthur didn’t quite catch.
“Where are you from?” the clerk wondered as he fetched them their keys.
“Mattersburg,” Klaus said.
“Germany?”
Klaus smiled indulgently. “Austria.”
“Ah!” The clerk’s smile was broad and self-satisfied. “I knew I detected a little accent. Your Hungarian is very good.”
“Thank you.” Klaus returned the smile as the keys exchanged hands. “The wife… This one married an Italian,” he added, jerking a thumb to indicate Arthur.
“Is that why the—?” The clerk gestured vaguely to his head.
The shiner. Of course. Arthur swallowed past the knot of dread in his throat and nodded, smiling ruefully. It had the desired effect.
“I hope you weren’t talking about me,” he muttered under his breath as they took the cramped elevator up to the second floor. He hadn’t known there were suitcases in the trunk, just as he hadn’t realized that Klaus had changed the plates on the Audi at the last gas station.
Klaus smirked at the floor. “I only mentioned the good.”
&
nbsp; “So nothing about me being a wanted criminal, huh?” Arthur quipped.
He didn’t expect an answer, so he wasn’t disappointed when none followed.
The room harbored few surprises. The same patterned paper camouflaged the four walls as downstairs in the lobby, with matching curtains drooping from a dusty cast-iron bar above either window. The bedspreads were white and vaguely clinical, but a vast improvement on sleeping upright in the Audi—or back at the loft in Berlin, catching winks between episodes of Sturm der Liebe.
“Where did you learn Hungarian?” Arthur wondered as he flopped heavily onto the twin nearest to the door. He’d never been fond of heights, but he could have suffered the window if he didn’t have a choice.
Klaus seemed far more circumspect. He pulled the drapes shut before he switched on the lights, plunging them into temporary darkness for the space of a heartbeat.
“Along the way. Do you want the shower first?”
Arthur waved him off. “I’m good here.” His hips ached from sitting down in the car for so long. He hadn’t stretched his knee in hours. He made a show of exercising the joint where he sat, smiling broadly.
Klaus hesitated. It was a long moment before he crossed the room and turned the key in the lock, as though worried Arthur might try to flee.
“No trust whatsoever,” Arthur clucked. “What, you think I’ll run out on you?”
Klaus held up the brass key. “Trust is earned.” He placed the key on the bedside table between the two twins. And left it there.
It sounded genuine enough, but Arthur still scowled at his retreating back as he disappeared into the bathroom. After that performance on the road, Klaus had some nerve to expect additional proof of loyalty. Wasn’t it enough to drive home the point that Arthur had nowhere left to go and no one he could trust?
The key beckoned like Pandora’s Box. Behind the bathroom door, the torrential whoosh of the shower egged him on. Hungary wasn’t so far from Ukraine. One small leap across the border from there and he could turn himself over to the olds boys at Directorate S. No retirement fund paid better than dinosaur spy agencies hurting for actionable intel.