by Mark Arundel
I do not know how long I stayed like that. In the distance, I heard a woman calling out my name. Her voice sounded gentle and kind. Was an angel calling me to heaven?
‘Sir, excuse me, sir,’ she said. Her voice was closer now and more insistent. The softness remained, but it came laced with a resolute edge. I opened my eyes, shielded the sun’s glare using my hand and sat up. Standing beside me maintaining her professional expression and with folded notepaper in hand was Ana Luiza.
‘You’ve left your post,’ I said focusing on her face and realising that all the noises of the world had returned.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘But only for a minute and I have cover. I thought you would want this telephone message right away.’ She handed me the folded notepaper. The message was from Charlotte. It was concise and emotive. Call me urgently. It was not the message I wanted. Why did those three simple words make me think of half a dozen scenarios all of which undid my good work in the pool and on the lounger? I looked back at Ana Luiza. Concern at what plight may have befallen me crumpled her normally smooth brow. Clearly, she had read the message and her imagination was working just as well as mine although her scenarios were unlikely to contain the warning “Beware, danger of death”.
‘What time is it?’ I asked. Ana Luiza looked at her wristwatch.
‘Five minutes past four, sir,’ she answered. I was already late for my appointment in room 423. Generally, I was very good at judging time and this normally helped ensure promptness, but clearly not today. As well as not bringing a phone with me my wrist was untroubled by a watch. Perhaps that had something to do with it. I looked again at Ana Luiza. Her expression of concern had not improved. I made a quick assessment of whether to call Charlotte first. My t-shirt came easily to hand, I stood up and slipped on my sandals.
‘Thanks,’ I said and gave my kind messenger what I hoped was a reassuring smile as I hurried away leaving her to watch me go and wonder.
Re-entering the hotel I pulled on my t-shirt and headed directly to room 423. Charlotte, I decided, must wait her turn. She, of course, would say that if I had a phone I could call her on my way to room 423 and, I suppose, she would have a point. Anyway, I did not have a phone and so any assumed observations by Charlotte on the matter were immaterial and besides, not having a phone had its own advantages, which believe me I knew all about.
Quick time got me to room 423 in about a minute. I had returned fully from the land of relaxation and the sun-drenched lounger was already a fading memory. I turned the corner on the fourth floor, north side and the corridor ahead was empty and quiet: guests were away from their rooms and the cleaning service was on another floor. I tried the handle, but whoever was inside still had the door locked, so I knocked. I only had to wait a few seconds before she let me in. Her change of clothes had produced a less glamorous look. She was now wearing a short, patterned frock with flat sandals and holding her hair back was a tie of silky gold. The bright lipstick too had given way to a simple, natural gloss. I walked past her and she closed the door. I saw that she locked it. I wondered if she would mention the time, but if my lateness did concern her she kept it to herself. She looked down at my exotic swim shorts.
‘I’ve come straight from the pool,’ I explained.
Her only comment was to give what I took to be an approving look, but I may have been wrong, and the words: ‘You smell of chlorine.’
The room was dark and cool. Where we stood the bathroom light was on, but further inside, the room was gloomy. At the far end, the drawn curtains blocked out almost all the sunlight apart for a narrow strip. Through the exposed voile, these shafts of light fell across the nearside wall and illuminated the television cabinet, mirror and an open suitcase. As my sight adjusted, I realised we were not alone. Sitting at a small table beyond the bed, I saw a figure.
The woman walked over and I followed. She stopped beside the table and said simply, ‘Here he is.’
I stood alongside my announcer and tried to present a look that would live up to my billing. Although from the stare I got back, some of my confusion may have shown through. Even in the shadow and partial light, the man’s eyes seized my attention. The irises were without colour. His eyes were entirely white. For a second, I found it unnerving and then he blinked and the feeling dissipated. The man continued to stare. It seemed as if he was performing a visual evaluation of me. The woman waited patiently. After many seconds, the man finally spoke: ‘It doesn’t matter who he is or how good he is. He could be Superman. It doesn’t matter because if they know then I’m dead.’ His English was very good, but I knew from his accent that it was not his first language. He put emphasis on the word “dead” and I could tell that he fully believed in the certainty of this predicted future state.
‘They don’t know,’ the woman said reassuringly.
‘That’s what you say, but you don’t know,’ he said in a voice that demonstrated his belief in logic over emotion. I sensed they had had this conversation before, quite recently and probably several times. I could tell the woman did not want to have it again. She walked across to the glass door and pulled back the heavy curtain using her hand. Sunlight poured in and ran across the floor like a freed prisoner. It lifted the gloom. The man raised his hand to his eyes in protection. With the increased light, I could see his tufted hair and eyebrows. They were white, as white as the feathers on a dove. His skin pallor too was only one notch above that of a corpse.
‘You should go outside, go for a walk and get some air. It’s a beautiful day,’ the woman said looking through the gap she had made in the curtain.
‘No, I don’t want to. My eyes hurt today,’ he replied.
‘Wear your glasses and your hat. The sun’s starting to drop now,’ she said encouragingly.
As the woman spoke, I realised something. I realised the man suffered from albinism. My knowledge of the condition was limited. All I knew was that the person’s hair, skin and eyes had a lack of pigment. In some people, it was more and in other’s less. In this man’s case, it appeared complete. He was white.
The woman allowed the curtain to fall back and then she returned to the table. She stopped beside me and I could tell from her expression that the situation was starting to exasperate her. ‘Anyway, as I promised this is London’s best man,’ she said, ‘and he’s staying here in the hotel, one floor below, so if anything should happen...’
‘What’s he going to do?’ he said interrupting her. ‘One man cannot save me if they know, nobody can.’ He looked at me again and his white eyes went to my swim shorts. My attire did not impress him and neither did my accolade of “London’s best man”, which, by the way, was news to me too. He seemed desolate and given I still did not know what was going on anything I said was unlikely to help, so I kept quiet.
An electronic ringing broke the silence. The woman took the phone from her handbag and answered the call. She spoke in English. From the few words that she said, I gathered the call had something to do with the current situation. The caller was asking questions and she was giving mostly yes or no answers. After a lengthy period when she listened intently, she removed the phone from her ear and held it out to me. ‘He wants to talk to you,’ she said. It was the first time I had had a good look at the phone. It looked familiar.
‘Is that a K106?’ I asked. She frowned.
‘I don’t know what a K106 is,’ she said.
‘But it is a satellite phone,’ I said.
‘Take the call,’ she said and moved the phone closer to me. I took it from her, held it to my ear and said, ‘Hello.’
In response, I heard: ‘Ah, good man, you’re there.’ The voice was instantly recognisable. It was Bartholomew Meriwether.
5
THURSDAY, 16:15—16:45
It should not have surprised me. I should have guessed from the moment the phone rang. After all, it was obvious the mystery woman was working for London and from there the association was an easy one to make. Bartholomew Meriwether was standing
, most likely, at the bar of his club in St. James’s Square sipping an aperitif: probably a martini. A sudden flash of his self-possessed disposition, faultless apparel and brilliantine head appeared in my mind.
‘I’m glad I caught you,’ he said in a genial way that highlighted his clear enunciation. “...Caught me”, did he think I was rushing off somewhere? ‘How are you enjoying Rio? Better weather than we’re having here I bet. It hasn’t stopped raining in London all day. I spoke to a cab driver about it and he said it was something to do with the weather in America and the Gulf Stream whatever that is.’ Meriwether was talking fast and apart from my opening “Hello”, I had not had a chance to speak. I was determined to get a word in and remind him that I was supposed to be on holiday. He took a breath and I grabbed my chance.
‘Yes, Rio is hot and sunny,’ I said, ‘which is perfect for my...’ Before I could finish the sentence Meriwether interrupted.
‘Yes, yes, I know that you’re on holiday and yes I know that “holiday” means a break away from work, but unfortunately this small problem came up and, well, as you were there I thought, well, I thought you wouldn’t mind, you know, being the affable chap that you are and all that.’
‘A small problem came up,’ I repeated.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And did this “small problem” come up in Rio before or after you chose Rio as my holiday destination?’
Bartholomew Meriwether made a noise like a wounded bison. He sounded like a stage actor, a stage actor who had taken a bullet in the fourth act of a “murder mystery” play. He followed this performance with the words: ‘Oh, dear boy, surely you don’t think...’ For a second I thought he was lost for words, but then he continued: ‘I shouldn’t have asked Grace to contact you. I can see now how it must look to you. It was just that Grace was so very concerned and as you were there in Rio I thought...’
‘Grace?’ I said cutting short his non-denial before he went on and on with it.
‘Yes, Grace. Well, I call her Grace. It suits her doesn’t it?’ I looked at the mystery woman who now had a name: Grace. She and the man were talking. He seemed calmer. She sensed me looking and glanced up. Her expression was that of cool professionalism. I moved away, slid open the glass door, slipped through the curtain and stood on the small balcony. The view was of the garden and one corner of the car park. Outside, the warm air contrasted with the coolness of the air-conditioned room. I was still listening to Meriwether telling me about Grace: ‘...and VX cannot praise her enough and so when I heard that she was having a little difficulty with Snowy I thought you wouldn’t mind helping out as it were.’
‘Snowy?’ I said.
‘Yes, Snowy, well, I call him Snowy. It was too hard not to. I don’t think he minds.’
‘You said helping out. What does “helping out” mean?’
‘Oh, nothing very much: staying in the hotel, allowing Snowy to meet you and to see that you’re keeping an eye on things. Looking out for him, you know. It’s all the simple stuff really. Stuff a chap like you ought to manage without any difficulty even when...’ and he stressed the word “even” with a hint of enjoyment, ‘...he is on holiday.’
‘I see,’ I said not really seeing at all. ‘And what is it that Snowy thinks might happen?’ I asked hoping the answer would provide me with some understanding.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Meriwether said maintaining his genial tone. ‘You know how these chaps get.’
‘No, I don’t know “how these chaps get”,’ I said.
‘Well, jumpy,’ he said.
‘Jumpy,’ I repeated.
‘Yes, that’s it, jumpy. You’ve got it.’ He sounded pleased. This conversation had started to resemble a comedy sketch and not a particularly good one at that. All the Brazilian sunshine I had soaked up must have put me a cheerful mood because recently my indulgence of Meriwether’s upper-class tomfoolery was extremely limited.
‘Got it,’ I repeated, ‘got what? I still don’t know who Grace and Snowy are or what they do.’
‘Yes, you do,’ he said with all the patience of a man used to explaining himself while actually doing the complete opposite. ‘Grace is one of ours, and Snowy is one of hers. I can’t make it any plainer.’ Listening to Meriwether talk in this way I might find it hard to reconcile just how ruthless and dangerous he was unless, that is, I had experienced first-hand the things he was capable of doing.
‘I don’t see how I can help if you don’t tell me what help it is you want,’ I said.
‘Help,’ he repeated. ‘Oh, yes, help. Well, at present it’s really rather difficult to think of anything specific. All that I can suggest is for you to keep an eye on things.’
‘Keep an eye on things,’ I repeated.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ he said sounding pleased again. We had started to return to the comedy sketch.
‘And if something were to happen while I was keeping an eye on things, then what? What should I do?’
‘Well, if that did happen,’ Meriwether said, ‘I’m sure a resourceful chap like you would think of something. Failing that, you could call me and ask if I knew what to do or you could ask Grace. Yes, Grace, she would probably know what to do. Grace is very good at knowing what to do.’
‘Is she?’ I said, ‘and what about Snowy?’
‘Snowy,’ Meriwether said as if he was trying to remember who he was. ‘Well, it really isn’t up to Snowy, is it?’
‘Isn’t it? Why isn’t it?’
‘Snowy isn’t one of ours,’ Meriwether explained.
‘I thought he was,’ I said.
‘No, no, he’s one of Grace’s.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said remembering what Meriwether had previously told me and with a hint of resignation in my voice. I had begun to realise this conversation was like a toy train. It was going round and round and not getting anywhere.
‘Well, I think that’s everything,’ Meriwether said. He, perhaps, had had enough too. ‘I’m giving dinner this evening to an old school chum that nowadays has his own abacus on Threadneedle Street. You know, it baffles me why these coffers chaps get so excited over a few figures. They always turn out wrong anyway. Well, I suppose it keeps them busy. What are you like with figures? And I don’t mean the ones in bikinis on Ipanema Beach.’ He never gave me the chance to answer. With his growling laughter still sounding in my ear, he ended the call and was gone.
For a while, I stood on the balcony and thought about what Meriwether had said. I also took the opportunity to study Grace’s phone. Allowing for some differences, all immaterial ones, it was a K106. In the shade, the balcony was pleasant and the cooler air was soothing. I had considered tackling Meriwether over the information I received from Colonel Drummond but decided to wait for a better time. After taking a final look at the view across the garden and the car park, I put Grace’s phone in my pocket and slipped through the curtain. Back inside, my eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. The hotel room was empty. Grace and Snowy had gone.
Excellent, perhaps I had imagined them both: the composed, elegant and beautiful 1950s film star lookalike, and the worried, unhappy and unattractive albinism sufferer. After all, the Rio day was extremely hot, so perhaps I had sunstroke. Unfortunately, in the same way, that a sane person cannot know they are insane, I knew that Grace and Snowy were anything but creations of my imagination. I stared down the barrel of reality and considered the possibilities. The room’s key card was gone and whoever was last through the door had closed it. I made a quick inspection of the room. Nothing about it gave the impression of intruders or a struggle, and anyway, I had not heard anything from my position on the balcony, so it seemed they had left voluntarily. Where had they gone and why? One possibility was that they had gone to Grace’s room or simply gone for a walk together just as Grace had suggested, but if so why then leave without telling me.
Experience is the greatest teacher of all. I knew that conjecture had very limited benefits and other than helping with the consideration of
potential linear events, I was best to hurry past. Taking the decision of what to do next was an easy one. I would call Charlotte.
Uncertain about security made my rush to use Grace’s K106 to make the call to Charlotte more dawdle like. My second option was to use the room telephone either here or in my own suite. Again, as I had done earlier in the day I considered security. The only certain method for calling Charlotte without the possibility of a bug or a trace was to use a public telephone and my phone card. As I did not consider time a factor, I chose the surest option and headed for the plaza once more.
I made it as far as the boundary of reception when from my pocket I heard the ringing sound of Grace’s phone. I stopped and quickly moved to a more concealed position beside a plant and a pillar. I retrieved the phone from my pocket and checked the screen. The display was unhelpful and did not supply any information that I might use to identify the caller. I considered who it might be and then I answered the call. I listened for a second or two, but the caller did not speak and so I said,’ Hello.’
A female British voice asked, ‘Who is speaking, please?’ I recognised the voice immediately.
‘Charlotte,’ I said, ‘it’s me.’
‘Oh, it is you,’ she said. ‘I thought it was. Why are you answering Grace’s phone?’ Whether Charlotte had really recognised me from my one-word answer of “hello”, I was not sure. If not then she certainly sounded convincing, but then I knew her well enough to know she could easily convince most people of most things.
I left her question unanswered and instead asked, ‘Charlotte, do you know what’s going on?’