I KILL

by Lex Lander

  A change of clothing, and the three of us went ashore for lunch, afterwards to explore the pastel-toned canyons of Cap d’Agde. Named after the promontory on which it sits, it is no more than a purpose built vacation factory growing, like others of its ilk in the littoral between the Camargue and Perpignan, faster than weeds in a wet climate. The buildings are Moorish in theme, each in harmony with its neighbour. Only the tourist hordes spoiled it and without them there would have been no town in the first place.

  By evening the wind had dropped. The clouds fled inland and a red and gold drape rang down on the day. Lizzy and I dined on the catch of the day at a restaurant in the harbour. Minus Alfredo, who had gone off in search of a game of pétanque.

  As we finished eating, a boy of about ten came in and went swiftly from table to table dishing out leaflets. TORO PISCINE shouted the blurb at the top.

  ‘I know what toro means,’ Lizzy said, ‘and isn’t piscine swimming pool?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Bulls swimming in a pool? It has to be some kind of circus. Let’s go and find out. It’s tonight.’ She pointed to the date.

  So, in the absence of other attractions, we did go and find out. It took place in an oval arena. No bullfighters and swords, just heifers with bossed horns, a dozen or so teenage youths, and, in the centre of the area, a plastic pool, about eighteen inches high.

  As we sat entranced by the antics, Lizzy clung to me in her excitement. My awareness of her was heightened in equal ratio to my diminishing awareness of the crowd, who faded to a homogeneous blur. Only the two of us remained: me and Lizzy. Close as lovers, yet far apart as two planets.

  The heifer was at full gallop, lunging and feinting at the fleeing figures. The crowd aaah-ed as a youth, striving to reach the pool, stumbled; then cheered when the heifer overshot, allowing the youth to scramble up and belly flop into the pool, which the heifer is supposed to shun. Only this baby hadn’t read the rules …

  Rules, convention, morality. The shackles that held me in check. If ever the links were to snap, only the gossamer veneer of self-restraint would stand between Lizzy and the beast that lurked inside me.

  My rendezvous with Giorgy was for 2pm on Sunday, outside the Voile d’Or Hotel, which looks out over the marina. It was essential to achievement of my objectives however, to hold our discussions in absolute seclusion. On board Seaspray, and at sea, would meet that requirement.

  Anticipating Giorgy’s refusal to rumple his ever-immaculate drapes by paddling out to Seaspray’s mooring in a dinghy, I had bribed an official of the Yacht Club d’Agde et du Cap to lease me a temporarily vacant berth in the marina, only a minute’s walk from the Voile d’Or. Now access to my boat was by the luxury of a gangplank, complete with handrail. Even Giorgy could not reasonably object.

  This party was not for such innocents as Lizzy and Alfredo. I packed them off ashore, impressing upon Alfredo in an aside, that he was not to leave Lizzy alone.

  ‘Not even when I must pee-pee, Señor André?’ he demurred, with a lipless, toothless grin.

  ‘Not even when you must shit-shit,’ I retorted, and the grit in my voice wiped away the smirk. ‘And I don’t care if you mess your pants. Just don’t …’ I prodded his flat, bony chest, ‘let her out of your sight. Entiendas, amigo?’

  ‘Si, Señor André.’

  Lizzy liked her banishment not at all, and was predictably earthy about it.

  ‘One of these days you’ll realise I’m not a kid to be sent out to play whenever you want to talk business. Business? Big fucking deal!’

  But this was the only wave she made, and when we parted company after lunch she pecked me on the cheek to show no hard feelings.

  ‘You brought your cell phone, didn’t you?’ I said.

  She patted her shoulder purse. ‘Never without it.’

  ‘See you back on board at six,’ I said, and unthinkingly patted her bottom. It was not sexually motivated, but she pivoted round and eyeballed me, a reflective smile tweaking her lips.

  I walked away fast, thrusting a passage through the vacationing multitudes to arrive before the Voile d’Or at two on the nose. Giorgy, there ahead of me, materialised from behind a rack of picture postcards. In dazzling white from collar to the soles of his shoes apart from a red handkerchief flopping from his top pocket like an open wound, and an anachronistic red cravat with white spots snuggling under his chin. Flicking a probably imaginary speck from a slender lapel. Always immaculate, no matter where or when.

  His handshake was less firm than usual. Cooler.

  ‘You are looking well,’ he commented unsmilingly.

  ‘You too. Younger than ever.’ I couldn’t resist the dig. He recognised it for what it was, and a shadow of resentment clouded his countenance.

  The press of humanity was forcing us under the awning of the postcard boutique. I fetched up against a beefy, wide-shouldered man. I apologised in French and he replied in drawling English: ‘That’s okay … André.’

  A frisson of alarm ran through me at this familiarity from a stranger. I gave ground, opening up space between us. Ready for combat.

  ‘Easy, André, easy.’ Giorgy murmured in my ear, also in English, in which he was fluent, but used only when he had to. ‘This is Baker. A colleague. Baker, say hello to André Warner.’

  Baker grinned broadly. ‘Hi, André.’ He was easily a couple of inches taller than me, six-three or four, and a whole lot wider. Fleshy-faced and with a blond stubble where most of us have hair. He was sweating copiously, not surprising in that unseasonably dark wool suit. But then a lightweight cloth is useless for smoothing the outline of a shoulder holster.

  I ignored him and the grin died. To Giorgy I said, ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘No idea at all, André. Baker and I have business in Toulouse tomorrow. We are travelling together.’ He shrugged, almost convincingly. ‘That is all.’

  My reflection in Giorgy’s sunglasses was strained. Baker was no more a mere travelling companion than I was here for a day out at the seaside.

  ‘Okay, so he’s not really a watchdog. But when we talk, we talk alone.’

  ‘No, André,’ Giorgy said gently. ‘Where I go, he goes, or this meeting is at an end. When a man like you asks to meet a man like me in search of information he must expect certain precautions to be taken. We do not play children’s games, you and I, hein?’

  I swallowed my resentment. For now, I couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

  ‘I’ve taken precautions too,’ I said. ‘To ensure we can’t be overheard. My boat is here, so we can have our little chat on board, out in the bay.’

  My tone was flat, as if Giorgy’s acceptance were a foregone conclusion. He frowned. Baker looked from him to me. Awaiting a directive.

  ‘It’s cooler out there,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, very well. How far is it to your boat?’

  ‘No distance at all.’

  We quit the protection of the awning, and hacked through the bovine masses, most of whom were going in the opposite direction. Seaspray’s anodized mast was easy to pick out. It reflected the sunlight, appearing to be sheathed in silver lamé.

  ‘That’s her,’ I said over my shoulder to Giorgy. His response was a grunt. Not a boat enthusiast, then.

  When, on arriving at the quayside, I invited him to step onto the gangplank he almost changed his mind.

  ‘I think perhaps this is not a good idea.’

  It was either stand firm or abort. I had nothing to lose.

  ‘Come on, Giorgy. Give a little. I’ve played ball with you, accepted your sidekick. This is for all our benefits.’

  He scowled, then waved Baker on ahead of him.

  ‘Check it out below,’ he ordered, and the goon, with a hard glance at me, moved past him and down the gangplank. I made to follow, but Giorgy’s outstretched arm barred me.

  ‘We wait, André.’

  Several minutes passed before Baker surfaced, red in the face (it would be sweltering down there), to give the al
l-clear.

  Giorgy grinned crookedly. ‘You are not offended, André? It is not that I mistrust you, you understand.’

  I shrugged and stood aside while he went aboard with nervous mincing steps. Baker was sprawled on a seat in the cockpit, cheeks puffed out, sapped by the punishing heat.

  ‘We’ll get under way,’ I said to him. ‘Once we’re clear of the harbour you’ll be able to take your jacket off.’

  This oblique reference to the hardware under his armpit drew a tight grin from him. No amount of tailoring can completely soften the bulge, even of the flattest automatic. Giorgy, who never went armed, had already removed his jacket and was fussily folding it. He wore red suspenders. Funny how you can know a guy for years and still not be acquainted with his sartorial idiosyncrasies. Down the back of his shirt a stripe of damp.

  I alone, in my cotton slacks, short-sleeved shirt, and the Panama hat I fetched from the cabin, was dressed for the conditions. I alone was wholly prepared for the next act. Baker didn’t worry me. He was a factor, that was all. In my mind he was already catered for.

  We puttered out of the harbour under diesel power, past the ranked yachts and cruisers and the artificial island with its citadel of apartment blocks. Somebody waved from a second floor balcony. I returned the salute, eased the wheel to port to take us through the harbour mouth. As we cleared the longer of the two jaws a pleasure boat, packed with tourists, went fussing by, tooting a warning, her wash smacking against Seaspray’s hull. We undulated merrily. Giorgy clutched at the jib winch, losing colour, of which he didn’t have much in the first place. Baker, on the other hand, lapped it up.

  ‘Swell tub, André. Ain’t been sailing since I was a kid.’

  ‘There’s beer in the fridge.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ Baker lifted his hulking frame from the seat. He was light on his feet considering the bulk he carried. ‘Boss?’

  Giorgy wanted only mineral water.

  ‘Beer for me,’ I said.

  The sea was, as I had prophesied, calm. Even beyond the shelter of the Cap, where a refreshing cat’s-paw of breeze sprang up to lick at us, the waters remained unruffled.

  ‘Gonna put some sail on her?’ Baker asked, as he ripped a beer can from a pack and handed it to me.

  ‘Not this trip. I don’t think your boss would appreciate it.’

  Giorgy swigged Perrier water straight from the bottle and made no comment. An island fortress, squat, crumbling, slid by to starboard.

  ‘This is far enough,’ Giorgy said. Some of his colour had returned, and he was no longer clinging to the fitments.

  It wasn’t far enough for me, but to press on would have been to precipitate a showdown. So I set the engine to idle, and switched the wheel onto Autohelm before going forward.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Giorgy called after me, still suspicious.

  I kept on going. ‘Dropping anchor.’

  I did too, only not as far as the sea bed. According to the chart the depth of the water here was over twelve feet. I paid out an estimated ten feet of cable and clamped it there. Ostensibly we were immobilised. In reality we would drift with the prevailing current. The breeze was from the north-east and would push us farther out to sea. Farther from witnesses.

  Baker was attacking his beer when I clambered back into the cockpit. Giorgy, watching me constantly, was occupying the seat over the sail locker, which didn’t fit my scheme of things at all.

  ‘Excuse me, Giorgy,’ I said. ‘Would you mind moving to the other side?’

  It was as painless as that. No song, no dance, he swapped from port to starboard. To justify the request I opened the locker lid and rummaged about among the sail bags, careful not to disturb the magnum revolver secreted there.

  ‘Lost something?’ Baker had come up behind me, stealthy as a cat burglar, and was breathing down my neck.

  ‘Anchor securing pin,’ I improvised. ‘Doesn’t seem to be here.’ I slammed down the lid before he could offer to help.

  He grunted.

  I yanked the metal ring off my beer can and guzzled sociably. ‘Take a look at that,’ I said, pointing towards a large, three-masted schooner crossing the horizon. ‘I’ll fetch the glasses.’

  With the Swarovski binoculars we took turns to watch the schooner’s regal progress along the skyline. Even Giorgy was stirred by it.

  ‘You don’t see many sights like that nowadays,’ I said with real regret, stuffing the binoculars back in their case.

  ‘You’re a romantic, André,’ Giorgy remarked, loosening his white silk cravat. ‘I never realised it. I wonder that you can sustain it, yet still do what you do. C’est une paradoxe.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said, not caring to be analyzed by him.

  ‘But come, we have spent long enough sailing your little boat, and making the small talk. Out here …’ He looked from left to right, ‘we are completely isolated, which suits us both. Let us discuss whatever it is you wish to discuss.’

  I considered insisting on Baker moving out of hearing range. The big American was on his third can of beer, periodically belching or jacking up a buttock to fart explosively. Giorgy showed distaste, but no inclination to reprimand. Maybe Baker was a bigger cog in the machine than his uncouth country-hick demeanour suggested.

  My querying eyebrow cocked in Baker’s direction brought a head-shake from Giorgy.

  ‘He stays,’ Giorgy said firmly, in French.

  So, no more delaying tactics.

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ I said, also in French, ‘about Rik de Bruin.’

  Giorgy had the poker player’s faculty for inscrutability. Baker, while possibly uncomprehending of the French, stiffened at the mention of de Bruin. He didn’t leave off guzzling though. Beer from the uptilted can trickled down his chin, forming an amber dewdrop on the underhang.

  ‘Before I do, if I do, you must tell me why you ask,’ Giorgy said heavily. ‘Be warned, André. De Bruin is a man with friends in high places.’

  ‘A friend of the Family, perhaps?’ I bantered.

  This punning reference to the Mafia likewise made no impression on Giorgy’s deadpan.

  ‘Rik de Bruin is an associate of the Syndicate and that is all.’

  I made a show of studying my beer can. ‘It’s not enough. And your coming here today proves something.’

  I hoped he didn’t ask me what it proved, because I had no idea.

  Baker had grown increasingly restive since the switch to French. Now he said roughly, ‘Stick to English, huh?’

  ‘Very well,’ Giorgy said, adding an apologetic shrug for my benefit. ‘Tell me,’ he said to me, ‘why you are interested. I will listen. But you place me in the position of a lawyer representing two opposing litigants.’

  ‘In case you ain’t gotten the message, Warner,’ Baker sneered, ‘de Bruin is a blue-eyed boy.’ He let loose a bark of laughter. ‘Hey, how do you like that? Blue-eyed de Bruin!’ Another bark. He slopped beer into the ever-open cavity in his face, choked, and regurgitated most of it over his own shoes. ‘Fuck!’ The can clattered onto the well deck and rolled towards me.

  Giorgy’s repugnance became more pronounced. He slid along the seat away from Baker.

  ‘Do not mind Baker,’ he said in French. ‘He is not used to mixing with civilised people.’

  ‘I told you to speak English,’ Baker growled, popping the seal on another beer. ‘You wanted me along on this caper, after all, Giorgy.’

  ‘Just do your job, that is all I ask.’

  Giorgy removed his cravat altogether and mopped his neck with it. He was beginning to look decidedly rumpled.

  ‘What is it between you and de Bruin, André?’

  An open speedboat, twin outboards howling, cut across our stern, ploughing a foaming furrow through the placid waters. Bronzed, bare-bosomed forms were draped along its hull like hunting trophies.

  ‘Well?’ Giorgy demanded.

  I told him.

  I told him about Clair and about Lizzy. About the kidnapping and the
killing and the subsequent assault on me. I told him about the threats, and about de Bruin’s appearance at the airport the day I left Tangier. Finally I told him that de Bruin was now in Andorra. A coincidence too far.

  And throughout the telling I sensed that none of this was news to Giorgy.

  Twenty-Two

  A wave, whipped up by a freak gust, smacked against the hull, and Seaspray rolled a degree or two with it. Giorgy clutched unnecessarily at the binnacle, and looked shoreward with longing.

  I grinned at him without humour. ‘Nothing to say, Giorgy?’

  ‘Only that your annoyance is understandable. How do you explain de Bruin’s behaviour?’

  ‘If I could explain it, I wouldn’t need you. But since you ask, I’ll give you my take on it. At first I thought he was just infatuated with Clair. Obviously it wasn’t that straightforward. Nobody in his right senses kidnaps a person out of infatuation. On top of which the bastard is still hounding me, so I finally came to the conclusion it’s the daughter he’s after. The mother just got scooped up in the trawl.’

  ‘You can’t be certain it was de Bruin who kidnapped this woman friend of yours.’

  ‘Maybe it was one o’ them sheiks,’ Baker sniggered. ‘Collecting concubines or whatever they call ’em.’

  Giorgy flipped him a bleak glance. To me, he said, ‘If de Bruin was attracted to the woman, but had nothing to do with the kidnapping, it is possible … I say, possible … he believes she is living with you.’

  ‘I can’t accept that. Even if she were, would he really go so far as to abduct her?’

  ‘But her daughter is living with you – correct?’

  I hadn’t mentioned it.

  ‘How do you know?’

  He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat.

  ‘We know. That is enough. Do not worry, my friend …’ He reached over and patted my knee, ‘we will not broadcast your … affair. Your little foibles do not interest us.’

  I came up off the seat. ‘Now listen, Giorgy …’