‘So you never knew about his background?’ Arnold could not keep the doubt out of his tone.
She shrugged. ‘You have told me things I did not know. We did not know. I had suspicions of course, was aware that he was not born a Spaniard, recognized a certain slipperiness about him, and
now I am not surprised, looking back, by the events you have described. Señor Pedro Zamora was a character difficult to pin down, it seems, a Janus with two heads. It would have been quite interesting, I think, for me to have got to know him better …’ Her smile was hard-edged. ‘Then again, perhaps it was better that he never got close to me and Antonio. We hardly missed him, after he disappeared.’
‘When did he die?’ Arnold asked.
‘I have no idea.’
‘Was it in Spain?’
‘You do not seem to understand, Mr Landon. I … we never knew. One day he was there, albeit intermittently, and then he was gone. Permanently.’
‘What about his business?’
‘It was closed down. My mother received some money from the sale, but not a great deal.’
‘How did you manage as a family afterwards?’
‘Oh, do not get me wrong. To some extent, he recognized his family responsibilities.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Bank accounts in the name of my mother, myself and Antonio. A trust fund to pay for our education … My father did not leave us entirely
unprovided
for. Antonio, of course, wasted his inheritance; I did not. No, he left us provided for, but was never there in the flesh as we grew up, and my mother found his absence hard to bear. She slowly pined away. Sad story, is it not?’
‘But he can’t just have disappeared,’ Arnold protested. ‘Your mother must have made enquiries….’
‘There was another woman,’ the lawyer announced bluntly.
There was a short silence. The lawyer’s eyes held Arnold’s: there was a strange sort of challenge in them. He wondered what her own history would have been, widowed at an early age, perhaps contemptuous of men, making her own way in the legal corporate world. Perhaps she had taken a lover in her
widowhood
. He doubted it.
‘You mean he had a mistress, here in Spain?’ Arnold asked.
Maria Dolores Gonzales shrugged indifferently. ‘More than just a mistress, as far as I remember. Another home; another woman; another child. I suspect he might have deserted them, too. My mother seemed to know few details, and she never discussed them with us. But … well, after my own husband died I fear I became a little curious and made a few enquiries. It wasn’t easy. All I was able to discover was that he had left Spain, probably gone to England, the land of his birth. But there was little certainty. And from what you have disclosed to me, and the fact that he was sufficiently wealthy to be able to provide for the ones he had left behind, I suppose it’s quite possible he took with him the remains of whatever loot he had brought with him from Moscow. It would have been in character, do you not suppose?’ She grimaced. ‘Odd, if one thinks about it. A man accepting his family responsibilities, while also walking away from them.’
‘Perhaps it had become necessary.’
‘To disappear again? How do you mean?’
Arnold hesitated. ‘Your father, when he fled from Moscow, had left enemies. One of them at least never gave up the search for the man he knew in Moscow as the Englishman called Stoneleigh.’
The lawyer raised her sculpted eyebrows interrogatively. ‘You mean my father had been traced to Madrid by his enemies?’
Arnold nodded. ‘Eventually. The trail led to your brother.’
There was a certain electricity in the following silence. Maria Dolores Gonzales had a sharp mind and a suspicious nature. She glared at him stony-faced, but he knew her mind would be working furiously. At last, in a glacial tone, she observed, ‘Enemies … My brother died in a hit-and-run accident. Are you implying it was not an accident?’
Arnold hesitated. ‘The police will be continuing the
investigation
into his death. But … well, there is the possibility that it was
no accident. A man in the States, an old enemy, has implied that an old score has been settled.’
‘And old score … against my father?’ She frowned, putting the pieces of the half-seen jigsaw in place. ‘My brother was paying for the sins of our father?’
Reluctantly, Arnold said, ‘It’s a possibility.’
‘The sins must have been … extreme.’ She paused, holding his gaze. ‘You know who this enemy is, in the States?’
‘He is dying.’
‘And Antonio Zamora is dead. Where does that leave me?’
Uncomfortably aware that he was treading on uncertain ground, Arnold replied, ‘I have to stress what I’ve said is
unconfirmed
. The link between your brother’s death and your father’s enemy in the States is tenuous. I doubt we’ll ever learn the truth about it. But one thing I can say: your father’s enemy stated he would be satisfied with one death in revenge. I don’t think you need to be overly concerned.’
It was a fatuous thing to say. Maria Dolores Gonzales smiled ironically, raising a cynical eyebrow. ‘It is a relief to have such assurances. Still, I think I will take all suitable precautions before stepping into the road in future.’ Her gaze hardened. ‘I imagine there is no further information you can provide me … other than these guarded comments.’
Arnold shrugged helplessly. He felt he had moved into
difficult
territory.
After a few moments, she rose to her feet. ‘Since there is nothing more I can tell you about my father, I presume we need continue this conversation no longer.’
Arnold rose awkwardly. ‘I’m grateful for what you’ve been able to tell me. One more thing, however…’
‘I know nothing more about my father.’
‘It concerns your brother. You say he was a small-time crook. We know he’s been dealing in artefacts of doubtful provenance … he, or the men who will have employed him. But I’ve been to
the house where he stored his artefacts. I can agree with you, when I tell you much of what he dealt in was basically low value rubbish. But there was one item there which is of considerable interest to us.’
‘What would that be, Mr Landon?’
‘A statuette. Of some antiquity. A likeness of Artemis.’
There was a short silence. ‘You have found it among my brother’s possessions?’
Arnold nodded. ‘We think it could be of considerable value. It may be your brother was intending to sell it.’
Slowly, Maria Dolores Gonzales shook her head. Her smile was hard-edged. ‘That may well have been the case, but
considerable
value? The Artemis statuette, I remember it. My father made a gift of it to my mother when I was still quite a young child. Knowing what we both know of my father, do you really believe it has value? I am not a gambler, Mr Landon, but I would bet significant sums on the premise that the statuette you’ve found is a fake.’
Arnold opened his mouth to reply, but the words died. There was a sudden shakiness in the lawyer’s tone. It was as though the past had suddenly come flooding back into her mind and her emotions. He stood there awkwardly, facing the successful lawyer. Something changed in the woman he was facing: he was suddenly aware of the person behind the mask of certainty and composure.
Maria Dolores Gonzales was staring at him, but he felt she was not seeing him. Then, reflectively, quietly, she murmured in a low tone, ‘It was all so long ago.’
There was an odd break in her voice. Her eyes were
glistening
. As he turned, wordlessly, and headed for the door he realized she was on the verge of tears.
The tears born of an almost forgotten experience; the tears of an abandoned child.
S
AM
B
YRNE
WAS
ill at ease.
It was nothing he could put his finger on, but he had always trusted his instincts. He was beginning to feel ever more strongly that coming back into the game had been a mistake. He had not needed the money. But he realized deep down that he was not the man he had been; he suspected his old discipline had failed him, he had made many mistakes, been too lax since his return. And now there was nothing physical he could point to, but his senses were prickly, he could not escape the feeling that the net was closing in on him, and it was time he faded again into the background, went to earth, for good this time. It was not a matter of money. He had been paid, his accounts were safe. Time to get out.
Yet, even as he felt ill at ease, there was also a quickening curiosity affecting him. There was another contract offered. And it carried old reflections. It was not a contract he was required to carry out alone.
It meant entering a partnership for only the second time in his career: with the man who had been with him in Kuala Lumpur, fifteen years ago.
The hits in the garden of the Shangri La Hotel had been professional and lucrative and he had been impressed by his companion’s efficiency and professionalism. The targets had been left near the fountain in a lovers’ embrace: the strikes had been beautifully co-ordinated, neat bullet holes in the forehead.
The two hitmen had left the hotel immediately: the one to relax in a beach hotel on Pulau Langkawi, the other to attend an apparently legitimate business meeting in Singapore. He had never known the real name of the other contractor, just as he had not divulged to his partner his own identity. They had only their identifying tags: Iceman, and Auroch.
He knew why he was known as Iceman: it was a reflection of his coolness under pressure, his cold completion of the tasks for which he had been contracted. Auroch: that was different. The man he had known fifteen years ago had been heavy-shouldered, bull-necked, powerful. He wondered now how much that man might have changed.
He had been given a meeting place for this new contract. Sam Byrne had surveyed the location thoroughly. He was not, at this stage in his revived career, prepared to step blindly into a killing zone. It had seemed to be clean, with no serious problems. A café in a side street from which there were three possible escape routes. No hidden alcoves, no shadowed doorways. No
possibility
of being overlooked from rooftops. No obvious blind alleys where a man could die.
And he was curious. The contract apparently called for two professionals. That was unusual. But it meant the opportunity to work with one of the best. Auroch. One last time, before Sam Byrne faded, and got out again, now that he had proved he was still on top of his game.
He waited for the appointed time.
He placed himself in the main square, half hidden by the shading trees. It was late afternoon and the small town in the foothills of the Pyrenees was just beginning to wake up after its afternoon doze. As far as he could see there was no unusual presence, no men with watchful eyes behind newspapers, no aimless loiterers, nor tattered beggars who somehow seemed out of place. He had observed the comings and goings carefully, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the lazy heat of the
afternoon.
And yet he felt uneasy. He was tempted to walk away, trust an instinct that had long been dormant, but his curiosity was strong and it held him there. And he also recalled the
adrenalin
rush he had experienced during the killing at the villa on the hillside. He had not felt so alive for many years.
Even so, after this he needed to get back into the underbrush, live a quiet existence, bored maybe, but alive.
Two minutes before the appointed time he rose and strolled into the side street, towards the café. He saw the Auroch
immediately
.
The broad-shouldered American was seated at a table outside the café. He was sprawled in his chair, his long legs crossed at the ankle, both hands on the table, a glass of red wine placed near his right hand. He was casually dressed in a loose shirt and jeans. He wore dark sunglasses. He had aged, of course: it had been fifteen years, after all. But there was still power in those shoulders, a casual strength in his body, and his eyes would still be hard, Sam Byrne guessed.
Auroch made no attempt to rise as Sam Byrne approached. But he smiled. It seemed genuine, but Auroch had always been able to demonstrate pleasure in his features. Even as he had killed.
There were no other people in the side street; an elderly man was seated inside the cool café, a
pastis
in front of him. The man behind the bar was staring at a television set mounted on the far wall. He was concentrating on the recording of a rugby match in which the blue jerseys of France seemed dominant, and he clearly expected few customers at this time of day. The match had been played a week earlier: the café may well have been full, then.
Sam Byrne took the empty chair facing the American, noting the shabby briefcase that lay on the floor beside the man’s right leg. He did not extend his hand. He merely nodded.
‘Auroch,’ he said quietly.
‘Iceman,’ the American contract killer acknowledged, still smiling.
‘You’re looking good.’
‘Business keeps me fit.’ The American eyed his companion quizzically. ‘And you … what is it, fifteen years? I’m surprised your name came up when I got the call. Word on the street was that you’d retired.’
Byrne shrugged, looked back to the main street. ‘In our
business
, maybe one never retires.’
‘
One
. I like the way you Limeys talk.’ The American smiled again. ‘But then, you came from the officer class, ain’t that so?’
‘I don’t think we’re here to talk about history. Indeed, I’m not certain what we
are
here for.’
‘You were told there was a contract.’
‘A two-hander. Unusual. But I’m here. At least to find out what it’s all about.’
The American grimaced. ‘You know that’s not the way it works. I need to know if you’re in. Only then can we talk details. So … are you in?’
Sam Byrne hesitated. The advance had already been deposited in his account: he had checked that morning. He nodded. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
The American stared at him curiously. ‘For one last gig, maybe … You want a drink?’
Byrne shook his head, glanced about him. All seemed quiet, normal, peaceful. ‘I’d rather we got down to business.’
Auroch nodded. He picked up his glass, finished off the red wine. It would have been the only glass he would have taken this afternoon: the man had never overindulged in alcohol. ‘We need privacy for our discussion. I have a room at a small hotel, a few hundred yards from here.’
‘No.’ The hairs had prickled on the back of Sam Byrne’s neck. He was not prepared to take any chances, not after fifteen years. He had made enough mistakes recently: the thought still niggle
at him. ‘No, I’ve rented a flat. Across the square. We can talk there.’
The American smiled wryly. When Byrne pointed it out, he nodded his acquiescence. ‘I’ll watch you go. Then I’ll follow.’
‘First floor,’ Sam Byrne stated and rose. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
It was a precaution, and Auroch knew it. It was the American who had been given the details of the contract and he could have cavilled at Byrne’s insistence on the security of his own place. But he was clearly relaxed about it.
Sam Byrne left the café table and walked out of the shady side street to cross the square. He did not look back. He entered the shabby entrance of the block of flats where he had rented rooms and took the stairs to the first floor. When he entered the room he crossed quickly to the window and glanced across to the side street. He could see Auroch. He was just rising from the table, leaving payment beside the wineglass. Byrne hesitated, then opened the drawer of the bureau in the corner of the room, took out the Glock 19 millimetre pistol, then crossed to the worn settee that stood against the peeling wall. He placed the pistol against the arm of the settee, covered it with a torn cushion and sat down.
There was no point in taking any chances.
He waited. He had left the door to the flat open. After a few minutes he heard a heavy step on the stair. Auroch was making no attempt to tread softly. It was a good sign, and a little knot of tension in Byrne’s stomach began to relax.
‘The door’s open,’ he called out.
The big American appeared in the doorway, briefcase in hand. He looked about him, took in the shabby nature of the room, the peeling wallpaper, the worn furniture. ‘Short lease, I hope.’
‘It’ll do for the moment.’ He had no intention of staying there, of course, once they had concluded their discussion.
Auroch took a chair beside the cheap deal dining-table and slid the briefcase on the worn wood. He settled back comfortably and nodded. ‘Your money is in?’
‘This morning. But I understand you have the necessary details of the hit.’
‘I have. But we need to talk our way through how it’s to be done. I’ll come to that in a moment. But first, I guess you’ll want to know more about the target. I’ve got a photograph.’ He leaned forward, unzipped the briefcase. He took out a manila envelope, placed it on the table in front of the briefcase.
Sam Byrne hesitated. The Glock nestled against his left elbow, but it had only been a precaution. He got up, walked to the table, picked up the envelope. He glanced at Auroch who was smiling at him, then tore open the envelope. He put his fingers inside to draw out the glossy photograph it contained and then everything seemed to happen in a flash. The photograph was half drawn from the envelope, he caught a glimpse of a hairline and eyes,
recognized
them as his own and knew immediately what he had to do. Auroch’s right hand was already inside the briefcase as Byrne kicked over the table and launched himself at the American.
Auroch went backwards, sunglasses flying, his chair skidding under him on the skimpy rug that covered the floor. The
briefcase
went hurtling sideways but his hand still grasped what he had been taking out. Sam Byrne recognized it immediately, a Smith & Wesson 9 millimetre semi-automatic, as he crashed into the table, landing on the big American, grabbing for the hand that held the pistol. There was no time to get back to the settee and retrieve the Glock and, as his hand fastened on the American’s right wrist and they fell in a tangle of limbs, the edge of the table caught him in the stomach and he gasped with pain. But he was on top of the big American, one restraining hand on his wrist, his elbow grinding into the man’s throat.
The blow took him at the side of his eye and he felt his senses spinning. Their bodies were locked, he did not dare release his grip, and they flailed around on the floor violently. The American was younger, stronger, and held the gun but Byrne was desperate and had been trained in hand-to-hand combat.
Years ago. That was the problem. As he tried to crush Auroch’s throat with his elbow, scrabbled for the man’s eyes and drove his knee into the American’s groin he felt another crashing blow to the side of his head. He was dizzied, but the thought returned again. He should not have come back; he had not needed to come out of a comfortable retirement; it had been a mistake to try to test himself again in the field. The thoughts whirled through his skull as he fought to control the bucking body of the man beneath him, and strained to keep the pistol away from his head.
They struggled silently, apart from the harsh breathing that tore in their throats. They were chest to chest and Byrne could see the cold glare in his attacker’s grey, wide-staring eyes. There was no smile now, just a rictus, a set grimace as they fought each other for control. He wanted to ask questions, determine why it was his photograph that had been in the envelope, find out why he was the subject of the contract, but he had to concentrate on the inexorable pressure, the coiled tension of their locked arms, the slow feeling that as his muscles screamed in silent protest, he knew the strength of the American was greater than his.
His senses reeled as another blow took him beside the ear. He twisted, tried to roll, get his knee on the man’s lower body but Auroch kept up the unremitting pressure on Byrne’s left hand. Slowly, deliberately he was forcing Byrne’s grip sideways and the muzzle of the pistol was gradually moving, turning to bear on Sam Byrne’s skull.
In the square outside someone was calling to a woman and the words seemed to reverberate meaninglessly in Byrne’s head. A car drove past, and he was aware of the sour smell of sweat in his nostrils as he struggled to preserve his life. He remembered the old days, the knife he had been accustomed to carry, but those days were gone. He was flabbier, more careless: he had allowed pride and curiosity to lower his guard. He became aware that the coldness of Auroch’s eyes had been replaced by a
glint of triumph, a certainty, and he felt the touch of steel against his cheek. The American’s teeth were exposed, drawn back in a grimace, a parody of a smile and time seemed suddenly to stand still for Sam Byrne. There were no memories flooding in; no recall of days past. There was only the certainty that he was about to die.
A groan burst from his lips as the pressure against his cheek increased inexorably. ‘Why?’ he ground out.
The American’s eyes were implacable. His chest was heaving with the effort, but he whispered the words. ‘Nothing personal,
old man
,’ he mocked.
Sam Byrne turned his head, his eyes wide with the kind of fear he had seen in so many others in the past. The muzzle of the semi-automatic that almost caressed his cheek carried a silencer.
‘Nothing personal,’ Auroch whispered again. ‘It’s just
business
.’
Then Sam Byrne’s brain was turned to mush as the bullet tore into his skull and he never consciously experienced the expanding silence in the room. The silence was broken only by the harsh breathing of the American as he lay recovering, with the relaxing corpse of his target sprawled in an ungainly heap across his bloodied chest.