To start at the beginning of the story go here.
There’s something about knowing an ambush is waiting that changes a familiar landscape. Like a routine patrol where you see the same spots in the same city everyday, Simon’s had become familiar, but now it was as welcoming as a haunted house.
Expensive European cars crowding the narrow street outside of Simon’s cafe. Among them was a Mercedes SUV, black and built like a tank. They must have brought a lot of boys, which I took as a compliment. Two of them, wearing black leather jackets and smoking cigarettes, were on alert. The first one to spot me nodded to the other and they formed up, radiating a menace that was low wattage compared to Brick’s expert menace. I walked past without acknowledging them and the pair closed ranks behind me as I went inside.
There were half-a-dozen crowding the tables of the cafe, all moving to a slovenly attention as I entered. I looked for Simon. To my relief, he was sitting on one of his stools, elbow on the counter, its rows of espresso cups knocked out of order, some broken on the floor. He smiled at me from behind a raw steak he was holding against his left eye. Other than the piece of butchery he didn’t look any worse off. My chest expanded with relief even as I saw Brick stood next to him exuding his usual level of charm.
Whip rose to his full height in a burgundy suit. He was holding an espresso, saucer in one hand, cup in the other, pinky finger up, smiling as if he was glad to see me. I guess he was, just not in any friendly way.
His smile disappeared, though, when Pyotr, pointing at me with a tattooed hand, demanded, “Where’s my passport?”
I blinked, having forgotten about the document. “Is that what this is all about?”
Pyotr threw a punch into my gut. I didn’t dare defend myself, curling to take the blow. Before he could continue, though, Whip gave Pyotr a corrective order. I raised a plaintive hand. “Jesus Christ, I’ll find your fucking passport.”
Pyotr raised his fist again, causing Whip to practically bump his chest into Pyotr’s to reestablish dominance. The two glared at each other until Brick stepped closer. Whatever simian signals passed between them allowed Whip to dismiss Pyotr with a wave.
Setting his cup aside, Whip leaned forward to speak at me. “Mr. Mitnick wishes to see you.” He sounded very formal, like an engraved invitation from a Bond villain.
“I got that,” I exhaled, exaggerating the pain of the gut punch. Figuring it might be the last chance, I ignored everyone else and spoke to Simon. “I’m sorry about this.”
Between the steak and a brave face, Simon’s fear showed through the crack. “I am sorry as well.”
I was about to ask him what he had to be sorry for, but decided it was best to get the goon squad out of there. I prodded Whip with, “I guess you figured you needed more guys this time?”
Whip sneered and held the leash of his anger, gesturing to the vory. Two of them picked me up and hustled me into the Mercedes outside.
The drive out of town was beautiful, as always. I watched the scenery go by and kept my mouth shut. The road between the blue sea and into the green spring of the mountains might, after all, be the last pleasant thing I saw. I took it all in and breathed carefully and slowly, keeping anger at bay.
In the full light of day, the house’s white marble steps and fluted columns reminded me of a place of worship. Or sacrifice. I laid eyes on the statue of Athena and prayed that Sophie wouldn’t try a rescue.
Whip led us around the house, down a white stone walkway to a clearing with a square, raised platform, poles at its four corners, each connected by ropes. As I recognized what it was, dread sank in.
Mitnick was inside the boxing ring, tying the laces on a pair of sneakers. Seeing me, he stood tall, his teeth shining out from behind his beard. For the first time he wasn’t in a suit, but wearing red shorts and green top. For a man in his middle age, he cut an athletic figure, wide shoulders and long, muscular legs. He brought his bright white smile to me and said, “It is good to see you.”
“You could have just told me to come.”
“These are interesting times, my friend, and there is little time to waste. For instance, I feel like I barely know you. I hardly know your name.”
“You know I work for Atwell. And you know you’ve got Atwell on the dangle. What else do you need to know?”
“Ah, yes. Atwell. Has disappeared of late.” At least Atwell was smart enough to do that.
“I don’t typically see him face-to-face.”
“Quite right. Spycraft, like the KGB agents of old, with their hidden cameras and chases and disappearances.” Mitnick became misty as he dwelled on the Cold War. “But do you know what the most important thing is in espionage?”
“I wouldn’t know. I was a Marine.”
Mitnick ignored this and raised a taped fist with his index finger extended, indicating the one important thing. “To hide one’s intent.”
Mitnick finished taping up his hands and each twist ratcheting up my dread. “For instance, Sartre knows I wish to make friends in Old Town, that I have setup independent operations. If I had kept this hidden from him longer, perhaps we would not be here now.”
Whip pushed a pair of boxing gloves at me. I stared as if they were alien objects.
Mitnick continued. “I barely know you, therefore I do not know your intent.” I began to mutter some lie about money, getting paid, the usual American stereotypes, which Mitnick dismissed without really listening. “The best way to get to know a man is to fight him.”
“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. People don’t get to know each other through violence.”
Mitnick laughed. “You see? You surprise me. I did not know you were funny.” He gestured to Whip who handed me the gear. “Now put on your gloves.”
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To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read the author’s published work, go here.
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