Ded Reckoning (23 page)

"Not really."

The gentleman smiles, nods his head toward the door, and extends his hand in that direction as well.  "Pleasure.  Have an agreeable day.  What's left of it. I'll be back to me tea.    Cheers."

Hunter and Dee half-smile and leave.  She murmurs, "Madam, my ass."  Glances over her shoulder, hisses, "Ta, Ta, arsehole."  Hunter grasps her elbow and hurries Dee along.

Once outside they look about, see nothing suspicious and move down the block to Brewster, then quickly to Old Bond Street.  Hunter hails a passing taxi.   Asks to be taken to St. Martin's Theatre.  There they stride energetically several blocks to the tube station at Covent Gardens.  Take the underground back to Green Street and stroll separately the four or five blocks to Jermyn and The Cavendish Hotel where they join forces again having not spotted anyone tailing them.  As they amble through the hotel's lobby, Hunter whispers, "My paddy instincts tell me eyes are on us."  

Inside their room Hunter immediately takes what he needs to the loo, showers and dresses.  When finished he tells Dee that while she's getting ready, he's heading to the lobby for a drink and will wait for her in the bar.  She agrees, adding, "Have mine ready, please."

Hunter nods and leaves, each have unwittingly satisfied a need of the other.  Such is deceit.  It is what it is.  

He takes the fire stairs to the bottom floor, and leaves through a back entrance into the mew and hurries to the nearest of two cigar shops in the Regents Park area.  The first yields nothing.  At the second he finds that a Robert Camack of Cork Street has been ordering special cigars for years.  The brand name,
Joya De Nicaragua,
in particular the
Antano
.  The wrapper is identical to the one Hunter found in the hearth at the flat.  Several questions provide little else of value except being shown a receipt signed by Camack from the last order in June of this year.  The owner has no other addresses nor forwarding information.  Hunter rushes back to the hotel.  Selects a seat at the open-end of the bar, orders two scotches, neat, and sits surveying the lobby.

He spots a set of eyes and is relieved to some extent knowing his paddy instincts are       alive and well.  The man is reading a newspaper, legs crossed, ankle over knee, and occasionally turning a page with a glance around the lobby along with a fleeting peek at Hunter.

Another sip of the scotch and Hunter detects a second set of eyes.  These entering the hotel.  The woman glances quickly at the first set of eyes then moves to the far corner of this ornate lobby.  She sits.  Orders.  Minutes later a pot of tea, cup with saucer, and a small plate of powdered sugared sweets are served by a proper looking uniformed gent.

Hunter sips his scotch, catches the eye of the woman and nods with a contemptuous smile.  Turns his head quickly and holds the eye of the young man reading the paper.  Nods.  Then glances back to the woman.  

Black hair, dark eyes, tan complexion.  Fine-looking honey.  Mid-thirties.  
He notes her long legs, crossed lady-like with a foot bouncing nervously.  

Their eyes meet again over Hunter's glass as he takes another sip of scotch.  He tips his glass.  
Israeli's.  The Stassi don't have any woman that sexy.  If they did it would be a Warm War.
 

 

 

As soon as Hunter leaves, Dee streaks to the room door, steals a look out the door peep hole, then presses her ear to the door.  Opens the door and peeks out into the hallway.  Confident he's gone, she scurries to the telephone, dials a number, and drums her fingers on the small desk top, waiting.  Hears the ring.  And a second time.  A third, then.

"Hello."

After a momentary pause she says, "It's me.  We've changed hotels.  We're at The Cavendish St. James, I believe it's called. "

"Why?  Is he suspicious of something?"

"Don't know.  Although he believes he's being followed."

The voice on the other end says, "He is."

Dee pauses.  Then, "That means me as well."

"Yes, but they will stick to him.  Or if they lose him for some reason, follow you back to him.  Either way, we win."

Dee hesitates, "Why am I here?"  Then,   "Never mind.  We went to the flat.  Nothing.  We're leaving tomorrow for Geneva, then Pisa via Rome.  At least that's the plan."

"Good, okay.  Listen, this is a quick update.  O'Rourke is dead.  Shanahan is dead.  No one knows who.  Well, I know, of course.  And people who need to know, will know.  The Irish will be looking for Kerrigan 'jolly' soon."

"He's not using that name."

"What name now?"

"Hansford."

"Okay.  Sure, that figures.  Anyway, I'm pretty sure I know all the ID's he'll use and I'll get them known.  He won't use any twice that's for sure.  But, keep me informed each time he changes nonetheless.  Let me know ahead of time if you can.  And be careful."

"I will.  Are you okay?"

"Fine." A pause, then in a hushed tone,   "Cover your pretty ass."

She too pauses, then also whispers as if someone is listening, "I wish you would."

There is no sound for several seconds, then, "I will, soon."  Click

Dee stands holding the receiver.  After a few seconds she places it back in its cradle.  Saunters to the closet.  Disrobes deliberately.  Naked as she steps out of her panties, she gazes at herself in the full length closet door mirror and mutters, "How could anyone not want this?"   Turns, takes another look over her shoulder at her butt, whispers, "Nice.  Still tight," and wiggles to the loo to prepare the bitch, Lady Sally Hansford, for the staff of the restaurant.

After an obligatory amount of time for a proper Lady to prime, Sally Hansford arrives at the lobby bar to collect her drink and husband, Ian, exactly in that order.  After finishing the drinks Ian and Sally Hansford drift to the hotel's restaurant under the watchful yet obviously uncomfortable eyes of the Israeli couple, now together, sipping tea.  Dee and Hunter wait to be seated, and order two more scotches after another short delay.  When the drinks arrive after a bit of a time lag, Lady Hansford complains of the service.  Too long to be seated; too long to take the order; and too long to wait.  She makes a scene, her voice becoming more shrill with each complaint.  For her finale she takes the napkin from her lap and slings it at the frustrated and defenseless waiter.  She stands, hands on hips, toe tapping, glaring at Ian.  He shrugs, fumbles with his pocket and places the exact amount between the untouched drinks under the lady's watchful eye.  Sally Hansford, in a huff, prances out, pleased with herself.  Ian glances at her, and as he steps away he drops two one-hundred pound notes on the table.  He looks about and trails meekly behind his wife.

The waiter mumbles, "Ruddy bitch." and after a darting glance around, furtively pockets the bills.

Outside, Hunter turns to the doorman; however, Dee is already off the curb and on the street.  He hastens to the curb and hails a taxi for the two of them.  Inside, he gives the cabbie the only direction he needs, "Annabel's."  It's a fashionable and popular restaurant, bar and hangout in Berkeley Square.  After several minutes, Hunter is not astounded to see they have a tail.  In fact, two.  Working in singles and no doubt the two from the lobby.  
Israelis can be good but these two might get momentarily enamored with Annabel's and get careless again.  
 

Hunter laughs softly at his thoughts.

Dee says, "What?"

"We're being followed.  Don't look back now or when we get there.  Just hang on my arm and drool."

"I'm not allowed to drool."

"Figuratively you do around me all the time."

She hisses softly thus the cabbie can't hear.  "You're an egotistical bastard."

"Play nice."

They arrive at Annabel's on Berkeley Square.  As soon as they enter, Hunter whispers to the hostess and presses a wad of cash into her hand.  He whispers in her ear again.  She smiles. Gives Hunter's hand a playful squeeze and leads them through the crowded room, past the loos and to a side entrance.  Hunter whispers to her again, kisses her on the cheek.  Her smile is warmer and returns the peck on the cheek and says, "Anytime, killer."

Dee scowls at the woman but says nothing.

Hunter and Dee hasten along Hill Street. He whistles down a passing taxi.  Hunter directs this one to Cecconis, a restaurant in the Mayfair District.  It's a place to see, and be seen, by those in the rarefied social atmosphere of the city.  Those not stratospheric go unnoticed although in this venue it's possible to be thought as somebody.  One would think it's not a place to hide, but then again, it is.  People on the run would more likely adorn a pub stool.

At a table inside sipping what he prefers, an apricot brandy, Hunter is sure the tail has been waggled free.  He is also positive they'll encounter them again.   Most likely at The Cavendish which prompts Hunter to devise an alternate plan.

Dee is nursing another scotch, neat, having taken to the Lady's taste, when Hunter asks, "Sally, my darling.  Do you have all your ID's in your purse?"

"Yes, why?"

"Good.  We'll finish these and leave."

 

 

Rocco and Adrianna enjoy a serene evening before ordering.  They sip more than one glass of wine on the hotel's restaurant patio that overlooks Rapallo and the sea beyond.  They finally order and take pleasure in a Caesar Salad made at tableside, then both have freshly caught Alletterato, Bonita for dinner, with a mixture of fresh sautéed vegetables and buttered pasta.  When the meal is over he sips brandy and she Limoncello until darkness intimidates this seaside resort town.  Rocco decides to forego the walk to and from the Bar Pasticerrcia Salza for their dessert.  Adrianna doesn't resist.  She is anxious for more love-making.  An art form for her, and besides she is aware of Rocco's growing restlessness.  

Rocco is anxious to return to the room.  For the first time he has become aware of a particular young couple in the restaurant, pretending to dote on one another but not able to act as if watching Rocco and his lady without pretext.

He and Adrianna nonchalantly leave the restaurant but stride urgently to their room.  At the door, he tells her to go inside, pack everything.  His and hers.  Adds, "Don't ask me any questions.  Do it, now.  And, wait here.  Make no calls.  I will be back."

Adrianna nods.  She is a woman in love, but not a fool.  She has known Rocco a long time and is aware of his menacing circle of friends.  Neither he nor his associates are keen on questions.

Rocco takes the elevator to the lobby.  Sits at the bar, orders a brandy, lights and smokes a cigar which the barkeep offers only to special guests of the hotel.  He has another drink, pays the tab leaving the man a generous tip, and strolls outside.  He stands beneath the broad awning over the entrance.  More a canopy. He inhales the fresh sea air feigning to relax and benefit from the joy of a typical Rapallo evening in August.  He draws on his cigar, watches the smoke twirl and dissipate quickly while he's rocking back and forth on his heels.  Drops the half-smoked butt, crushes it with his foot.  He takes a step to the side and speaks to the valet who listens intently, nodding his head.  It is an intense conversation.  Rocco presses money into the valet's palm, then strides to the side of the hotel.  At the corner of the building he darts into the now pitch-black, cobblestone alleyway.  Ducks into a shadowed architectural crevice and waits for his prey as still and quiet as a leopard in tall grass.

The Israeli, Reis, opts to follow Rocco.  He tells Marnee to remain behind but move to a corner of the lobby where she can see both the entrance and the elevators.

 Marnee complains, "We should stay together.  Act as a team.  Not separate.  Remember our rule."

"Something is up.  You watch for her.  I will follow him."  Reis adds, "And I'm not unarmed".

She stares at Reis.  
And
I am a Jewish girl.  
She says instead, "And?"

"He is not leaving but is up to something.  Either way, he won't leave her behind but she is involved in some manner."

"I still think I should go with you.  Work in tandem."

"No."

"It will be as you say.  You are the leader."

Marnee retreats further into the lobby, finds a corner and attempts to blend with a tall billowing potted plant.

Reis watches the front entrance but able only to see the left shoulder and arm of Rocco.  When he sees Rocco move off, Reis waits for several moments and strolls outside, feigning wanting a breath of fresh air.  He stops under the canopy.  Not seeing Rocco, he inches forward in the only direction Rocco could have gone.  Toward the alley.  Looks, sees nothing.  Glances around at other options.  There are none.  The Israeli steps into the alley, unfastens his jacket button.  Reaches back and checks his weapon in the back waist of his trousers.  He carefully jiggles the Walther.  It's awkward with its silencer on, but finds no tangles.  Ensures the safety is off.

After several steps, still not seeing anything other than tar-like blackness and yet darker shadows, he continues to creep deeper into the alley.  He eases his weapon from his waist.  Not wanting to frighten anyone should a worker suddenly appear in the alley, he holds the weapon in one hand, tightly alongside of this leg.  

He continues to inch along.  
Should have brought a Jewish girl.
 

Rocco reaches out from the shadowed crevice in the wall, hand over Reis' mouth, snatches and spins Reis into the building's side.  Reis' nose splatters as it hits the coarse surface of the stone wall.  The Walther drops from his hand.  Rocco slams the Israeli's face into the wall again and again.  The third time Reis crumbles to the alleyway cobblestones.  Rocco stoops down and grabs the Walther and fires.  
Pfsssst.  Pfsssst.
  Reis' face explodes as the rounds exit.  Bone, blood and flesh splatters mix with the grit and grime of the unattended passage.