Will he be more upset that I killed his wife, or his dog, Conrad wondered.  He slouched back into the chair, exhaling as though from exhaustion, and smiled at Persakis.  The fat Greek was sitting across the small table, in a matching high-backed leather chair, his face dimly lit by the standard lamps on either side of the fireplace, and by the fire.  Persakis smiled paternally back at him.  He didn’t know about his wife, not yet.  It couldn’t be long though, the body wasn’t well hidden.  It might be found within hours, but certainly no more than a few days, and when it was found Persakis would know, or at least suspect, that Conrad had been the killer.  And suspicion was enough for Persakis, he didn’t need proof.  He would kill on the strength of his intuition.  But he didn’t know yet, and instead he sat in his chair, smiling benignly and raised his glass, making a tipping motion. 

“Well Conrad, you have surprised me, once again,” he rumbled, in the contented tone that he usually affected.  Conrad raised his glass and took a sip of the scotch, Laphroag.  Conrad’s throat tensed as the malt went down, feeling like it was taking a layer of skin with it.  It was like an over-firm handshake, a demonstration of Persakis’s machismo, Conrad thought.   A reasonable man would have Glenmorangie.  A reasonable man who had nothing to prove.

“Really Persakis, how many times do you think I must surprise you, before you cease to be surprised?”  Persakis smiled at him.  His eyes had a glazed look, almost like senility.  He was old, of course.  Fifty seven, Conrad remembered from the files.  But experience could stand in for sharpness of mind, and was better, in many ways.  Persakis could recognise a double-crossing bastard because he had come across so many in his career, he didn’t need to puzzle it out carefully, as someone younger might.

“The usual sum?” Persakis asked, and standing up with a grunt he pulled a folded blue tien guilder note from the small pocket in his waistcoat.  He straightened the note and folded it slightly down its length, then handed it to Conrad, who remained seated.  Persakis sat back down with another grunt. 

“Can’t be many of these left,” Conrad said, smiling at Persakis and fingering the note before slipping it into the outside pocket of his jacket.

“No, I suppose not,” agreed the Greek, “although I kept a few back, before the Euro, for these little wagers of ours.”  He smiled at Conrad.

“Yes, well… there might not be too many more.  I need to keep a low profile.  I am, after all, a respectable… civil servant these days.”  Persakis laughed, a hearty, genuine laugh.  Not the sort of chuckle he usually forced out.

Persakis took a sip of his scotch and then drew on his cigar, and Conrad copied him, looking at the end of the cigar first and turning it in his fingers, to ensure it burned evenly.  Romeo y Julieta, when Conrad would have preferred Montecristo.  Most people did, didn’t they.  No doubt Persakis would have thought Montecristo too obvious a choice, even though he probably liked them more.  The Greek exuded an air of calm confidence and seemed self-assured, yet to Conrad, much of what he did seemed to be aimed at conveying an effect.  Not that Persakis was insecure, but rather very concerned with how others perceived him.

Persakis’s eyes seemed to sharpen again.  “And your people… they know you’re still here?”  His smile had faded a little, and the question sounded weighted with significance, perhaps a threat, although Persakis had tried to sound nonchalant.  Conrad still had the gun with him, the gun that Persakis had leant to him for the job.  That gun sat in the soft leather bag which Conrad had rested at the side of his chair.  Persakis had an armed man in his house, and no doubt at least one gun in the room, but he would try nothing in his own house.

“People?  Oh, you mean London?  Yes, they do, but …of course they don’t know… I mean think that I had anything to do with… our friend’s accident.”

“Do they suspect?” said Persakis.  Conrad shrugged.  “Maybe, but I doubt it.  In any event, I can account for myself.”  Persakis nodded, sticking his bottom lip out to appear grave.

“And how much longer must you stay?” Persakis asked.

“Probably only a few days.  They would ask me to stay on, and investigate the… uh, recent deaths that have been in the news, but they have me on something else, as I told you, and that business is going to take me elsewhere soon.”

“Ah…” Persakis relaxed again, and squeaked about in his chair before taking another sip of his scotch.  “Such a shame you are only here for so short a time.  There are some very good restaurants here in Amsterdam that you should try before you go.  There’s one on, uh, Spuistraat, for example…”  He looked embarrassed.  “I can never pronounce the names of these places, even after all his time.  I rely on my wife too much.”

“Spuisraat?  Yes, I might try that,” Conrad agreed, trying to remain calm at the mention of Persakis’s wife.  The men fell into a silence, the only noise was the crackle from the fire, and the sound of someone passing outside the room, probably the guard.  Persakis shifted a little in his chair, and inhaled a sharp little breath, and then another.  He wants to ask for the gun back, or rather, he wants the gun back, but doesn’t want to ask.  Conrad stifled a smile as he enjoyed the fat Greek’s discomfort. 

“One thing, Conrad,” said the Greek, leaning forward, placing his elbows on his knees and looking Conrad in the eye.  Conrad tensed.  There was something in the tone and Persakis’s posture that told him this wasn’t about the gun.  What could be the matter?  Had he made a mistake that he was unaware of?  Did he know that Conrad had killed his wife after all?  He forced himself to remain slouched in the chair, and to appear relaxed.  His foot started tapping involuntarily but he quickly forced it to stop.  He said nothing, and Persakis went on, “I understand why you would… I mean, what happened to his wife, I understand about that.  She was… a witness.”  Conrad relaxed again, and tilted his head, knowing what was coming.  “But the dog?”  Persakis moved his hand up and down, the hand that was holding the cigar, like he was gently jabbing Conrad, or shaking him.

Conrad looked back at him blankly.  It was hilarious, really.  Conrad felt his lips twitch into a smirk and forced himself not to laugh.  Christ, he thought, he really is going to be more upset about the dog.  He put the glass to his mouth to try to hide his grin, took a sip of his scotch and then took a long slow drag on his cigar, exhaling though his nostrils.  He remained silent, trying to make Persakis feel awkward at the silence, or embarrassed for having challenged him.  Eventually, Conrad smiled, and shrugged a little.  “I can’t stand dogs,” he said.  Persakis looked shocked, and stiffened.  His face seemed to become darker.  “And, uh… it was making a hell of a racket.  Dirty beast.”

Persakis looked annoyed.  His dog was, had been, a bull mastiff.  Conrad couldn’t decide what Persakis thought that said about him.  Wasn’t it too obvious a choice, a bull mastiff for God’s sake.  It was a lie, of course, about the dog making a noise, and Persakis no doubt suspected that Conrad was lying.  Conrad couldn’t care less, and he quickly downed his scotch.

“Another?”  Persakis asked.

“No thanks,” said Conrad, “I have to be off.”  He stood up and Persakis quickly put down his scotch and stood up as well, blustering slightly. “I’ll take this cigar with me, smoke it on the way,” said Conrad, and turned casually to pick up his bag from beside the chair, the bag containing Persakis’s gun.  Conrad had planned to kill Persakis first, and then the guard.  Then he would have to get to the maid fast, before she could escape, and find out where the CCTV recording equipment was located, and destroy that.  The maid would have to die too, of course.  It would be a mess, but that couldn’t be helped.

“Oh, I… what a shame…I - ” Persakis stuttered. Just at that moment, somewhere in the house a telephone began to ring.  Is this the news about Kristina?  After four or five rings, the phone was answered.  Persakis paused for a minute, and turned his head slightly.  Conrad became unbearably hot, even though he had anticipated that this would happen..

Persakis looked back at Conrad and forced a slight smile.  “Ah… Conrad, I believe that you have something of mine?” he said, and then from somewhere in the house Conrad heard a voice, the maid’s, sounding distressed, and getting closer.

“Oh yes, of course,” said Conrad, and rested the bag on the small table.  Here it comes, he thought.  He unzipped the bag and reached in.  The gun must have slipped from the top of the pile of papers in there.  He fumbled to each side, hearing the female voice coming closer.  She sounded like she was sobbing.  Conrad started tearing the papers out of the bag frantically, throwing them over the floor.  Where was the damned gun?  Persakis took a step forward, his palms open, confusion in his face.  The female voice was closer now, and seemed to be inside the room, inside Conrad’s head, sobbing.  Conrad looked at Persakis, whose face seemed to have hardened.  He knows something’s wrong, thought Conrad, as he stood there with his hand hanging limply inside his bag. 

He couldn’t understand it, the gun… it was gone. 

go to chapter 2...