The Game (Tom Wood)

TWENTY-EIGHT





Lazio, Italy

The last time Victor had been in Italy he had been lying low while he recuperated from a bullet that had torn a groove across his right triceps. That injury had not been severe and had healed well, but it had added another scar to the many hidden beneath his clothes that no surgeon in the world could fully remove. The oldest scars were souvenirs of mistakes not to be made again or considerations never to be forgotten. The newer scars were permanent reminders that no matter the considerations he took he could not control every facet of every situation, but that he still had to try.

A chartered yacht had ferried Francesca and Victor across the Mediterranean through the night and by dawn Francesca was driving a dusty Fiat up the coastal roads from Terrancina, seemingly heading to Rome, but veering east into countryside when they passed Latina.

She spoke as she drove, talking about her experiences, her travels, and especially her husbands, and asking no questions in return. Victor was happy to let her talk – it wasn’t the nervous chatter of someone afraid of silence like the last time they had been in a car together.

‘The only thing I’ve learned for certain over two marriages is that all men are pigs.’

‘All men?’

‘All men.’ She gave him a look for emphasis, then a different kind of look. ‘Though I’m always on the hunt for the exception to the rule.’

They drove along winding roads through a rural landscape dotted with medieval villages. Woods of chestnut, hazelnut and oak broke up the vast swathes of vineyards and fields of olive trees. The countryside glowed green under the morning sun.

‘Beautiful scenery,’ Francesca said, glancing across to him.

He nodded. ‘Stunning.’

‘We’re nearly there, by the way.’

She turned off the narrow lane and onto an unlaid track that meandered between fields of olive trees. She drove fast despite the frequent blind corners created by the hedgerows that lined the track. The track’s surface was uneven and rutted. Dust billowed from the vehicle’s tyres.

‘Hope I’m not driving too fast for you?’ she asked, hoping she was.

He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘This is fast?’

She grinned and applied more pressure to the accelerator. She buzzed her window down all the way and rested an elbow on the sill. The draught threw her black hair around and it whipped across her face, but she seemed to like it.

Her carefree attitude to speed told him that the track led only to a place from which no other vehicles would be coming. Their destination. Given the fields of olives it would be an old farmhouse, built on a hill at a time when higher ground was the first and best line of defence.

After another kilometre a small hill in the distance began flashing into view between gaps in the hedgerow and olive trees. Buildings stood on the summit.

Victor pretended not to have seen until it became obvious. The hill was about thirty metres in height and the farmhouse had a sloped roof composed of ochre tiles and walls the colour of sand where the bricks weren’t covered in climbing ivy. He guessed sixteenth century. The barn that stood perpendicular to it was maybe a hundred years old.

‘This is it?’ Victor asked.

Francesca smiled in response.

‘Leeson’s?’

She didn’t answer.

She slowed as the gradient increased. Victor expected to see some kind of gate blocking the road and a wall surrounding the property, but there was none. Francesca drove onto the dusty patch of ground that served as a courtyard and driveway to the farmhouse beyond and stopped the car sharply, causing Victor to jerk forward in his seat and then back again. She laughed. He smiled, because she expected him to and because people who smiled were more trustworthy than people who didn’t.

The Fiat rocked back and forth on its suspension and a cloud of dust drifted around them, obscuring the view through the windshield. Victor heard footsteps crunching on grit and sharp stones. When the dust cloud dissipated he saw Leeson standing on the driveway. There was a dark blue Toyota minivan parked outside. The paintwork shone and reflected the sunlight in glowing white pools.

Francesca looked at Victor and he looked at her.

‘Always best not to keep him waiting,’ she said.

The Fiat’s door creaked as Victor swung it open. He climbed out and let it fall shut behind him. The weather was hot and dry. Thin clouds drifted from west to east in the sky above. The bright sun from behind the farmhouse made him squint. Leeson stood in the building’s shadow.

He wore a suit, this time a two-piece, made from linen. His sunglasses were black as ink. He looked at Victor without expression and made no movement until Victor had crossed the distance. Leeson held out his hand.

Victor shook it.

‘Mr Kooi,’ Leeson said after they’d released hands. ‘Welcome to our humble abode.’

Victor glanced around. ‘Thank you for inviting me here.’

‘That thanks should be shared out between us, for I’m positive we shall both benefit tremendously from our association.’

‘I’m sure I’ll get a great tan at the very least.’

Leeson smiled a little. ‘I hope Francesca kept you from becoming bored on the long journey.’

‘Her company was gratefully received.’

Leeson rotated his head slightly to watch Francesca’s approach. ‘Oh yes, Mr Kooi, she can be most grateful.’

He watched her as she passed them and entered the farmhouse through a wooden door that Victor expected to lead into the kitchen.

‘Let me apologise that I couldn’t meet you in person in Gibraltar,’ Leeson said.

‘I would have been happy to have come straight to Italy.’

The younger man nodded. ‘I’m sure you would have, but I have my little tics that must be satisfied, as I’m sure you understand. Men in our business must never grow complacent, after all. And you will be paid for each and every hour of travel.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it. I appreciate that you have been inconvenienced by all these escapades and this is not how you conduct your other affairs. I assure you it will prove worth your while.’

‘I have no doubt it will. What’s the job?’

‘All in good time.’

‘I’d like to know now.’

‘Of course you would.’

Leeson said nothing more. Francesca reappeared from the farmhouse, the door hinges creaking to announce her. She held her elbows by her ribs and her forearms perpendicular to her torso, parallel to one another, palms turned upwards. A neat pile of folded clothes sat on them. On top of the pile was a pair of hiking boots and a canvas bag.

‘I’m sure you’re tired from the travelling, but before we go inside and I show you to your room, I wonder if you might accommodate me.’

Leeson gestured to Francesca, who stopped nearby.

‘Another tic?’ Victor asked.

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Not at all,’ Victor said back.

He emptied his pockets of his money, wallet, passport and gum and placed each item inside the canvas bag. He handed it to Leeson, who held it open with both hands.

Victor unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. He stuffed it into the bag. He unlaced his shoes and they too went into the bag. As did his socks. Francesca’s sunglasses were not as dark as Leeson’s and Victor saw her eyes moving as he undressed. Leeson watched Francesca watching him.

Victor unbuckled his belt and removed his trousers. He pushed them down into the bag to make room. His underwear followed.

He redressed in the clothes Francesca held.

She said, ‘I hope they fit okay.’

‘They’ll do.’ He looked at Leeson. ‘I hope these aren’t the only garments I’ll be provided with.’

‘There are more inside.’ He pulled the string to close the bag and handed it to Francesca. ‘If it becomes necessary, she will shop for you. Any questions before we continue?’

‘Just one: are the other members of my team already here?’