The Game (Tom Wood)

TWENTY-NINE





Leeson didn’t react but Francesca did. Her eyebrows rose a little above her sunglasses and a sliver of a gap appeared between her lips. Then she glanced at Leeson, but he didn’t return the look. He was focused on Victor. The breeze pulled loose a few strands of hair from the grip of whatever product had held them in place and they danced lazily in the breeze above Leeson’s head. He didn’t show it, but he was as surprised by Victor’s question as Francesca. Though, unlike Francesca, he ran through the connotations and came to the conclusion Victor had expected.

The younger man smiled a little. ‘How long have you known about the team?’

‘Not long.’

‘Does that mean before or after you arrived in Italy?’

‘I suspected beforehand.’

Leeson nodded. ‘And Francesca said or did something to confirm that suspicion?’

She stiffened, ever so slightly, but Victor saw it. Leeson didn’t.

‘Not at all,’ Victor said.

He saw that Leeson wanted to press him further, but not wanting to appear as if he cared how Victor had come to his conclusion, he took a slightly oblique approach: ‘How many do you think are in your team?’

‘Do I get a prize if I’m right?’

Leeson smirked.

Victor paused for a moment, as if he had to think. ‘That people carrier will fit six in the back, plus a driver and passenger. Eight maximum, then. You, Francesca and I make three, so there can’t be more than five more.’ He glanced at the farmhouse. ‘Four bedrooms. One for you. One for Francesca. Two left. Two beds in each. One for me. Three left.’

He ignored the Fiat’s presence and its capacity to carry another four.

‘Is three your conclusion?’ Leeson asked.

‘It’s a deduction. Am I right?’

Leeson smiled again. ‘Shall we go inside?’

Victor nodded in response. Leeson and Francesca walked ahead, Leeson putting a hand on her lower back and drawing her closer to him to whisper in her ear. When he pulled away again she glanced over her shoulder.

Victor winked at her.



The doorway was low and narrow, the farmhouse having been built centuries beforehand when people were slimmer because food was scarce and shorter because nutrition was poor. Victor dipped his head forward and felt his hair brush the frame. He stepped into a kitchen that looked as though it had remained unaltered in the hundreds of years since it was built. There was a big table in the centre, thick and dense, bearing the scuffs and marks of endless use, the polish worn down to almost nothing. At each of the long sides were similarly old and worn benches. Copper pans hung from hooks, as did strings of onions and garlic. The cupboards were made of the same wood as the table but the polish had endured a little better. The brass knobs were scratched and dull. It was old but tidy and clean. There wasn’t a single cobweb among the heavy beams that crossed the low ceiling. The air smelt of herbs and coffee.

‘Quaint, isn’t it?’ Leeson asked.

Victor nodded. ‘Beautifully rustic.’

Francesca huffed. ‘It’s a hole. Practically medieval.’

‘It is medieval, my dear,’ Leeson said. ‘But please ignore her, Mr Kooi. She’s a pure urbanite. Not like you and I.’

Victor acknowledged the remark with a little smile. He wondered if Leeson’s reference was merely to the fact that both he and Victor had expressed their liking for the farmhouse, unlike Francesca, or if he knew more about Kooi’s background than Muir believed. If the latter was true then he had also revealed a little about his own.

‘I notice the absence of a refrigerator,’ Victor said.

Leeson waved a hand in the direction of one of two doors leading further into the farmhouse. ‘Yes, no refrigerator. But that’s a pantry on the left, which also leads down to the basement. It’s much cooler down there so that’s where the perishables are kept.’

‘No freezer either,’ Francesca added. ‘No anything. Like I said, medieval.’

‘They had neither half a millennia ago,’ Leeson sighed.

‘And this is the twenty-first century.’

Victor asked, ‘No electricity at all?’

‘There is a diesel generator outside,’ Leeson explained. ‘Purely for lighting at night. There’s no phone line and no internet connection. There’s barely any mobile phone reception; enough to take incoming calls on occasion, but you’ll struggle to make an outgoing one.’

Victor nodded. ‘I’m impressed.’

Leeson smiled. ‘See, Francesca? Mr Kooi appreciates the benefits of the simple life.’

‘Then, like you, he is a barbarian.’

‘Civilisation weakens a man, my dear. And you do so like them strong, don’t you?’

Francesca didn’t answer.

This seemed to please Leeson, who smiled briefly and opened the second of the inner doors. ‘Let’s continue the tour, shall we?’



The rest of the ground floor was of a similar age to the kitchen. It was divided into five rooms, only three of which showed any signs of habitation: a lounge and dining area, a bedroom and a bathroom.

‘It’s the only room in the building that has anything approaching modern facilities,’ Leeson explained.

‘Approaching,’ Francesca echoed.

A narrow, winding staircase led to the first floor. Each step creaked and bowed under Victor’s weight.

‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Leeson assured him.

There were four bedrooms but no upstairs bathroom. Three of the bedrooms were fitted out each with a single bed, bedside table, dresser and wardrobe. Threadbare rugs partially covered the floorboards. The first two rooms showed signs of occupation – in one the bed was unmade and there were clothes on the floor, in the other a scent of deodorant or aftershave lingered in the air.

‘This will be your room,’ Leeson announced after opening the door to the third bedroom. ‘Neither Francesca nor I stay here, so I’m afraid you were incorrect in your deduction.’

Victor stepped in and turned on the spot, quickly examining each feature and fixture as his gaze passed over them.

Leeson said, ‘You’ll find it basic yet functional.’

Victor nodded. ‘What about the fourth bedroom?’

‘Storage.’

‘Welcome to the Dark Ages,’ Francesca added as their eyes met.

Leeson sighed. ‘The medieval period, or Middle Ages, when this farmhouse was built, and the Dark Ages are not the same thing.’

‘I do so love these history lessons, Robert. Dark Ages, Middle Ages, who cares? This place is a hole.’

‘My dear, you’re not exactly helping to sell the venue to our new friend here.’

‘It sells itself,’ Victor said.

A voice drifted up from the stairwell: ‘That’s a good answer.’

The stairs creaked as they had done when Victor had ascended. Leeson and Francesca turned to face the open bedroom doorway, ready for the speaker’s arrival. Victor did so too, but he knew who was going to appear because he recognised the voice. It was deep and coarse, every word laced with a subtext of anger and resentment and barely contained psychosis.

‘You’ve already met each other,’ Leeson said as a man stepped into view. ‘Mr Dietrich, this is Mr Kooi. He’ll be working with us from this point forward.’

The tan that covered Dietrich’s face and bald head was deeper than when Victor had last seen him in Budapest. He stepped into the doorway of Victor’s room and leant a muscular shoulder against the frame. He wore khaki cargo trousers and an olive green T-shirt. Sweat darkened a small area over his sternum. The grip of a small combat knife protruded from a sheath fixed to the right of his belt buckle. He stared at Victor. Victor held his gaze.

Neither spoke.

‘Mr Dietrich resides in the room opposite,’ Leeson said, breaking the silence.

‘So you’d better not snore,’ Dietrich said, then with a smirk added, ‘Your Majesty.’

‘Play nice, Mr Dietrich.’