Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

She laughed. ‘You speak it well. But I already have a drink, thank you.’

He pointed at her water. ‘That’s not a drink. Have some wine with me.’

She accepted, and he asked the bartender for another wine glass. She moved closer to him, lifting her handbag off the stool between them and taking its place. She laid the bag on the floor at her feet. ‘My name is Esmeralda,’ she said, offering her hand. He took it. It was soft and warm.

‘I’m Ben,’ he said. He pointed to an empty table in the corner overlooking the water’s edge. ‘Shall we sit over there?’

She nodded.

‘Don’t forget your bag.’ He picked it up and handed it to her.

They carried their drinks over to the table. He bumped into a chair, spilling some wine on the floor. ‘Whoops. Too much to drink.’

They sat facing each other and talked until the stars were out and the moon was shining on the sea.

‘Why do you want to leave here?’ he asked her. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I’m freaked out by this bombing,’ she said. ‘So terrible. All those innocent people.’

He nodded. Said nothing.

‘And other reasons, too.’

‘Like what?’ he asked.

‘You really want to know? My fiancé left me for my best friend. My sister thought it would be a good idea for me to get away for a while. But it’s not working.’ She smiled weakly, then looked down.

‘I can’t imagine why he would leave you.’ Ben reached over and gently stroked her arm with his finger.

She flushed. ‘You are nice. So, Ben. What are you doing on Corfu? Vacation? Business?’

‘Getting drunk.’ He poured the last of the wine into his glass. The band had gone into a slow, melancholy set of traditional Greek songs, joined by a female singer.

‘What do you do for a living?’ Esmeralda asked.

‘I’m just a student.’

‘What happened to your neck?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

She smiled. ‘I would like to get to know you better, that’s all.’

He reached across for her hand. ‘Would you like to dance?’

She nodded. He led her over to the small dance floor. She glanced back at the handbag on the table. ‘It’ll be OK there,’ he said.

The dance was slow and sensual. Her bare arms were warm against his hands. The strap of her dress kept sliding down her shoulder. Her skin was the colour of honey, and the lights sparkled in her dark eyes. Ben drew her closer to him, felt her body crush up against him, and then the soft heat of her lips on his.

‘I have a place on the beach,’ he said. ‘It’s not far to walk. We could be alone there.’

She looked up at him. Her face was a little flushed and her breathing had quickened. She squeezed his hand. Nodded quickly. ‘Let’s go.’

They left the taverna and made their way back across the moonlit sand. The beach was empty, just the murmur of the surf and the music in the distance. She slipped off her high heels and walked barefoot. He circled his arm around her slim waist, feeling the litheness of her muscles as she walked. He stumbled again, and she laughed as she helped him to his feet. ‘You are ebrio ’, she giggled.

‘Completely rat-arsed. I’ve been drinking all day.’

They got back to the beach house. He fumbled with his key, dropped it and searched drunkenly around on the sandy doorstep, muttering curses. ‘Here it is,’ he slurred.

Esmeralda tried the handle. ‘It’s open anyway,’ she laughed. The door swung ajar. She walked inside and he followed, holding onto her arm. He flipped on the light and let go of her as they entered. Let her move away from him until she was at arm’s length.

Then he delivered a ridge-hand strike to the side of her neck and she crumpled to the floor without a sound.

It was a blow designed to stun, not to kill. He kneeled quickly over her inert body and ripped open her fallen handbag. Feeling inside, his fingers touched cool steel. He quickly pulled the pistol out. It was more or less what he’d expected it to be from its weight when he’d picked up the handbag at the taverna. A Beretta 92F semi-automatic. The hefty 9mm was cocked and locked. He flipped off the safety.

At the other end of the room, the door through to the kitchen burst open. Ben had expected that too. He fired a rapid double-tap and the Beretta bucked against his palm.

The intruder ran right into it. The bullets struck him in the chest and he crashed back against the side of the door, his gun flying out of his hand and spinning away across the floorboards. He slumped down and lay still, chin on his chest, blood on his lips.

Ben’s ears were ringing from the gunfire. He checked the front door. The beach was still empty. The walls of the house would have muffled the shots enough to prevent them carrying too clearly all the way to the taverna. He strode quickly back into the room and locked the door.

The woman was beginning to stir, groaning and clutching her neck. He stepped over her and picked up the dead intruder’s pistol. It was the same model of 9mm Beretta, but with a long sound suppressor screwed to the barrel. With his left hand he pulled the slide back far enough to expose the breech and reveal the shiny brass of the cartridge inside. He looked down at the intruder on the floor. The guy was fair-haired and youngish, maybe thirty, good-looking. Ben remembered what Nikos had told Charlie about the couple at Zoë Bradbury’s party that night. A fair-haired guy, same age, and a woman who could have passed for a Greek.

He shoved the unsilenced gun in his belt and pointed the other at the woman’s head. It was a much more useful weapon for indoor work. ‘Get up,’ he said.

She coughed and raised herself slowly onto her knees and elbows, brushed the hair away from her face and turned to look at him. There was a very different look in those dark eyes now.

‘I saw you in the town earlier,’ he said. ‘I saw you in San Rocco Square and again while I was looking in the shop windows. I saw you before you even started following me today. I made sure you could see me the whole time, so that I could watch you.’

She rose up into a crouch, tensed, one hand spread out on the floor in front of her, looking up at him with tight lips. Where the thick black hair was brushed away from her forehead, he could see a vein pulsing.

‘You weren’t following me,’ he said. ‘You were being led. I chose a busy taxi rank so that you wouldn’t lose me. You and your friend here jumped in the next cab, and I watched you all the way over here. I made it easy for you. I even pretended to be drunk. You walked right into it.’

Her eyes were empty. He could see she was measuring distances, working out moves, calculating odds. She was someone trained. ‘You’re pretty good,’ he said. ‘That was a great cover story, about your sister. But you’re not good enough to get out of this. Talk to me, Esmeralda. Don’t think I wouldn’t shoot you.’

She said nothing.

‘Zoë Bradbury. Where is she?’

She didn’t reply.

‘Who bombed the café?’ he asked. ‘Was it to kill Charlie?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He fired. She screamed and drew her hand away from the floor.

‘You’re fine,’ he said. ‘I aimed between your fingers. Next time I’ll take one off. Let’s start again. Zoë Bradbury. Where is she?’

‘Gone,’ she whispered.

‘Co-operation. That’s good. Gone where?’

She hesitated.

‘Pick a finger,’ he said. ‘Maybe one you don’t use much. Hold out your hand. That way I won’t hit anything else by mistake.’

‘She’s not in Greece any longer.’

‘Then where is she?’

‘You’ll kill me anyway,’ she said. ‘Why should I tell you?’