E. Seymour - A Deadly Trade - A gripping espionage thriller

‘Got anything else on him?’ Tilelli’s eyes were alight with interest.

‘His working method tells me that he has a high level of skill and nerve.’ Whether or not he bore the scars of his trade with relish, I’d no idea. I didn’t need to spell out to Tilelli that the nature of the work meant that we were loners, anonymous, secretive and deadly.

Tilelli clicked his tongue. ‘Not that many on the circuit with your particular skills, especially for the more exotic gigs.’

I knew. I’d come across a few, foreigners mostly. I guessed Wilding definitely fell under the heading of exotic gig.

‘With regard to the legitimate market,’ Tilelli continued, ‘Governments all over the world, including democracies, employ security services who employ specialists to carry out wet operations.’

I knew this too. The Israelis had kidon. Grey Ghosts carried out assassinations on behalf of the Pentagon, or so Reuben, feeding my boyish imagination, once told me.

‘Reckon there’s a lot of hypocrisy on the subject,’ Tilelli chuckled, clearly on his own pet subject and loving every second of it. ‘There’s not a dime’s worth of difference between their dirty work and your dirty work.’

‘I just happen to work in the private sector,’ I flicked a cool smile, making Tilelli laugh out loud. The politically motivated murder once again took precedence over the criminally motivated, to my mind. Tilelli was still rattling on.

‘Any clue to this guy’s mojo?’

I shook my head. Most were driven by money, some by cruelty. There were a few who, once they had the taste of blood in their mouths, were unstoppable. Neither money nor cruelty made me tick.

Tilelli lifted the coffee cup to his lips. ‘And the victim?’

‘A scientist.’

The cup loitered mid-air. Actually, it shook a little. Tilelli’s eyes widened. Deep furrows appeared on his brow. ‘ The scientist, Mary Wilding?’

‘Uh-huh.’

The rim of the cup pressed hard to his lips, Tilelli drained the contents, and returned it with a clatter to the saucer. He paled. For a man in the know it seemed inconceivable that Wilding’s death was suddenly headline news to him. I’d pressed some kind of button, but I didn’t know what.

‘You okay?’ I said.

‘Sure,’ Tilelli forced a smile. He didn’t look it.

‘The man who killed her has something that doesn’t belong to him,’ I said.

Tilelli took a big gulp of air as though about to dive into the deep.

‘You know anything about it?’

Tilelli shook his head, jowls wobbling. ‘What was taken?’

‘Information. It’s been confirmed she was the victim of blackmail. Might be connected, might not. There’s all kinds of people with their snouts in the trough.’

Tilelli grimaced. ‘What kinds of people?’

‘Your kind,’ I said elliptically. ‘Think you can help?’

‘Sure would like to but I’m kinda busy right now.’

‘Thought things were a little slow.’ My voice cut like a razor.

Tilelli glanced at his feet for a moment then looked up. I narrowed my gaze to one of cold steel. Sweat broke out on Tilelli’s brow. The tip of his tongue grazed the corner of his mouth. His eyes shot wide. ‘I’ll triple your fee,’ I promised.

It took a matter of seconds for the power of my words to penetrate Tilelli’s booze-sozzled brain. When it did his large frame relaxed. The muscles in his face went slack. I recognised that expression, one of sheer, unadulterated greed tempered by fear. I stayed absolutely still and observed him making the mental deductions. He was working out how many crates of Bourbon he could buy with that kind of loot, how many games of roulette he could fund. Finally, he grinned broadly, slapped one hand against his thigh and ejected a nervous laugh. He stuck out a hand. ‘Always a pleasure doing business with you.’

I took and shook out of courtesy. I had no need to remind him that the consequences of breathing one word of our conversation would result in instant and final retribution.

‘How will I get in touch?’ Tilelli’s eyes gleamed like two shiny pebbles at the bottom of a stagnant pond.

‘I’ll find you.’ I stood up and left.

The sun had given up trying to punch a hole in the sky and had sensibly retired. There was a whisper of sleet in the air. I had the strong sensation of events out of control and swirling around. I hoped McCallen was having better luck because then the hard drive would be in safekeeping and maybe McCallen would realise that she’d got me wrong. Somehow that was important to me.

I caught a tube to Richmond, walked into a supermarket, head down, basket in hand, checking for tails, then, ditching the basket, walked out and caught a bus to Kingston where I picked up take-away coffee, and changed to the 459 to Woking Station.

Every step risked exposure and I spent the journey coldly checking faces, watching those with mobile phones and I-pods, trying to distinguish who was who, whether any posed a threat. The constant and universal blare of music in shops, cafes, garages, and on the street had mostly worked to my advantage in the past. Now I was the hunted it spooked me.

From the station I hailed a cab that took me to Chobham, a charming historic village that had fallen prey to the tourist trade according to Billy ‘Squeeze’, the man I was going to visit. Billy’s real name was William Franke, but nobody I knew called him that.

To the outside world, Billy was another wealthy landowner who’d made his millions in the City when times were hot. Only a select few knew the truth. I doubted his family had a clue that the upstanding, generous husband and father who dominated their lives possessed a hidden dark side, a side where men were dispatched with the same ease with which Billy shot and bagged a pheasant. They didn’t know about his legendary cruelty, that he had once squeezed a man’s brains from his head, or that their world was built on the proceeds of drugs and the spilt blood of others.

‘You a friend of Mr Franke?’ the cabbie said.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘A real gentleman, grand fella. We do a lot of business with him. Generous as they come.’

I couldn’t disagree. Spotting what he called ‘raw talent’, Billy had given me my first early jobs in the trade and provided me with an influential contact in the States. For this I remained indebted. His impressive list of contacts was what drew me here now. Whether or not, he’d play ball was a different matter. Billy always drove a hard bargain. He thought he was being fly. I thought he was a mean old bastard. Unlike others with whom I’d had dealings, Billy had no airs and graces. I was as likely to find him with his sleeves rolled up fixing the crankshaft of one of his vintage motors as sitting in his study working out the logistics for his next shipment of cocaine. I smiled, catching the driver’s eye, and as quickly wiped the humour from my face. The way in which he watched me in the rear-view mirror made me uneasy. My description, although poor, was out there, in circulation. Concerned that I looked familiar to him in a way that he couldn’t yet fathom, I arranged my features into one of stark uncompromising hostility. It worked. Unnerved by my stony expression, he wittered on about Billy’s wife and kids. I grunted another reply and, not keen to engage, turned my head aside. I didn’t need an association with the great man to protect me. I could do that on my own. Thankfully for the cab driver the distance to Billy’s place was less than five miles. Wouldn’t have been good for him to push my buttons.