Paris. 1986. a few months after the Berlin deal.
Irene was living with the consequences of her phone calls. One to a journalist. One to a killer. She was about to make phone call number three, to a man who smelt like liquor and cigarettes, who’d left his notebook on the bedside table.
Her journalist phone call was the easiest. She’d sold the story to a radio company. They’d promised her protection, and a few thousand pounds if she could prove her story. She’d spent the last few months gathering evidence. Phone call recordings and paper letters she’d received, clips of CCTV camera footage from the airport that came in big jiffy bags and heavy duty tape recordings. Detecting suited her, she got to wear trench coats and be nosy. Two of her favorite hobbies.
She’d send detailed letters and diagrams to three radio stations after her phone call. One in Berlin, one in London, and one in Paris. Her french wasn’t always excellent, it was cobbled together using guide books and tourist information that wasn’t built for the job. At least twice she mixed up the word for “stabbing” and the word for “to penetrate sexually”, but the radio hosts seemed to be able to read around her misinterpretations.
She was living in a hotel these days, her hair now a discreet shade of dark auburn, and her dress sense was something far less attention grabbing. Her goal was to blend in. Especially after phone call number two.
Phone call number two was to her boss, the killer. He didn’t take too kindly when she told him she was retiring. He took it less well when he discovered the agent she was meant to meet was in a reservoir somewhere between Berlin and Copenhagen. She didn’t even know about that until weeks after the fact. She was about to get a stern reminder.
There was a knock at the hotel room door. The drug money she was using was running out, she couldn’t afford to change hotels again. The hotels were non refundable.
It was a male voice shouting through the door, and she looked through the keyhole to see a hulking figure and the outline of a gun against his jacket. She decided not to open the door. She held her breath, she couldn’t move. Her body froze up. Fight or Flight’s more useless cousin, the Freeze response.
Her blocky analogue TV fizzled in the background. The air was growing thin. The knocking was getting louder. She heard a key scrape against the lock. Did this hotel have spare keys? FUCK. She looked at her options. She could climb under the bed … no too obvious.
She could arm herself with something heavy? … no, he’s got the advantage even if she ambushed him. She saw the window.
She was in the chambre de Bonne, a maid’s living quarters that had been done up into a hotel room by the B & B owners on the Top floor, a Long way down … but it walks out onto the flat roof. If she could just shimmy the pigeon spikes off the windowsill, she could probably hop over onto the roof.
The door’s lock wouldn’t last too long. The handle was giving away, as the hand on the other side of the door jabbed and twisted and jerked at it. She thanked god for her door lock. There was a push at the barbed wire pigeon barricade, it jerked away and there was a klang when it hit the ground. She heaved herself through the window and didn’t look back when the door finally gave way. Her feet pressed and slipped against the copper roof tiles. The green rusted tinge making them damp and difficult to get a firm foothold on. She tried to steady her breath, taking hold of one of the sign letters they’d put on the roof of the hotel. The rusted scaffolding crunched uncomfortably under her hand. She had to close her eyes, and breathe, and trust the process.
There was a 50% chance she’d fall to her death on the roof, and an 80% chance of death by mysterious gun wielding henchman.
She heard him swear in french from the window. Her fingers locked onto the scaffolding of the hotel welcome sign, despite the damp and the rust and the feeling of particles getting under her nails and into her skin. He took his head out the window, giving a look down at the ground. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t draw any attention whatsoever.
The metal groaned under her grip. Her spare hand going for the cables plugging the sign’s many tacky light bulbs in and vandalized the city skyline. If she fell, a handful of wires wouldn’t keep her there suspended, however they would buy her enough time to readjust herself.
The rusted metal pole finally shuddered. She slipped slightly. Her vice-grip on the wires getting strong enough to cause a mark in the plastic coating. Her now spare hand grabbed desperately at the middle of the O in ‘hotel’. It was bolted on with 3 inch rivets. There was no way this bastard was slipping. By now though, a crowd of tired and grumpy Frenchmen were beginning to notice the British bird hanging from the roof in her pajamas.
When the coast was finally clear, or as clear as it was going to get, Irene pulled herself fully onto the roof, and took the staff roof hatch back down to the hotel’s top floor landing. Returned to her room, she took a close hold at the novella that had become her lifeline the last few months, and started to dial the number on page 38.
“Ken?” she asked down the landline.
A grunt happened over the other side of the phone.
“Ken you screwed me over. There are strange Frenchmen with guns after me. I’m almost out of money…” she begged down the telephone.
There was a dial tone. He hung up.
Unacceptable.
She dialed again, like her life depended on it.
“KEN! Love. Honey. Baby. I took a few notes before I gave you back the notepad, and I’ve got good contacts in the publishing industry and enough stamps for next day delivery. You are NOT shelving me” she told the silence on the other end of the phone.
The silence lingered, but there was breathing. He’d not hung up yet. “Either you provide me immunity, or I find someone who will” she told him unflinchingly.
She had to say it like she meant it, even though she’d ran out of moves 3 phone calls ago. If they felt she was bluffing, she wouldn’t so much as get a post card. She’d tried moving country, she’d tried moving jobs. She’d even tried the police. None of it seemed to work for long.
“I have a friend in Montpellier” said the voice on phone. She couldn’t quite make out who was on the other side. Was that what Ken sounded like?
“Meet me there at midnight, and bring wine.”
* * *
Montpollier, the compromise. St Peter’s Cathedral.
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The cold midnight chill bit at the necks of the intruders. Ken on one side of the church, laid dramatically across a pew like a rock star on an album cover, hand flopped out like the Sistine chapel painting of Adam and god. Irene stood there in the stone archway. She held a file in her left arm and a video tape in her right hand, feeling like she brought a knife to a gun fight.
“Where are the others?” she asked to the marble hallways, wondering how many figures in the dark were statues and how many were people. Ken startled to his feet without a whisp of grace. “I’m a man of my word, just me” he said.
She watched him closely with new eyes. No gun shaped outlines on his hips, but a knife in a sheath on his left. If he tried anything she’d need to be aware of that. To his surprise he reached down and she braced for gunshots, instead being met with a bottle of red wine, and a pack of cards.
“You brought a picnic?” she asked, watching him pour the drink into two golden goblets. He chewed his cheek a little, squinting at her. “Communion wine, but I did bring playing cards” he said with a gesture. She pulled up a chair and began to perch on it carefully. Neither of them were particularly catholic, but a holy building needed at least some respect.
“And so you know there are not tricks ...” he considered, aware of her analytical mind. He poured a little wine from one glass into the other, and vice versa. Mutually assured destruction, if anyone was poisoned the poison was now in both cups. He shuffled the cards to himself, hearing them slap against each other and echo across the room. The silence was deafening, but it provided excellent insurance. It’s hard to sneak up on someone when you’re in a room with acoustics built to magnify sound.
“What’s your poison?” he asked her, taking a sip from the wine. “Blackjack. I’m not good at poker” she justified. He put down a handful of poker chips on the table, four red and four black tokens. “Usually we play a bigger game, but I thought I’d keep it simple for now” he justified.
She quickly learned how the barter system worked, this was a low stakes version. Two choices, two colours. Information or favors. Truth or dare. The colour system was sorted quickly. Red for favors, Black for information.
She watched him shuffle with eagle eyes, looking for any trickery. Her mother used to cheat at card games back in the day, nothing serious but enough that you’d learn the tells. Keeping an eye on the sleeves of Ken’s button up shirt. Irene wasn’t a cheat, but she knew how they worked. It wasn’t until the early 90s that she’d master card counting. At this stage she thought it cheap, no honor in rigging a game of chance. Her opinion would drift in the next year or two.
Her mother’s cheating at games became less charming after the divorce. Her weekly flutter with the girls from work going from a vehicle for a social gathering, to a heated chase after the winnings.
It used to be so civilized, her and a set of working mothers, taking a night off from doing it all to remember the 60s. To gossip about whether the butcher was sleeping with the baker’s wife, or if the Vicar’s “Traveling companion” knew more than he was letting on. The mother’s never judged, they just knew. They had to know. Knowing is the only thing you could do in a small northern town.
Irene had made a vow to never chase anything as much as her mother chased gossip, and to quit cards altogether if she ever caught herself chasing after the feeling of winning like her mother did.
“Stick or twist?” Ken asked, cutting through the brain-fog.
Irene considered her cards carefully. “are aces high?” she asked, fully aware she had no aces. She knew the answer, but if she was to play well, she’d have to play people as well as she played cards.
Ken considered his answer. “they’re both” he confirmed.
“Twist” she said.
A card was slapped onto the table, and picked up.
“Again!” she demanded.
Another card.
“Stop!” she confirmed, holding up a hand like she was thanking a driver that let her walk through traffic. Ken observed her closely, wondering what her tells might be.
“I’ll pick up two cards” he said, sliding two cards from the deck on the table. “Before we reveal, what are we betting on?” he asked, stone cold.
“If you win, I want immunity from you specifically” she told him.
“My darling, if I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be playing cards” he replied, fanning himself with the deck.
“Okay then” she said putting a black chip on the table. “I want to know who the gunman coming after me is.”
Klein nodded. His face unreadable. “okay, if we’re playing for information” he began, “then why did you pull that stunt with the notebook?” he asked.
She revealed her cards. 7 of diamonds. 6 of hearts. 2 of hearts.
Klein won by 4 points.
“I work with a lot of powerful people. I’m rarely powerful myself. I need whatever insurance I can get” she said.
“Not that stunt” he said, with the calm confidence of a shark.
“Well you’ll have to bet your next chip on it then” she responded, reshuffling the cards. She put the cards down when she was satisfied and without showing her fear, she couldn’t be in any more trouble.
“Same question” she told him, dealing out the cards.
He took three up this time. “Okay I have a question to bet on. What were you going to do with that footage? Where was that tape going?”
She picked up the deck, staring down her rival. She dished out her cards slowly, not flinching, making a show of the honesty she was playing with.
This time she won. Barely. Three points difference.
Kennedy cocked his head cautiously. “He’s a killer, not one of mine” he replied, again chewing his cheek. It was becoming a nervous habit. Irene gestured for him to expand.
“Did you say he was french? Like with the accent?” he asked.
She nodded. “Big guy, he was all shoulders.”
“If he’s the guy I think he is, he’s a freelancer. Not hired by one particular group.” Ken corrected.
“But if he’s after you then that means you may have burnt your bridges in London.”
Irene reshuffled. Her hands going cold and slipping the cards involuntarily.
“You wanted a favor?” he asked. “Ask for it.”
She shuffled again, as best she could. Then she broke her one rule. She pocketed a playing card. Just for a second. A little slight of hand. When she served up the cards, she made sure to rig herself a hot hand. It was unfair, she knew that. But it was a life and death situation.
“I want security. Maximum security. Keep me safe Ken” she told him.
He looked her in the eyes, taking in the girl in front of him. roughly twenty three. Desperate. Kind. “Okay. But if I win” he began. He hadn’t considered what would happen if it got this far.
He didn’t want to ask her for sex. She didn’t have money. She didn’t have contacts. She had her dignity and a set of videos.
“If I win, you have to burn those tapes” he told her. He didn’t know she’d made duplicates. Duplicates to be found in Paris, Berlin, and London. A first class postage stamp goes far.
“Of course” she said. Her mouth going dry from the cold and the uncertainty.
The minutes had never lingered like this before. The old church stones absorbing the cold into them, and the cards scraping against the wooden pews. Sweat formulated at Irene’s hairline. Her hands began to cramp. Her breath got short as she considered the risk of the next move.
She dealt the cards slowly, making a show of it. He couldn’t notice the next move. It was vital. Ken dealt his cards, and Irene feigned a stretch, letting the card caught between in her leather jacket sleeve slide forward to the cuff of her shirt.
She took a shakey handed sip of her wine. Spilling a little on herself, and the deck. Her hidden ace would stand out like a sore thumb now. One pristine pale card against a tie dyed deck of dripping wet purples and pinks that seemed to be seeping into the laminated card pack.
She took the distraction. Took the risk. Her card squished against a 4 of diamonds, and a 6 of clubs. The wine was soaking through. The card was ruined. The card was rare. The card was beginning to blend in perfectly as she dabbed herself down flustered.
She put the cards down confidently and Kennedy glared at her. He was a man of his word, no amount of suspicion in the world would fix it.
“I guess you’re joining my team then” he said affectionately, dabbing the wine from her neck.