Pay Off by Stephen Leather Page A

ducks were taking bread from tame tourists,
    waddling from hand to hand, too gorged or too lazy to fly, waiting until positively the last minute before getting the hell out of my way.
    Stand in the middle of the footbridge, Tony had said, and wait for me. He was late, walking from the direction of The Mall across the grass under the towering horse chesnuts, giving a wide berth to a game of football between white overalled painters and carpenters who were blasting a muddy ball at goalposts made of dropped pullovers.
    We both leant on the faded blue-green railings, facing towards Buckingham Palace. The flag wasn't flying so the Queen wasn't at home, but if she had been, and if she'd been standing on the balcony with a pair of powerful binoc- ulars, then maybe she'd have wondered what we were talking about, and if she'd had a supersensitive directional microphone and had been able to pick up what we were saying, maybe she'd have wondered why two grown men were verbally fencing like a couple of nervous interviewees.
    'What's going on, sport? What are you up to?' he asked.
    'What are you talking about, Tony?'
    'Just listen to him,' he said, more to himself than to me. 'When I give you the word I want you to turn round very slowly and look at the fountain at the other end of the lake. Pretend you're deep in thought, listening to what I'm saying, then turn your head to two o'clock and tell me if you recognize the man sitting on the bench there. Do it now.'
    I followed his instructions, not sure what to expect but knowing something was wrong. It was Iwanek, dressed just the way he~was when I met him in the Savoy, except that he'd added a dark brown raincoat with the collar turned up. Shit, shit, shit. Tony hadn't turned but I knew he was waiting for me to speak, to explain.
    Two men, both with hands thrust deep into the pockets of dark overcoats, approached Iwanek, one from behind, one walking along the duck-strewn path, and simultaneously sat down on either side of him. It looked like some 86 thing out of a George Raft movie and I smiled. Tony had always had a taste for the melodramatic. Iwanek got up to go, I could feel the tension from a hundred yards away, and one of the men laid a restraining hand on his arm and spoke to him. He settled back down, resigned but with the air of an animal that realizes it's trapped but is still looking for a way out.
    'Well?' said Tony, and this time he turned and we both looked at Iwanek like a couple of used car dealers at an auction, assessing the merchandise.
    'What makes you think I know him?' I said.
    'Just listen to him,' he whispered again. 'Playing with fire, playing with the big boys.' He sighed and looked at me, eyes hard and cold. Like his voice.
    'Three reasons, sport. One, he was waiting for you outside the wine bar when we met two days ago. Two, he followed you here today. Three, he can't take his eyes off you. There's either something very wrong here or he's in love with you. Talk to me.'
    'I hired him.'
    'To do what? To follow you? Is that what he is, protection?'
    'No, I guess he's checking me out, the equivalent of you or me asking for references or getting a credit check done. It's not a problem.' A lie, that one. Iwanek was a problem, a real humdinger, and one that I wasn't sure how to deal with. Hell, hell, hell.
    'What's going on?' he pressed. 'What in God's name would you want to hire a man like that for?'
    I suppose Iying is like eating raw oysters, the first one is the hardest, you've got a psychological barrier to cross, but once it's done you never look back, it just gets easier and easier. I had no trouble with lie number two but if I'd had a life-size portrait of myself in the attic, done in oils and framed in gilt, then the face would have started to blemish, the skin to wrinkle and age.
    'This client I wanted a girl for is going to need looking 87 after while he's in London. That guy there was recommended to me, and I asked him to recruit another two. There's quite a