SIS had, I was to discover where the majority of the coca fields were located and put a name and face to Alberto’s mysterious partner.
Thus far, I had been to a variety of social functions – most putting Sanchez in the salving light of the city’s most generous patron – consisting of a few dinner parties filled with the local upper class and two cultural events, both held at restaurants in the hip Zona G district. With the use of a hidden camera, I had fed SIS digital images of all who came in contact with Sanchez. And a motley crew they were: owners of mines, oil reserves, and land. But in the end, they had all been dead ends. All had dirty hands, one way or another, but none were soaked in the filth for which we were looking.
And so, with one month left and help from IT, I’d gone through papers found in Alberto’s safe and tapped his phone system. What information I couldn’t dead drop, I passed along to my Handler at our infrequent rendezvous.
My weekly runs had been my greatest asset, allowing me to ditch my bodyguards so I could meet with Alasdair. Stretched out on a park bench, interchangeable with any one of a thousand retired ex-pats, he read the paper and ate his lunch. I spoke without looking at him.
“Anything on the phone taps?”
“No. How about the papers in his briefcase?”
“Nothing.”
Frustration mounted in his voice. “Any ideas?”
“I get myself kidnapped by the left wingers.”
I’d probably be dumped smack in the middle of the fields we’re looking for.
“Don’t even joke about that. We’ve got a month to go; something’ll break. Oh, Jack sends his love.”
Jack, not Brad.
I felt the pit I’d try so hard to ignore, open and engulf my relatively sunny mood.
Alasdair turned the page of his paper and ruffled it. I glanced over as I lowered my head to my shin. It was a copy of
The London Times
. A photo in the upper right corner showed the forlorn Duchess of Barkley holding a check to the RSPCA. An anonymous donor had made it out for £1,000,000. A caption underneath indicated that the donation had been made in loving memory of the late Samantha and Nigel Forsythe.
I felt my eyes well. “Brad?”
The paper muffled his words. “The bastard’s sold his family’s estate to The National Trust.”
Bouncing on my calves, I realized it never occurred to me that Brad still owned his family’s estate; after all, he’d only mentioned it the one time.
“I was only seven when C came to the estate. He ruffled my hair, told me to get myself something to eat and go play.” A tinny quality traced Brad’s voice. “They thought I’d left. Only I hid around the corner from the library, behind the enormous tapestry that bears my ancestral arms. It was hot under there, but I eavesdropped on their entire conversation. To my mother’s scream and C’s noble attempt at consolation. When he left, she took out my father’s ancient dueling pistol and blew a hole through her head.”
“Did he tell you that?”
Alasdair tucked the paper beneath one arm and walked by. I never saw his lips move. “No. Until next Monday.”
I ran two more miles before my eyes finally dried. I missed Brad incredibly. And despite his cold assertion and the inexplicable fact I’d pretended to agree with him, hoped he missed me too.
I had let Alberto believe I was indifferent to De Torres’s absent figure. And tried to tell myself the same, concentrating on my job and Francesca.
Alberto had come to trust me as deeply as a man like him could trust anyone, because I
loved
his daughter. Took care of her, read to her, played games with her, taught her to swim, and tucked her in when he was away.
When I returned to the hacienda, it was noon. I had three hours before Francesca and I would join him at the opening of a children’s wing in the city’s largest hospital. She was to cut the ribbon alongside her father and his current girlfriend, Estelle.
They had gone out for the day – Estelle and Alberto
Thus far, I had been to a variety of social functions – most putting Sanchez in the salving light of the city’s most generous patron – consisting of a few dinner parties filled with the local upper class and two cultural events, both held at restaurants in the hip Zona G district. With the use of a hidden camera, I had fed SIS digital images of all who came in contact with Sanchez. And a motley crew they were: owners of mines, oil reserves, and land. But in the end, they had all been dead ends. All had dirty hands, one way or another, but none were soaked in the filth for which we were looking.
And so, with one month left and help from IT, I’d gone through papers found in Alberto’s safe and tapped his phone system. What information I couldn’t dead drop, I passed along to my Handler at our infrequent rendezvous.
My weekly runs had been my greatest asset, allowing me to ditch my bodyguards so I could meet with Alasdair. Stretched out on a park bench, interchangeable with any one of a thousand retired ex-pats, he read the paper and ate his lunch. I spoke without looking at him.
“Anything on the phone taps?”
“No. How about the papers in his briefcase?”
“Nothing.”
Frustration mounted in his voice. “Any ideas?”
“I get myself kidnapped by the left wingers.”
I’d probably be dumped smack in the middle of the fields we’re looking for.
“Don’t even joke about that. We’ve got a month to go; something’ll break. Oh, Jack sends his love.”
Jack, not Brad.
I felt the pit I’d try so hard to ignore, open and engulf my relatively sunny mood.
Alasdair turned the page of his paper and ruffled it. I glanced over as I lowered my head to my shin. It was a copy of
The London Times
. A photo in the upper right corner showed the forlorn Duchess of Barkley holding a check to the RSPCA. An anonymous donor had made it out for £1,000,000. A caption underneath indicated that the donation had been made in loving memory of the late Samantha and Nigel Forsythe.
I felt my eyes well. “Brad?”
The paper muffled his words. “The bastard’s sold his family’s estate to The National Trust.”
Bouncing on my calves, I realized it never occurred to me that Brad still owned his family’s estate; after all, he’d only mentioned it the one time.
“I was only seven when C came to the estate. He ruffled my hair, told me to get myself something to eat and go play.” A tinny quality traced Brad’s voice. “They thought I’d left. Only I hid around the corner from the library, behind the enormous tapestry that bears my ancestral arms. It was hot under there, but I eavesdropped on their entire conversation. To my mother’s scream and C’s noble attempt at consolation. When he left, she took out my father’s ancient dueling pistol and blew a hole through her head.”
“Did he tell you that?”
Alasdair tucked the paper beneath one arm and walked by. I never saw his lips move. “No. Until next Monday.”
I ran two more miles before my eyes finally dried. I missed Brad incredibly. And despite his cold assertion and the inexplicable fact I’d pretended to agree with him, hoped he missed me too.
I had let Alberto believe I was indifferent to De Torres’s absent figure. And tried to tell myself the same, concentrating on my job and Francesca.
Alberto had come to trust me as deeply as a man like him could trust anyone, because I
loved
his daughter. Took care of her, read to her, played games with her, taught her to swim, and tucked her in when he was away.
When I returned to the hacienda, it was noon. I had three hours before Francesca and I would join him at the opening of a children’s wing in the city’s largest hospital. She was to cut the ribbon alongside her father and his current girlfriend, Estelle.
They had gone out for the day – Estelle and Alberto
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