being surveyed, searched for whatever that sort of person looked for in a strange place, something to offer reassurance, security.
I poured the wine into a tall-stemmed glass, a tumbler of beer for myself, then carried the refreshments through on an olive-wood tray. I handed the wine glass over and watched as my guest sipped it.
‘Much better.’ The smile half formed. ‘We should have arranged for wine in the bar, not lemon juice.’
I sat on another of the chairs, put the tray on the floor and raised my beer.
‘Cheers!’ I said.
‘I do not have long.’
‘Quite.’ I took a pull of my beer and set the tumbler back down on the tray. ‘What exactly are your requirements?’
The eyes moved across to the windows.
‘You have a fine view from here.’
I nodded.
‘You’re not overlooked. That is most important.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, unnecessarily.
‘The range will be about seventy-five metres. Certainly not over ninety. Possibly much closer. I shall have not more than five seconds. Possibly seven, at the most.’
‘How many . . .’ I paused. One never knows how to phrase it. I have had this discussion so many times over the last three decades and I still do not have it worked out to perfection. ‘. . . targets?’
‘Just the one.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A rapid fire rate. A reasonably large magazine capacity. Preferably 9 mm Parabellum.’
The wine glass twisted in those artistic fingers. I watched as the reflection of the windows spun round against the mellow yellow of the wine.
‘And it must be light. Fairly small. Compact. Possible to be broken down into its constituent parts.’
‘How small? Pocket-size?’
‘Bigger would be permissible. A small case. Say a briefcase. Or a lady’s vanity case.’
‘X-rays? Camouflage – transistor radio, tape cassette, camera? In amongst tins, aerosols, that sort of thing?’
‘Not necessary.’
‘Noise?’
‘It needs to be silenced. To be on the safe side.’
The wine glass chimed as the base touched the stone floor and my visitor stood up to leave.
‘Can you do it?’
I nodded again.
‘Most certainly.’
‘How long?’
‘A month. To a trial. Then, say, a week for any final touches.’
‘Today is the sixth. I shall need a trial on the thirtieth. Then four days to delivery.’
‘I do not deliver, not these days,’ I pointed out. I had said as much in my letter.
‘To collection, then. How much?’
‘One hundred thousand. Thirty now, twenty at the trial, fifty on completion.’
‘Dollars?’
‘Of course.’
The smile was less cautious now. There was an edge of relief to it, a hint of satisfaction such as one sees on the face of anyone who has what they want.
‘I shall need a scope. And a case.’
‘Of course.’ I smiled now. ‘I’ll also prepare . . .’
I left the rest unsaid. A pen is no use without ink, a plate without food, a book without words or a gun without ammunition.
‘Excellent, Mr . . . Mr Butterfly.’
The manila envelope fell heavily on to the chair.
‘The first payment.’
The bills, judging by the thickness, must have been hundreds.
‘Until the end of the month, then.’
I rose to my feet.
‘Please don’t get up. I can let myself out.’
It is not good to be a man of habit. I hold in contempt those men who rule their lives by timetables, who run their existence with the efficiency of the German national-railway network. There can be nothing more despicable than for a man to be able to declaim, without demur, that at 13.15 each Tuesday he will be seated at the eighth table on the right from the door in the pizzeria on Via Such-and-Such, a glass of Scansano by his plate and a pizza ai fungi before him.
Such a man is puerile, has never been able to escape the security of parental order, the insistent but safe sequence of the school timetable. What for many years was mathematics or geography is now the pizzeria or the barber’s shop, the office coffee break or the morning sales
I poured the wine into a tall-stemmed glass, a tumbler of beer for myself, then carried the refreshments through on an olive-wood tray. I handed the wine glass over and watched as my guest sipped it.
‘Much better.’ The smile half formed. ‘We should have arranged for wine in the bar, not lemon juice.’
I sat on another of the chairs, put the tray on the floor and raised my beer.
‘Cheers!’ I said.
‘I do not have long.’
‘Quite.’ I took a pull of my beer and set the tumbler back down on the tray. ‘What exactly are your requirements?’
The eyes moved across to the windows.
‘You have a fine view from here.’
I nodded.
‘You’re not overlooked. That is most important.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, unnecessarily.
‘The range will be about seventy-five metres. Certainly not over ninety. Possibly much closer. I shall have not more than five seconds. Possibly seven, at the most.’
‘How many . . .’ I paused. One never knows how to phrase it. I have had this discussion so many times over the last three decades and I still do not have it worked out to perfection. ‘. . . targets?’
‘Just the one.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A rapid fire rate. A reasonably large magazine capacity. Preferably 9 mm Parabellum.’
The wine glass twisted in those artistic fingers. I watched as the reflection of the windows spun round against the mellow yellow of the wine.
‘And it must be light. Fairly small. Compact. Possible to be broken down into its constituent parts.’
‘How small? Pocket-size?’
‘Bigger would be permissible. A small case. Say a briefcase. Or a lady’s vanity case.’
‘X-rays? Camouflage – transistor radio, tape cassette, camera? In amongst tins, aerosols, that sort of thing?’
‘Not necessary.’
‘Noise?’
‘It needs to be silenced. To be on the safe side.’
The wine glass chimed as the base touched the stone floor and my visitor stood up to leave.
‘Can you do it?’
I nodded again.
‘Most certainly.’
‘How long?’
‘A month. To a trial. Then, say, a week for any final touches.’
‘Today is the sixth. I shall need a trial on the thirtieth. Then four days to delivery.’
‘I do not deliver, not these days,’ I pointed out. I had said as much in my letter.
‘To collection, then. How much?’
‘One hundred thousand. Thirty now, twenty at the trial, fifty on completion.’
‘Dollars?’
‘Of course.’
The smile was less cautious now. There was an edge of relief to it, a hint of satisfaction such as one sees on the face of anyone who has what they want.
‘I shall need a scope. And a case.’
‘Of course.’ I smiled now. ‘I’ll also prepare . . .’
I left the rest unsaid. A pen is no use without ink, a plate without food, a book without words or a gun without ammunition.
‘Excellent, Mr . . . Mr Butterfly.’
The manila envelope fell heavily on to the chair.
‘The first payment.’
The bills, judging by the thickness, must have been hundreds.
‘Until the end of the month, then.’
I rose to my feet.
‘Please don’t get up. I can let myself out.’
It is not good to be a man of habit. I hold in contempt those men who rule their lives by timetables, who run their existence with the efficiency of the German national-railway network. There can be nothing more despicable than for a man to be able to declaim, without demur, that at 13.15 each Tuesday he will be seated at the eighth table on the right from the door in the pizzeria on Via Such-and-Such, a glass of Scansano by his plate and a pizza ai fungi before him.
Such a man is puerile, has never been able to escape the security of parental order, the insistent but safe sequence of the school timetable. What for many years was mathematics or geography is now the pizzeria or the barber’s shop, the office coffee break or the morning sales
Similar Books
