Betrayal

Chapter 3

3

The parks were first to sense the coming weather change. A darkening of grey skies came first, followed by leaves twitching to a low sough sifting through them, the green fingers swaying in the breezes. Upsurge currents whispered the cry for change across the city, so that plant growth everywhere was shifting feverishly, in readiness for the coming. Just as suddenly, a stalling stillness returned. Then down came millions of them. Each with a separate identity, in a swirling motion to answer the clarion call for this new purity. The snowflakes landed where they were welcome, abandoned by the wind, as it tended to millions more earth-bound passengers. Parks and streets slowly changed colour, like a giant kaleidoscope. The white particles floating down onto soft turf and hard stone, covering greys and greens of the rough and the smooth. Only the lamp standards stood out aloof over their territories. Buildings, whether grand imposing edifices, or lowly homesteads, all gradually lost their huffy divisions, united at last under the thin blanket covering the city, except where the river and lakes swallowed up the white invaders without mercy.

That was how Frank saw it as he drove across the city in his hired Volvo, to his rented apartment in the quiet district where, on Marley’s assurance, his presence would not arouse undue attention. Worn and tired, like the rest of the ancient vehicle, the windscreen wipers struggled and groaned, almost losing the battle, to cope with the snow piling up on the glass. With everything getting wetter under the falling snow, his patience grew thinner with his crossing off street after street in never ending succession. What he was impatiently wanting see springing up just short of magic before him out there didn’t appear to be willing to grant his wish.

Continually craning his neck and straining his eyes, peering out to read partly obscured street names distracted Falzoni from what he should have seen. Until he saw it in the rear-view mirror. And yes, the car was following him. Time for crazy maze games. Ramming the pedal down fiercely, he had the car lurching forward, its wheels spinning in sudden wild acceleration, spurting out great arcs of snow to shower grim-faced passers-bye who were none too pleased to have the slush, in addition to the bitter wind, bite into their faces. Turning rapidly down side-streets, one after the other, without knowing where he was going – without caring where he was going --- didn’t seem to be doing any good. That damn blob of a stalker was still stuck there, square in the centre of the mirror.

Perhaps sensing Falzoni’s annoyance, the ‘blob’ started flashing its headlights. No, it wasn’t a trick of the light. There, in the mirror, the double spots of blue fog-lights were blinking in positive pattern. On and Off twice; pause, On and Off once; pause, On and Off twice. Repeated over and over. A finger was either jammed on a switch, or someone wanted a parley.

The ‘Indianapolis-500’ car rally ended slower than it had started, both of the vehicles pulling in, at a ‘safe’ distance apart, at the kerb. Two car door clicks, distinctively clear in the quiet night air. Blowing on his cold fingers, Falzoni looked down the street, taking in the dark figure cringing in the night, the face half covered by collar, the other half by snow. From the way the guy was holding that thick package, fingers splayed out, to his chest, you could have taken him to be a Dickens-style Bible-thumping evangelist in timely keeping with the ‘no room at the inn’, stable at Bethlehem theme.

Which, of course, he wasn’t. Blowing on his cold hands as he walked towards the guy, Falzoni recognised, with a knowing eye, the polite just discernible servile manner of the raw diplomat recruit. The courier from the Embassy.

‘Mr Lewis?’

‘The one and only, in person. Yeah, c’est moi.’ The playful words to put the nervous young rookie at ease. Frank looked up pointedly at the guy’s car roof. ‘Couldn’t Expenses afford to squeeze a neon sign in on its budget?’ Frank couldn’t help thinking that one of those contraptions glaring out its message could hardly have attracted more attention than the wild flashing of headlights had done.

‘Sorry?’

‘Skip it.’ Frank reached out to take the package. He saw through the open end of the small diplomatic bag what he reckoned to be a long night’s reading in the form of two fat folders. ‘My homework, right? That’ll take more than a packet of Camel and a long stream of coffees to get through. What do you reckon?’

Not knowing what to answer on that, the man blurted out: ‘I gather that it’s important --- useful, anyway, for you. According to Mr Hawkesly, that is.’

‘ “Useful,” huh?’

‘To be delivered to you immediately, he said –-- Mr Hawkesly, that is.’

‘Ah, of course, Mr Hawkesly,’

‘You know how he likes things done quicker than lightning. But you’ll already be acquainted with his ways.’

Frank gave a soft avuncular smile, shaking his head slowly. ‘Ah, no, sorry to disappoint you, but no, I don’t know your Mr Hawkesly.’ He held up the bag, with its ‘precious’ lot in a gesture of gratitude. ‘But you can tell him that I said thanks for this, and that I’ll get on with the good work at “lightning” speed, have no fear. We don’t want him developing ulcers from undue worry, do we?’

The young man gave a short laugh, realising now, that it was his own behaviour that was the butt of the humour. ‘I guess not, Mr Lewis.’

Looking down at his watch, Frank began turning away slowly as a signal before looking again at the courier. ‘Well if that’s all there is, I think we can call it a night and disperse, before the local Keystone Cops arrive to haul us in for ungodly soliciting in the street.’ He walked away with a quickening pace. Enough time wasted.

The courier called out. ‘Incidentally, Mr Lewis, we’re holding an informal cheese and wine sort of do on this coming Wednesday. Perhaps, in your capacity of professional gourmet, you’d care to come along and enlighten us with your valued opinion on the refreshments; the wines especially?’

Frank stopped, to turn round. He pulled on a frown, not that it could be seen at that distance in the poor light of the street lamps. ‘Now I do like the sound of wines, like music to my ears; but cheese? Cheese makes me think of mice. And mice scare the pants off me, but don’t tell anyone. So I think we’ll leave it there.’ He turned to walk away again, then stopped, looking back at the guy. ‘Say, kid, what the heck is your name, anyway?’

‘Hawkesly, sir.’

‘Hawkesly?’

‘Yes, Hawkesly. Hawkesly Junior, that is, sir.’