A Choice of Evils (21 page)

Now I decided to play it up a bit. ‘Oh that’s good. I haven’t a clue what you look like. Ahmed must have told you about me then?’ A slight pause held the silence. ‘But of course, we are in the same business,’ he answered. ‘Good. Then we shall talk when we meet as arranged,’ I replied. ‘It is agreed. Goodbye.’ he finished. The phone went dead.

The song was coming to an end when the doorbell rang. I was only expecting the one person, Sharon. The fragrance of paco rabani wafted alongside of me as I opened the door. She looked beautiful with a beaming warm smile. Her long blond hair hung limp over her shoulders as her head tilted to one side. Her shopping bag fell sideways as we crashed into a smothering embrace. I felt tingles of joy as I lifted her over the step into the hallway. It was the effect Sharon had upon me, and I knew from her responses the feeling was mutual.

With the beginning of a new Chris De Burgh song she minced into the kitchen ready to prepare the steak salad as promised. She sang along to the track called ‘High on Emotion.’ I knew she liked him singing as I made busy setting up the drinks. A nice chilled red Hungarian wine poured like velvet and matched Sharon’s full red lips. It wasn’t long before the steaks were ready for eating and it was a romantic sight as we sat at table overlooking the River Thames from my window. A myriad of lights danced with their reflections on the waters.

The meal complimented the music as the songs matched the mood as we listened to ‘Diamonds in the dark.’ The candelabra cast a steady opaque light as we looked into each other’s eyes. It was just nice to be sitting, eating, and listening to the song lyrics on a quadraphonic sound system. It was a million miles away from the life I was now living.

The evening was melting away as the CD of ‘Spark to a Flame’ came to an end. Now the wine bottle was empty as we held hands to gaze at a passing tourist boat. It was romantic looking at the riverside buildings all lit up in different colours. My hands moved around her waist as the smell of her fresh washed hair and a hint of Givenchy evoked strong feelings of pleasure as I breathed in her fragrances. After an exchange of delicate kisses, we moved out onto the balcony where we talked each other up to date of recent happenings. I made great play about the novel I was writing while Sharon told me of her new job as a public relations advisor. By comparison, my life seemed rather dull from the account I had given her.

A lurking caution at the back of my mind censored my tongue. The wine had not liberated me of the official secrets act and nothing was going to spoil the evening. Our lips met again as Big Ben chimed for 10.30pm. It came natural to progress into the bedroom. Sharon led the way, leaving a trail of her dress, nickers, bra and shoes on the carpet after visiting the bathroom. I followed on like a bee to a honeypot.

She was lying on the bed as I entered the bedroom. A small bottle of ‘Le De Oil Passion ell’ lay gift wrapped in the centre of my pillow. Sharon laid face downwards, her arms embracing the floral duvet. Some classical music washed through the house creating a melancholy atmosphere as her body was positioned in offering to the soothsayer, myself. I looked over the shapely curves of her beautiful body as a soft pink light enhanced her beauty even more.

My hands fumbled away the wrapping on her gift and let some droplets of the perfumed oil splash upon her back. I felt pulses of excitement throb through me as my hands glided over her soft silky skin and perfectly round buttocks. I caressed her with sensitive movements that seemed to reach deep inside her body. She responded with faint cries of pleasure as I glided over her back buttocks and legs. Then she turned over in a position of complete sacrifice. The pupils of her eyes expanded into pools joyful ecstasy as my hands slid tellingly over her soft melon sized breasts. With teasing squeezes, I manipulated and sucked her pink proud nipples until they stood erect in offering as heavenly fruits.

I was heating up as my hands toured over her thighs and calves. She arched to present me to a need in her lower pleasure zone. Her pink Venus exposed itself to me as I moved closer to her organ of pleasure. ‘Do it,’ she whispered, as I sunk intimately onto her pink throbbing clitoris. Then like a little boy with a delicious fruit lolly, I licked until she could stand it no more.

There was a feeling of heavenly delirium between us as our corresponding movements kept time until she reached that point of no return. Then with her hands cupped upon my head, she let go her wetness with the call of a wild primate, then sank into repose of blissful tranquillity. I lay for a moment with my head resting on her thighs admiring the beauty of so pretty a flower. The fruit of the sun had blossomed.

I felt a stirring in my lions as she gently eased me up towards her. Her delicate sweet smell of perspiration glistened over her body as I slid easily inside her. I felt myself enclosed and moved rhythmically to her commands. Her warm breasts pressed upon me as her hands squeezed my buttocks to push me deeper inside. The rise and fall of our bodies fused together until my penis felt like a red hot poker and the impending climax exploded us into a dizzy oblivion. We melted together soaking into our juices of creation as a blissful silence needed no explanation. At 1.am in the morning, I pulled the duvet over our warm bodies. We were happily spent of our needs.

Mouse alarm awoke us with his roaring laugh at 7.am. Our eyes met as a knowing smile grew into our faces and we left unsaid what needed not to be spoken.

Sharon claimed first use of the bathroom as I performed the ritual of kettle, radio and toast. I knew she had to go to work so I laid out her clean bra’ and knickers she kept here by arrangement. ‘So I can be fresh when I arrive and fresh when I leave’ she had told me.

After breakfast a cab was called, while she finished her final touches of makeup yet you would hardly notice she had used any. She was pretty enough. Ten minutes later the cab arrived for 8.am. There was no need to say anything special as it had all been said. ‘Let me know when the novel is finished,’ she asked as she parted at the door. ‘And don’t forget to phone me soon,’ she called, looking back with a smile. ‘You can be sure of that Sharon,’ I told her. As always the house felt empty after she had gone.

I watched through the window as the cab drove off towards the city. I felt rejuvenated. Tomorrow was Friday and my meeting with Pandres at Tesco’s passed through my mind. The thought of making another £50.000 was like having all my birthdays come at once. But today was mine and the memories of yesterday were now history, at least for the time being.

I needed to top up my credit on my mobile phone and there were lots of little jobs that needed doing. A letter in my post box was from the publishers asking for an update on the novel. There was a card from Louise too. I planned to make a meeting with her this coming weekend so I needed to phone her to keep the peace.

For most of the day I popped in and out collecting the newspapers and posting letters I had written. By late afternoon, I found some more inspiration and cracked on with typing more of my novel. It was at its height of the drama and closing to the end of chapter eleven. By ten o’clock, I felt the toll of writers fatigue and had to stop. Hunger took me to the fridge settling for a cheese sandwich. It occurred to me that I had not drunk any scotch all day and that was my excuse for pouring a large one as I caught up with the news on TV.

A prolonged chime of twelve bells from the carriage clock woke me up. I had fallen asleep in the armchair. In a trancelike state, I visited the bathroom then mobilised myself upstairs to bed. I could smell the scent of Sharon as I hugged the pillow and drifted sleepily into the memories of the night before.

Friday morning came soon enough as mouse greeted me with his usual laugh. ‘Have a nice day’ said his moving graphic. This brought my meeting at Tesco’s to mind. That would be for me to find out as the day wore on. I had slept well and with renewed energy I jumped out of bed to perform my usual rituals. A look out the window saw promise in a light blue March sky. I saw a dog pee on a wheel of my car after sniffing over a predecessor while a cat sat on a wall nearby, watching its enemy mark out its territory. Life’s like that, I thought.

My post box was empty as I left for the paper shop but I enjoyed a brisk walk there and back.

The main story in the papers was the royal family again. Only this time it reported a princess had gone on TV to ‘spill the beans’ about her reasons for divorce. A diatribe of smutty speculations followed all obtained through ‘inside sources’ of course. Wasn’t there more important things going on in the world than that? Besides, newspapers could print whatever they liked. The story of Ahmed’s demise was proof of that. I remembered I had to take the newspaper report on Ahmed to my meeting with Pandres.

At 1.30am it was time to make my way to Surrey Quays shopping centre and Tesco’s. A weak sun filtered through a pale blue sky as I strolled along. As usual, the place was packed with weekend shoppers when I arrived. I was conscious of the remaining five minutes to 2.pm as I walked into the bright illuminating lights of the Tesco store. A casual look at the positions of the cameras reminded me not to look up at the prearranged meeting point. With a basket in hand, I placed in a bread loaf and some tins of food before I arrived at the meat and fish displays.

I was looking at the price labels on some lamb chops when a voice next to me spoke, ‘How well prepared the meat is.’ I stared into the face of where the voice had come from. A pair of dark inquisitive eyes focussed into mine for a brief second. I knew it was Pandres. He was a squat stocky man with a round sweaty face with black hair and moustache. He was the same person I had seen peering at me on my last meeting with Ahmed. He obviously assumes I had not seen him on that occasion, I thought.

I hoped I appeared nonchalant and made a gesture resembling a smile determined to put him at ease. ‘In my country, we haggle over meat in the market place,’ he continued. ‘That way we get value for our money.’ I immediately took up his cue. ‘It is the best formula for agreeing on a price,’ I replied. He offered a strained smile. ‘Precisely, that way there can be no mistake once the price is agreed. You have the formula?’ he asked.’

‘Yes’ I told him. ‘It is sad what happened to Ahmed. It was a terrible accident which I read about in the newspaper. It was an unexploded WW2 land mine. Here, I have brought you the newspaper. I never got the chance to meet up with him on the beach. There is a balance of £50.000 to be paid before I hand it over.’

He took the paper and looked at the picture showing the wreckage of Ahmed’s grisly remains and read the report of it. ‘Allah Akbar!’ he said aloud. I knew this meant God is great and realised it was the typical prayer of the terrorist. I then feigned ignorance of the remark and raised my eyebrows in question of the money. ‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘The money will be ready to exchange for the formula when next we meet. It must be done soon then our business is complete.’

I nodded in agreement. ‘I shall get back to you in 48 hours.’ Pandres agreed to await my call and offered me a hand shake. Deep down inside of me, I knew it was to be his seal of fate but not mine. There was no doubt that what Commander Bennit had told me was true. These people were well trained to spot mistakes and from Pandres demeanour, I determined his mind was sharp and his dark eyes very observant. I could almost taste the little ripples of cautions emanating from him. But I too was acting from experience. In a way, it was a good match for a thief and a terrorist as we were both using our wits. Our handshake confirmed that.

We finally parted with the semblance of a mutual smile. I was glad to see the back of him now as I thought of the XP42 formula and that phial of cyanide concentrate I had seen at the Tropical Research Lab. It gave me a cold feeling, knowing I had just shaken the hand of a man who was prepared to use it on the British people. A glance at all the innocents out shopping made me cringe.

I left Tesco’s and made my way home. Fifteen minutes later I was indoors staring at the blinking light on my ansaphone. I pressed the recall button to hear a brief message, ‘Well done. Await call at 7.pm this evening.’ It was the voice of Elaine Marsh. It made me feel praise was being bestowed on a schoolboy but I knew they had observed the whole scenario on the Tesco cameras.

That evening I waited for the phone to ring. It did, precisely at 7.pm. ‘A taxi is calling for you at 8.pm, be ready. The driver has instructions. Goodbye.’ So that was it, a mystery tour. Again it was the voice of Inspector Marsh.

At 8.pm I was standing at my door to see a black taxi pull up. ‘Mr Jack Thomson?’ queried the driver. I nodded a yes. Two minutes later I was being driven into the city. The driver seemed the usual bored type of cabbie and had little to say until eventually we pulled up at Trafalgar Square. ‘Why here?’ I questioned him. ‘Orders Sir,’ he replied. The fare is paid and its Nelsons Column you want.’ A knowing smile ended with a wink then he was gone. Surely this two chinned chubby faced nobody could not be one of them? I thought.

I walked towards Nelsons Column and stood like a tourist admiring its structure. ‘Good evening. That’s as tall as the coast guards watch tower in Cornwall,’ said a petite auburn haired female. The key words of the coast guards watch tower caught my ears attention. ‘It is indeed.’ I replied. ‘Marion Betts,’ she continued. ‘Please come with me.’

I didn’t know what I was expecting but it all seemed quite civilised. She was quite a pretty sight and walked with a confidant step. I noticed she wore no rings.

We cut across the square to the Tate Gallery and up a few steps where we stopped at the main doors of the Art Tate Gallery. She pushed a bell which summoned an immediate response. The door was opened by a giant of a man in a grey suit. He was taller and bigger than the film Terminator star Arnold Scwartznegger with a square cut jaw. I sensed something had been well planned and it was happening during the gallery closing hours.

All three of us walked into and through the main art gallery to a door on the far side of the hall. We entered and descended down some spiral steps to a large basement. Again, our escort took us through this chamber into an ante room. It resembled a war time bunker no larger than an average sitting room. Here I was greeted by three familiar faces and two unknown others.