The Paper War - Part 2

Comedically thick billows of cigar smoke clouded the room but I didn’t feel like laughing. Instead, my stomach twisted with anxiety. His house was like a speakeasy for rich villains in a black and white movie; all dark wood and leather. Several men congregated around a massive medieval style fireplace. Then I saw him. His immense shoulders were turned away from me as he mixed drinks but even from behind, there was no mistaking his identity. The shine of his dark slicked back hair and flawlessly cut suit were a dead give-away. Poor choice of words. I swallowed hard. There was always a chance I could still make this mission a success. My presence still seemed unnoticed. Bertorello was perched on the arm of a leather easy chair, legs crossed, waiting for a bourbon or whiskey or whatever brown liquid he was pouring. I padded noiselessly across the carpet; deeper into the smoke. I liked the smell of cigar smoke. It recalled memories of childhood; of safety, and oddly, of love. The aroma eased my tightly wound nerves but only a little. There was no way to predict what might unfold in the coming minutes and that was enough to make me snap like a stale breadstick. You couldn’t be sure of any outcome in our business. Our business? I snorted inwardly. This wasn’t my business. This was an explosive hostage situation. I was way out of my depth and to make matters worse, I could have walked away. I wasn’t a hero or a spy, not even a vigilante. I was an English teacher.

The broad shoulders turned gracefully and faced me. He held expensive looking pedestal glasses. “Ah Miss Logan, welcome.” He said, without looking in my direction, like he’d known I’d been hiding in the smoke the whole time. I fought the urge to sneak a glance at Bertorello. Never drop the con, I reminded myself. That’s a spy rule, right? Or was that for con artists? In the slight chance Bertorello’s real identity was still unknown I couldn’t make the mistake of acknowledging him. “Good evening, gentlemen.” I swayed over languidly addressing them like old friends. I plucked one of the pretty little glasses from his hand and took a sip. That sip was a gamble I had to take. It would be too risky to accept a drink he made specially for me. I spun the wheel now I could only hope for the best. Poisoned drinks were just one more problem I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to calculate. My opponent’s handsome face gleamed in the firelight. He strode to Bertorello and handed him the other pedestal glass. He turned and gave me a knowing smile. Understanding washed over me like ice water. The pure unadulterated gall. That drink was poisoned. He knew everything, he knew who Bertorello was and why I was there. He’d waited for the whole gang to assemble before executing his plan so that I could witness the murder, witness my own failure. He was about to win. That’s why Bertorello was still alive. He wanted me to know I was powerless to stop him from murdering the hero of our time. He’d waited for my arrival to pull the trigger. Poor choice of words.

“Don’t!” I screamed, slapping the drink from Bertorello’s hand. It crashed to the floor of the fireplace sending the flames into a fury. “Wesley, you villain.” I spat out, focusing my eyes on him. No one moved, no one even breathed, adrenaline had me half wild. I was committed now, there was no room for doubt. The tension was as thick as the cigar smoke in anticipation of Wesley’s reaction. “Well done Miss Logan.” He began to laugh, clapping slowly. “Your… paranoid antics have successfully managed to ruin a very valuable Napoleonic glassware set, and who will clean it up?” Doubt sent an awful tremor rattling through my racing thoughts… Why was he so calm? Two-hundred-year-old glasses, really? How could I be thinking of glass sets at a time like this? Was I wrong… about everything? Our audience began to close in on us. Nope. I was right. This was exactly what it appeared to be, a trap. I finally stole a pained glance at Bertorello. An unspoken understanding passed between us. This was the end. Wesley’s intentions were lethal. Without warning, Bertorello stood up and stepped backwards into the fireplace and disappeared in a cloud of smoke. I screamed and woke up wiping cold sweat from my face.

I ran trembling fingers through my hair. Nightmares of the James Bond variety had peppered my sleep for the past three nights. It was like watching myself in a spy movie but I never saw the end. The sun outside my window was still low in the sky. I checked the clock and sighed, 7:47 AM. My one consolation in waking up so early was being in time to call-in-sick, again. ‘Bad clams’ was the only explanation anyone needed. There were never any further questions; absolutely no one wanted details. A little knot of discomfort formed in my mind. Would I have a job to go back to when this was over? This little ‘favor’ was turning my life upside down. Idly looking around my hotel room I pulled the covers close and examined the décor for the first time. Everything was white and sterile, like a posh sanitarium on a movie set. I pushed number 9 on the shabby gray bedside phone to call room service. There was something about telephones in hotels. They never changed, like Bertorello, reminiscent of the old world among the racing advances of technology. His ‘old school’ mentality might find kinship in this little wink to the past. I rolled over and waited for coffee, that elixir of life. The smell of the bleached sheets was the only comfort I had in this austere room still unsettled by dream villains and real-life dangers. My swirling thoughts threatened to overwhelm me. I wanted to cry but wrapped up alone in this warm bed, the tears could only threaten. I still had some fight left or maybe it was only denial, but toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe, right? Maybe I would cry later. Maybe I would die before the tears came but one thing was certain, I wouldn’t cry before the coffee came. “Come in.” I called in response to the knock at my door. A man dressed for a day at the office rather than room service delivery, let himself in, pushing my breakfast cart. Soon I was left alone with my one link to sanity; coffee and cured meats. I cocooned back in the sheets with the cart next to my bed.

I wasn’t sure why, but coffee made life more bearable, even in extreme circumstances. I wondered how people who didn’t drink coffee made it through life. Meandering to the window with prosciutto in hand, I considered the people below, people going about their mundane lives, probably unplagued by Jason Bourne style nightmares and not living in imminent danger. A little surge of jealousy rippled through me. It might be time to buy some clothes I thought, changing pace and adjusting the belt on my hotel robe. I left Budapest with only the clothes on my back having lost my overnight bag in the excitement of catching the train to Zagreb. The hotel cleaning service came to my rescue, since was I was still too afraid to go out alone but it was less than convenient. Today might be the day I was finally brave enough to go out on my own. I left the scene of all the irritating normal people living their irritating normal lives to check my buzzing phone.

I opened an email from my co-worker Anna, one of the few expats I still liked in Budapest. It was the usual Anna-style rhetoric. She offered me help in my time of gastric need and threatened me with beatings, in a loving way, if my ‘illness’ was actually an unplanned getaway with my ex-boyfriend. Anna considered him to be a ‘low-life’ and regularly reminded me of that fact. I would have no explanation if she came helpfully poking around to find my flat empty. What would I say? “Sorry I lied to you Anna, MI6 called and I’ve accepted the role of James Bond’s successor?” Nope. I’d have no explanation as to why I was not worshipping the porcelain god of the bathroom. That would be the end of my job and maybe the end of our friendship. I threw the phone too hard onto the bed. It bounced off and annoyingly hit the floor. My heart lifted as I imagined Anna laughing in disbelief when I’d tell her about my adventures. She’d love every second of it. I think. I hoped I was going to love every second of it. For the moment the jury was still out. My mind flitted back to Oliver, my ex-boyfriend and wondered how I had been so blind to his true character. I couldn’t think of anyone less like Bertorello. Getting to my feet I made my way to the couch and reached into the cushions with a shudder to retrieve a stack of euros I’d hidden there. There was no activity filled with more disgusting possibilities than sticking a hand into any couch cushions but where else could I stash my payout? I hadn’t been brave enough to go to a bank alone and I felt silly asking to be accompanied. So instead, I stashed it throughout the room. Placing the wad on the side table I walked to the bathroom. Today was the day. Today I’d venture back into the world. My naked face stared back at me in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. The deep cut on my forehead was healing. I tried to imagine how I’d look when it was just a scar. I smiled nonetheless focusing on the pleasant possibilities the day could hold. I could buy new clothes, maybe shoes too. The prospect of unbudgeted retail therapy eclipsed my fear of uncertain death. If I die, I die… stylishly.

The sliding doors of the hotel blew my hair back when I stepped out into the morning sun. There’s something to be said for sun and warmth to soothe the gnaw of anxiety. I reminded myself to be cautious, my problems were not a figment of my overwrought mind. The smell of food and cigarettes combined with the easy chatter of people in the distance blew the residue of my nervousness far away. I stopped to buy another meat filled pastry and ate it in front of the Ban Jelacic monument. He sat on his horse, poised for battle. I wondered about his battle and the battle I was embroiled in. Snapping a photo, I tried with moderate success to capture him, my pastry, and my face. No harm in being a tourist, even though I was the nonstandard type. I wasn’t even sure what I was up against, not yet, anyway. My feet took me step by step deeper into the city unsure of my destination. I thought of my old life as I glanced at the patrons of sidewalk cafes leisurely enjoying a drink. In North America people didn’t seem to take time to enjoy life. We just rushed around with a half gallon of coffee in a paper cup. ‘Overworked’ and ‘overtired’ were badges of honor. The pace here was definitely more manageable. Since ‘uprooting’ my life to move to Europe, my anxiety level had gone way down except of course, when my life was in immediate danger. I turned down a picture-perfect alley with signs over unexpected doorways leading into shops and restaurants. It was basically my dream of a European city. I sighed with contentment.

Not being able to speak any Croatian, I pulled open a door that hopefully led to a clothing store. From behind a pile of jeans the shop attendant belted out a greeting I didn’t understand. “Hello.” I said tentatively trying to declare that I didn’t know the language. She smiled and appraised me from head to toe putting down the clothing. I tried to ignore her potential conclusions. I was evidently not at my best but it wasn’t my fault. “What are you looking for?” she asked in a pretty accent.

“I need a whole new wardrobe.” I said apologetically looking around. I didn’t know why I was apologizing especially since I was the only one in the store. She smiled and with a hand gesture I was ushered into a small change room. She brought outfit after outfit. I’m starting to love Zagreb, I thought, posing in the mirror. Personal shopping was a new and wonderful world. My already good mood was improving with every new garment I tried. Blending in would help me avoid danger, right?

Sauntering back to the hotel to deposit my spoils, I stopped to ask the agent at the front desk where I could buy a suitcase. Bertorello and Ponceau had invited me to lunch but there was still time before our rendez-vous. The hotel staff recommended a department store to find good luggage. I despised department stores, but this wouldn’t be the Hudson’s Bay, and apparently, it was highly recommended. I’d give it a chance, I had nothing to lose.

By the time I’d gotten lost and found my way again the welcome blast of air conditioning rose goosebumps all over as I walked into the towering store. The atrium style floors were decorated with ornate brass railings. I meandered through the maze of counters and stared longingly at the cosmetic displays. They’d have to wait. Luggage was the priority. With a suitcase, I could save myself the horror of digging through the couch cushions. Perhaps I’d be back in Budapest soon and wouldn’t need to buy more, but a twisting feeling in my stomach told me not to jump to conclusions. After what felt like a lot of searching, I found a well-hidden escalator. Jumping on, I didn’t realize the escalator bypassed the second level. I bristled with impatience as I floated past a luggage display. Why have escalators that don’t stop on every floor? I was deposited at the end of the line in a department that catered to active lifestyles. Unable to find the elusive escalator to the floor below, I gave up and began picking through brightly colored loungewear I’d circled at least three times. It was eerily still as I helped myself to a change room. The layout was confusing and I had yet to see any staff. This place was turning out to be a lot like western department stores with no staff to be found. I stepped into one of the stalls swishing the curtain closed behind me. As I bent to put my clothes down, the fitting room curtain gave a slight tremor.

Paranoia danced up my spine taking hold of my brain. I tried desperately to remember if I might have missed someone on my way in. Thoughts of Janet Leigh in the shower scene of Psycho did nothing to reassure me. Banishing that image from my mind, I steadied my breathing but it was hard with my mouth drying up. I stood motionless waiting for what happened next. A throat cleared behind the curtain. “Yes?” I croaked try to sound calmer than I felt. A heavily accented male voice answered, “I have the sizes Madam requested.”

Madam didn’t request any sizes, I sneered inwardly. With one last attempt at a deep breath, I swung the curtain open dramatically and looked straight at him in hopes it might discourage him if I could positively identify him later. Provided there was a later. It didn’t seem like much of a deterrent to me at that moment. His unruly dark hair flopped down covering one of his pale blue eyes. Not what I imagined for a typical henchman but he definitely seemed the type to do some extra-curricular knee breaking.

“I think it was the lady over there who needed assistance.” I waved grandly in the other direction. As his head turned, I bolted to find any escalator that would take me out of there. Was I was overreacting? Doubt crashed through my mind, thinking how embarrassing it would be if he was actually an employee who went to the wrong stall. Was he just trying to help someone with their shopping experience? A hand seized my arm dashing my doubts to oblivion. I tried to wrench it free but his grip was too tight. “You should not have gotten involved Miss Logan.” He breathed into my ear. Even his breath seemed murderous. I couldn’t die in a department store. It wasn’t dignified. His grip tightened painfully twisting my arm behind my back. In a flash of panicked inspiration, I stomped a heel on his foot. The hold loosened on my arm. I turned to see an angry snarling face. Definitely a henchman. I jerked my knee up and made contact where it counted. He doubled over but still didn’t fully let go. I pulled my arm away, a hot ripping feeling shot through my shoulder. I fell backwards to the floor, puffing hard but barely registering the pain. Where are all the escalators? Looking frantically from side to side, I crawled just out of his reach. My pulse was hammering in my ears. High school self-defence training had actually come in handy, I thought vaguely, as I darted through aisles of clothing. Just behind me, tall, dark, and terrifying was staggering after me. I came to the top of an upward escalator. I swore under my breath and began a furious descent.

My new friend attempted an equally slow and futile pursuit down the up escalator. This store. I’m going to complain, if I survive. My legs wobbled clumsily with exhaustion but I pushed forward afraid if my new friend fell, he’d take me down with him. That would be an extremely disappointing twist of fate. “Miss Logan!” Panic shot through me hearing him say my name again. I finally made it to the second floor. It was as deserted as the third. I dove behind a counter full of pantyhose as he approached. My breathing was ragged, heavy, and very audible. Getting into shape was going to be the new priority for my life. I could hear him moving closer to the counter where I was hiding. Crawling as noiselessly as possible in the other direction I knocked over a stand of panty hose. “I found you.” He smiled maliciously. I stood up with the packages in hand and began hurling panty hose at his face like frisbees. “Stay away from me!” I screamed hoping the racket would garner attention if there was, in fact, anyone else in this store. I moved left. He moved right. I moved right. He moved left. We continued to circle to the counter but I was running out of panty hose and not particularly successful in doing anything other than infuriating him. Why is this happening? I thought frantically. My dry mouth reminded me that I didn’t have many words left. “What do you want?” I hissed at this angry bear of a human.

“It’s not what I want. It is what we want, Miss Logan. I’m here to take back what you stole from us.” He growled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and how do you know my name, creep?” I was surprised how much attitude my dry mouth could spout in a life-threatening situation.

“Oh, but I think you do.”

“No, I really don’t.” This was starting to be ridiculous. Actually, it was completely ridiculous. Launching panty-hose and arguing with this thug like a couple of children was starting to seem like a natural unfolding of events. If this scene continued I might get a police escort out which was looking like my safest bet. He spat something nasty out in another language as one of my panty-hose frisbees hit him in the eye. That’s when I saw it. That elusive beast, the glorious downward escalator. Sweating and cursing my sedentary lifestyle I dropped back to all fours out of sight and scrambled towards it. Hope swept over me, I was going to make it, I was going to be okay. I wasn't going to die in a department store. A hand clasped around my ankle and hope skittered away like cockroaches in the light. I tried to wriggle free with the little strength I had left. No luck. I was out of energy and ideas. I tried to scream but nothing came out. He dragged me backwards past the luggage display. I reached up and grabbed a hold of one of the mannequins pulling down that lovely lady and all of her friends. The entire display toppled down over us. I rolled free in the commotion. My assailant lay momentarily unmoving in a mess of gadgets, bags, and plastic limbs. Picking up a loose mannequin arm I wound up like I was practicing for the PGA and connected with his ribs. For someone who had no fighting experience other than Mortal Combat, I’d been really lucky. Better to be lucky than good, right?

Too tired to run I stepped back. He rose slowly to his feet clutching his side. I was panting, my mannequin arm still at the ready. His eyes told me everything I needed to know. I was going to die a terrible death and he was to be my executioner. “Oprostite! Oprostite!” Yelled a sleepy looking security guard as he came jogging over. I dropped my weapon-arm. “What is happening?” He demanded obviously confused and irritated at being woken up. He pronounced ‘what’ as ‘vaht’. This was my queue. I began to splutter incoherently. “He attacked me and chased me through the store.” I was proud of my unexpected quick thinking. I even mustered up a tear or two and the extremely sympathetic security guard immobilized my assailant in a very unpleasant way. My hero was no ordinary mall-cop, he looked more like professional wrestler. This may have been more nerve-wracking than my exit from Budapest but there hadn’t been any helpful security guards in that adventure. A few more employees materialized. I watched, still trying to catch my breath as they frog marched the villain away.

An employee approached me. She was obviously much less convinced of my innocence than my rescuer. “Are you alright?” She asked looking me up and down with evident distrust. “I’m still a bit shaken.” I said, still playing the innocent victim, which I was. “I think I need some air.” I grabbed her arm as if to steady myself. She quickly pulled it away looking at me like a spider she was going to kill. I was still breathing hard, no need to play that up. “Yes, of course.” She said narrowing her eyes. She wasn’t buying it. To her, I was just a troublemaker. I didn’t blame her. I’d want to punch me too if I had to clean up the mountain of plastic limbs that came down in the scuffle. As she turned, I took my opportunity to vanish like a normal person down the correct escalator.

The sunlight outside was blinding. With the fade of adrenaline exhaustion and pain washed fully over me. My shoulder pulsed and burned. I would probably need medical attention I thought uneasily. That might be a problem. I hailed a taxi, getting in, I handed the driver a card with the address of my hotel. My mind spun with growing confusion and fear. I never found a suitcase I grumbled to the empty seat beside me. Shock took over and I began to hiccup.

*******************

“You did what?” Bertorello said, half amused, as I relayed my morning’s exploits. He was particularly entertained by my creative use of mannequin body parts. Ponceau snorted trying not to spray us with the brandy he was sipping. “Then what happened?” Bertorello pressed once the threat of a Brandy shower was over. “Hang on” I said “Let Ponceau finish his drink, I don’t want second hand liquor all over my face.” Ponceau drained his glass, laughing and choking while urging me on with a wave of his hand. “That’s it, security came to the rescue. They really need more staff, though.” Ponceau snorted again as I finished my story. The lack of staff was oddly the main detail that burned in my mind.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” His French accent slightly more pronounced by the gravity of the situation. I avoided his stare nervously. I did. I knew exactly what it meant. I was trying hard not to admit it to myself. I looked at him then to Bertorello who picked up the thread. “It means you are now known to them.”

“Known.” I repeated the word dejectedly.

“Yes, known to them.” Ponceau affirmed, pausing between each word for dramatic effect.

Looking out on the city scape from our table on Bertorello’s balcony gave me that new and reoccurring feeling of unreality. Everything was so upside-down it just couldn’t be real. It must be a dream.

“You are now known to the enemy. Known to be one of us.” I shivered in the warmth of the noonday sun. My sanity was hanging off a cliff by its finger tips.

“Practically speaking, what does that mean for me?” I asked softly.

“It means that you cannot go back to your life in Budapest until it is safe. Your flat is likely under surveillance and now they are convinced you work for us.” Bertorello said standing and walking over to the railing. He sighed. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“But who are these people anyway?” I asked.

“That is need to know, ma petite.” Ponceau answered. “We will tell you what you need to know when you need to know it. As things stand, the more you know, the more danger for you and the more danger for you, the more danger for us.” I shivered again taking a sip of the bright orange alcohol. It tasted like candy. I wished I knew what it was called, it was delicious. I hiccupped. Anxiety hiccups? Great. I swirled the liquid in the snifter and sighed tragically. I felt like I was watching my dreams disappear down a toilet.

“I guess we are stuck with each other.” I forced a smile.

Bertorello smiled back sympathetically. “That we are, but Ponceau and I aren’t the worst company, are we? Well, at least I’m not.” Bertorello grinned mischievously.

“Hélas, no indeed.” Ponceau said with a playful glare. “You have before you two of the most sought-after men in Europe.” Raising his glass to me with a wink, I clinked mine against his and laughed.

“It’s the ‘sought after’ part that worries me.” I said

He leaned back in his chair tipping his white Panama Hat forward. He looked like an actor from Casablanca. He could have been an official who was mostly good but sometimes took bribes. “Bertorello has an excellent sense about people. I doubt he is wrong about you.”

“Wrong about what?” I asked.

“When we first met I felt you’d be effective in situations like this. Otherwise, I’d never have trusted you with that book. So far, I think my assessment was correct.”

“Oh… situations like this morning and in Budapest?” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t decide if that made me feel better or worse.

“I think the way you handled yourself thus far is a testament to my being correct in my assessment.” He shrugged his shoulders like we were discussing the possibility of dessert rather than the fate of my existence. “However, regardless of your luck or quick thinking we cannot take anymore chances. There is no more margin for error and you are clearly not safe. To be cautious, you will have a few designated shadows.” He finished.

“For heaven’s sake Sandro, don’t terrify her.” Ponceau said from under his hat. Sandro was Ponceau’s nickname for Bertorello.

“These shadows will function like a discreet security team. They will see you and you will not even know they are there… if you like.”

“You could have set this up earlier.” I said.

“Yes, I fear we were too optimistic about having concealed your identity and connection with us.”

“Everyone knows my name like I’m a celebrity.” I snorted.

There came a knock at the door. Ponceau called out for the person to enter. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. We just established I was enemy target number one, letting people in willy-nilly was not my preference. A waiter in an beaten up old-timey tux wheeled in a tea cart of food and more drinks. Along with working out, I was going to have to build up my alcohol tolerance to keep up with my new ‘company’. “How can you be so comfortable with strangers?” I asked Bertorello.

“You get used to it.” He answered. “You have to. It’s much like having a stone in your shoe. You are aware of it but it after a while it fades into the background.”

“Like a stone that could explode and kill you.” I said rubbing my throbbing shoulder. “So, what do we do now?” I asked.

“First we are going to eat.” Ponceau said walking over pushing the tea cart.

“Then we find someone to examine your shoulder.” He smiled.

“Then,” continued Ponceau. “You and Bertorello need to make preparations to return to Budapest.”

I gasped. “But I thought you said it wasn’t…” I was cut off by another knock at the door. Bertorello, looked up sharply. "Did you order anything else?"