(8) Still One To Go
Andrew, despite a complete lack of evidence or anything even suggesting evidence, had himself convinced that Hugh was a marked man. The one-down-two- to-go mantra had preoccupied him for god knows how long. Maybe the suitcase explosion outside the CCIS building had been a turning point. Even more than the failed kidnapping, with the perps still hospitalised, one in a coma and the other not talking. Not that he was being pushed to talk. The cops had been asked not to go further than careless. The right front tire, practically bald, had blown out anyway. Andrew’s James Bond derring-do hadn’t mattered in the end, although his quick thinking certainly had. Dennis had passed on thanks and congrats from on high some days back. And no, it did not mean he was on any inner circle or A-list, but his name had been duly noted and would not be neglected in any future ventures. There’d have been a small token of gratefulness had he required one, but Dennis had assured them of his adequate finances. Andrew muttered about a case of single malt and Dennis had been much amused, suggesting that maybe he buy him one.
Meanwhile Hugh put his back into spring landscaping activities, as good as any young lad Hugo reported, and Andrew footered about in his own patch of hope and expectation. The carrot tops were nice and green and the cherry tomato plants had recovered from their initial droopiness. Did one have to practice fretting or did it come naturally? He must remember to ask Nick DiReggio about it. They’d been not quite on the outs for the last while, but certainly things were a little frosty. Andrew should never have mentioned the 30,000 odd Italian troops fighting on Franco’s side in the civil strife of the thirties. Bad move that, even if it was true. Where had he read or maybe seen it? Some doc from the net? People should know that. Okay, so history had been his minor, but he’d been keen. And after all, Le Bon David had authored the most read popular histories of his day. Which reminded him, it was definitely time to get that hidden gem down off the shelf for a second look. Why not now? He’d already spent twenty or so minutes admiring the majesty of the lake, with its deep slow swells resolving themselves into delicate splashy wavelets on the shore, and there’s was obviously no mileage in fretting about his garden until he’d been brought up to date on the proper approach to such practices. Of course, he’d wind up with the Italo-Canadian version, which might be totally unsuitable for a Presbyterian Buddhist like himself.
In such a tizzy he drifted inside and upstairs to the History shelves where Hume’s History of England lay in waiting, an old wooden office chair obliging beneath. The unbearably comfortable ones that seemed to be everywhere fifty years before and almost nowhere now. Scrupulous scholar that he was, he picked a volume sightlessly and opened it at random. Was that the phone he could hear downstairs? Bugger it. Of course, it could be Vee demanding immediate attention. Or Dennis with an update on international intrigue, chapter twelve verse thirty-one. Maybe Hugh had been vaporized with some high tech gismo that made drone technology look redundant, if not downright rusty. He’d read that drones were so cheap and easily available some agency czars were turning up their noses. Maybe they had a point. Who wants something that any Hezbollah grunt can pick off the shelf at some third rate souk in Yemen, never mind the Beirut WalMart? No, Hugh had been vaporised by some laser beam directed from a satellite parked just south of Saturn. Maybe Andrew was next. He went down and checked the message. It was Vee calling from Rosedale; If he didn’t have anything better to do, and she was sure he did not, why didn’t he just mosey on down for dinner, as Katerina was preparing some kind of feast that Eleanor had seen on some cooking show. She might even throw in a blow job if he arrived in time. Andrew’s resistance withered.
