Chance Encounter

While he waited for Connie in Manuel's bar, Ian was treated to a
coffee on the house and a lecture from the proprietor.
"You are a very lucky man, Senor. I have not known Connie to go with
any other tourist. Up to now, she has really only had anything to do
with Senor Greaves. He is a nice gentleman but much to old for a
beautiful young girl like Connie. I am pleased she has decided to go
out and enjoy herself with somebody nearer her own age. She has only
been here for a short time but already; I have begun to regard her as a
daughter. I do not want to see her unhappy."

Here we go, Ian thought to himself, he had not got so far as stepping
out of the door with this over-protective man's adopted daughter, and
already the question of honourable intentions was about to arise.

Connie's appearance brought a sudden end to the Spaniard's inquisition,
and an expression of relief to Ian's face. Manuel slapped his left hand
on the table and waved the other in the direction of Connie.

"Ah! See! Now, what did I tell you, my friend? Is she not a picture of
elegance and beauty?"

"Less of the Blarney," Connie told him, "And you," she rounded Ian,
"Don't you believe a word he's said!"

Ian found that easier said than done, especially the Spaniard's
assessment of his employee's appearance: There was nothing exceptional
about the cool, cream linen dress. It was the way she wore it, as if it
had been casually dropped over that close-cropped hair to settle around
her. The effect created an aura of confident, simple lines that were
more than pleasing to the eye.

"You look after my baby now, won't you?" Manuel grinned as he skidded a
set off car keys across the table. "I think she has petrol in
her."

"He thinks!" Connie tutted as she snatched up the keys.

Manuel's 'baby' was an old battered, blue Fiat 500. Not the scarlet
Ferrari that would have been more in keeping with Connie's style.

Folding his limbs, Ian eased himself into the confines of the front
passenger seat and fragrance of Connie's perfume. With the roof rolled
back and the windows down, once the car was moving, the scent soon
became less defined, leaving him to seek consolation in the view of her
bronzed legs afforded by the short cut of her dress.

The rhythmic movements of her knees as she worked the pedals to change
gear held him mesmerized for longer than they should have done. It was
only when he looked up to see if she was watching him watching her that
he noticed the jagged scar, high on the right side of her forehead.
This was the injury he had last seen freshly stitched at the hospital.
He found it difficult to believe he had not spotted it earlier. Her
original hairstyle, or any average length cut, would have easily
disguised the wound. But, for some strange reason, she had opted for
that cropped look which left the scar full exposed. Then again, he
decided, after further observations, it wasn't exactly a disfigurement,
it fact it wasn't really worth bothering about.

The Fiat's small engine whined. The gearbox went up another notch, as
did his brain. The reality of his predicament became all too apparent:
He was in a strange car in an alien country, with a mysterious young
female, going God knows where! In the James Bond films the ach-villain
always used a glamorous woman to lure the hero into some deadly trap.
How could he be sure this was not what he had let himself in for?
Connie had all the qualifications of a femme fatal, right down to those
sinister looking sunglasses. She had told him she was working on his
side, but he had seen no identification. If she was working for some
major terrorist organisation, it would have an intelligence wing with
access to any amount of confidential information, including his name
and address etc.

Connie! - Constance! - My arse! - He thought: Her real name had to be
Pussy Galore, or something like that. Life was so unfair; it was just
his luck to be taking his last ride on Earth in an old Fiat 500 instead
of a scarlet Ferrari.

However, for the moment he was safe. If she had a Beretta, he could
quite clearly see, it was not strapped to her thigh. Therefore, it had
to be in her handbag on the back seat.

"Where are we going?" he asked, nervously raising his voice above the
rattling of the car.

"Just somewhere quiet where we can talk in private. [He had heard that
one before.] Why?" She glanced away from the road and at him. "Have you
got any preference?" At least he was being given a choice of where he
would receive a bullet in the head.

"No." He shrugged, "I don't know anywhere. Couldn't we have just gone
to the beach?"

"And what about your friends? Would there be any guarantee against them
interrupting us? Anyway," she continued, "this is my day off and I want
to do something with it."For one moment he thought she'd pressed the
ejector seat button, when the car hit a bump in the road that nearly
shot him through the roof.

"Sorry." She smiled a smile that suggested she was on the side of good
against evil. But, she followed it up by saying, "D'you know, you
showing up like this has made things very awkward for me?"

That, he knew from the films, was a classic prelude to an
execution.
"Of all the gin joints in all the world, or whatever that line is from
Casablanca," he joked to make light of the situation.

"Exactly! It is incredible, isn't it?" She smiled that smile again,
"So, how much has Manuel told you about me?"

"I've heard your invented biography of being a language graduate
polishing up on her Spanish," he replied as the tiny Fiat squealed in
protest at being forced up a steep incline in second gear.

"Don't be so sceptical. As a matter of fact, I have got a degree in
modern languages and, while I'm here, I suppose I am polishing up my
Spanish."

But we both know that's not the whole story, don't we?" he challenged
her, "For instance, I don't even believe that your name is really
Connie."

Her reaction suggested he had touched a nerve.
"Why do you say that?"

"Because you don't look like a Constance."

"You've got too many preconceptions," she laughed.

They pulled off the road and drove along a narrow sand track that
terminated on a cliff top overlooking the sea. Connie brought the car
to a halt, jammed on the handbrake and switched off the engine.

This was it - this was where he was sure to get a bullet in the brain
before being pushed over the edge. The Fiat was ideal - small enough
for her to manage on her own.

Full of trepidation, he watched, warily, as she removed her sunglasses,
so that when she swivelled to retrieve the handbag off the back seat,
he was quick enough beat her to it. By fumbling the bag through his
fingers he was able to ascertain that, although it contained several
hard objects, there was nothing in the shape of a gun.

"Thanks." She eyed him suspiciously as she accepted the bag from his
grasp and sank her hand into its depths. "That bloody dust gets
everywhere," she said, producing a packet of Handy Andies. Then, with
the driving mirror tilted to an appropriate angle, she dabbed her eyes
with a corner of a tissue.

"D'you know," he said, "You look a lot younger and not a bit like you
did on the bus."

Her face broke into a broad mocking grin.
"Then, how the hell did you recognise me?"

"Mainly by your perfume."

"God!" She slapped the steering wheel. "I don't believe it! I know I
have a weakness for decent perfume but Chanel isn't that unique. There
must be hundreds of women who use it."

"Well, don't they say the fragrance varies with the wearer? Anyway, it
wasn't only that - it's your eyes as well."
She betrayed a hint of embarrassment.

"You should be in this job instead of me. Come on." She wrenched the
door open and swung her legs over the sill. "It's stifling in here.
Let's see if we can find some breeze."

He hesitated, momentarily, until the sight of the keys left in the
ignition eased his anxiety. If she intended bumping him off she would
not have given him the opportunity of escaping in the car. Nor would
she have given him the chance of legging it while she casually ambled
towards the edge of the cliff.

He followed her path to a clump of rocks, a short distance from the
car, where he sat down beside her and took in the panoramic view of the
sea. Refusing his offer of a Rothman's with a wave of her hand, she
studied his face as he lit one for himself.

"You're still not sure of me, are you?"

"What makes you say that?" he asked, blowing smoke into the air.

"I saw the way you handled my bag. You thought I had a gun in there,
didn't you?"

"Did I?"

"Yes," she chuckled, "But I can tell you, I'm not some sophisticated
secret agent with a licence to kill. I'm just here to observe - nothing
more than that.

"Observe what?"

She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts.
"Look, Ian, you must understand I can only tell you so much. And, God
knows I've had enough trouble getting authorisation for that
much.

"I'm listening," he told her.

"Well, I've been with the police since finishing at university. I
happened to be on secondment to CID when I was assigned to a
surveillance operation. Apparently, a certain national security service
had been tipped off that a suspected member of an extremist
organisation was renting a house on our patch. Unknown to us, the local
plod, they had been watching the premises for some time. But the
operation was scaled down when the tenant suddenly upped and left for
Spain. When the hitchhiker moved into the house, soon after it had been
vacated, the national lot were caught flat-footed. So, at short notice,
we were given the job while a check was run to find out exactly who the
hitchhiker was.

By the time the information came through, confirming he was a suspect,
the hitchhiker was already on his was with that rucksack of his. I was
given the job of following him. Arrangements were made for a nation
security officer to join me, just in case I was rumbled or, if
necessary, to effect an arrest. I was to identify myself to the
national officer at the bus stop by asking him the time, while making
it obvious I was wearing a watch. You made this difficult by being
between us. I mean it would have looked suspicious if I'd sidestepped
you to ask him. So I decided to ask you loud enough for him to hear.
You didn't notice I was wearing a watch but he was able to acknowledge
the message behind your back.

Our information did not suggest it would be a suicide bombing. We
didn't even have any reason to suspect the rucksack actually contained
a bomb. Our only task was to keep him in sight and only take action if
he did something suspicious, like leaving the rucksack somewhere. We
still have no clear idea of what his intended target was. We know it
wasn't the bus. It would seem a fault in the timing mechanism, or the
lateness of the bus or, more likely, a combination of the two was
responsible for the device being activated prematurely. Whatever the
cause, we all know how tragic the results were."

"So, that's what you do for a living, is it - play with people's lives?
Surely, if you had the slightest suspicion that lives might be at risk,
you should have taken the necessary steps and arrested the bastard
before he could cause any harm."

"Ian!" She almost shouted at him, "I understand what you're saying.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. We all wish we knew then what we know
now. Don't you think I've run through all the alternative scenarios a
thousand times? The situation was: We suspected he was up to something.
We had no indication of what it was. Our objective was to find out, not
only what he was up to, but also who else was involved. If, as you
suggest, we'd have given him a tug, say for walking on the cracks in
the pavement, and he'd have come up clean, we'd have blown everything.
We couldn't afford that. Everyone else involved would have gone to
ground, only to regroup again at some other time, in some other place,
to carry out a similar atrocity. We need them in the net to make sure
they never get another chance. I know this sounds terrible but, if the
clock was turned back, with the information we had at the time, I can't
see how it could have been handled any differently." She stared at him
hard from behind her sunglasses. "Honestly, Ian, I do regret not being
able to do more to prevent all the awful suffering of that day, and I'm
no hero, so do you think if I'd had the slightest notion of what was
about to happen, I'd have been on that bus?"
Her eyes followed his as he looked down to stub out his cigarette on
the side of a rock.
"You must think I'm an awful, inconsiderate sod," he almost
whispered.

"Why?"

"Because I haven't once asked how badly you were hurt. I see that cut
on your head left a scar."

A self-conscious reflex brought her fingers to her forehead.
"Is it that obvious?"

"No," he assured her with an emphatic shake of his head, "I only
noticed it a few minutes ago. But you didn't look to be in very good
shape that night in the hospital. And, when I tried to find out how you
were, it seemed somebody had pulled the shutters down. How bad was
it?"

"Your concerns were passed on to me at the time," she smiled, "And now
I hope you can understand why you were kept in the dark. Anyway, I
guess I was lucky. Because the hitchhiker bore the brunt of the blast,
I got away with a few lacerations, some concussion, bruising and shock.
I suppose, in a way, I was more fortunate than you. Being stunned, I
missed the visual horror of it."

"Yeah," he nodded, "It wasn't something I find easy to come to terms
with. "So," he said in a way that indicated he was keen to move the
conversation on, "who's the subject of your surveillance? Is it Manuel
or that artist bloke?"

"Roger Greaves?" She laughed. "No it's neither of them."

"So, who is it?"

"Hey, come on, Ian, you must know I can't divulge that sort of
information."

"OK" he conceded, "but tell me; how come you got the job I should have
thought that nearly being blown to bits once would be enough for
anyone."

"I did have problems convincing the 'powers that be' of my suitability
to remain on the investigation team. They thought my personal
involvement would compromise my objectivity."

"So you actually volunteered for this assignment?"

"I'm a professional. I do take an interest in my work. I like to see
things through to a conclusion. So, with my knowledge in languages and
my previous experience of the case, I satisfied all concerned that I
was the best person for the job. The only fly in the ointment, so far,
is you turning up."

He gave an awkward little shrug.
"Sorry for being an inconvenience. But, if I'm that much of a pain in
the arse, why did you admit who you are to me?"

"It was a difficult decision. I clocked you as soon as you walked into
Manuel's yesterday afternoon. That's why I made my escape to the
market. It gave me time to think. As I saw it, I was left with two
choices; either I told you and gambled on you keeping it to yourself,
or I denied it. I reckoned the latter was more of a risk. If you
pursued your doubts publicly, there was a good chance of you blowing my
cover and jeopardising the whole operation." She swung her eyes away
from him and fixed them on the distant horizon. "It was then I
considered a third option."

A moment or two passed, and when she showed a reluctance to continue,
he asked quite innocently,
"And what was that?"

She twisted around to face him full on again and, in a calm, clear
voice, told him,
"I considered eliminating you once and for all by spiking your drink."
He could not detect so much as a blink behind the sunglasses. She held
him cruelly transfixed by her stare while the hairs bristled on the
back of his neck and he felt the blood drain from his cheeks. After
what seemed an eternity her mouth curved into a mischievous grin that
split her face from ear to ear. "Bloody hell, Ian, you should see your
face! I really had you going there, didn't I?" She laughed out loud,
"You swallowed that one hook, line and sinker." Before he could respond
she gave his leg a playful slap and sprang to her feet. "Come on," she
giggled, "lets find somewhere to eat."

? copyright Paul Holmes 2001