‘Rufus! Hey, Rufus. Come on. Wake up.’
He could hear the voice – it was a man’s – but he couldn’t see a thing. His brains felt scrambled. The back of his head was hurting like crazy. He squinted, tried to focus. He was in a room, run-down, like one of those old gîtes the wily French sold on to gullible English tourists at a vast profit, as doer-uppers.
He was in a kitchen. There was an ancient stove in one corner, a sink with a dusty frilled curtain draped underneath it. There were cracked flagstones under his feet. A bare dead light bulb, the cord holding it frayed and dangerous, dangled over his head. Crumbling stone on the walls, mossy green with damp in places. And there was a small window, with thin tatty drapes pulled closed across it, so that the light level in the little room was dim, but good enough to see by. The air was cool in here, not like the dry, perfumed oven-blast of the air outside.
‘What do you mean – Rufus?’ he asked in his passable French. ‘My name’s not Rufus.’
Now he could see the bulky, dead-eyed man standing in front of him, and his blood froze.
It was Big Don Callaghan.
I’m a dead man, he thought.
Rufus struggled to orientate himself. His head ached like a bastard. But he was still alive. He tried to move and couldn’t. He was tied to a chair. His feet were free, but not his hands. How long had he been out of it? Wouldn’t the Saudi contingent raise the alarm, get people searching for him?
No. They wouldn’t, not yet. The diplomat wasn’t due to leave the hotel for three days, and during that time no one would give a fuck where Rufus was or what had become of him. When the boss was ready to check out, the interpreter would come looking for him, to ensure that the car would be clean, refuelled, and that Rufus had overseen the packing of his master’s bags into the capacious boot. Everything ran smoothly around the diplomat. But not on this occasion.
Rufus thought that Don had aged badly. He was fatter, his hair thinner. Pouches sagged under his beady, spite-filled eyes. Nonetheless he exuded an air of menace – as did the two heavies who were standing on either side of him.
‘That’s a mighty good French accent, Rufus,’ said Don. ‘Impressive.’
Rufus said nothing. Dully, he peered up at Don, who was shaking his head sadly.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Rufus. Poor Pete, my sister’s boy, he died, and what did you do? You legged it. Didn’t even pause to give me an explanation.’
Rufus said nothing.
‘Her heart was broken by it. He was her only boy. Now, are you going to tell me what happened?’