Past Imperfect

ensure he stayed in his company. The boy was still looking longingly at the menu after his pizza, so Duclos treated him to an ice cream.

As the boy finished the last few scoops, he looked up thoughtfully, directly. 'You want spend longer with me. Alone?'

Duclos stared back into the boy's innocent eyes. Except they weren't so innocent, they were knowing. Senses honed sharp by years of street life. Perhaps the boy had guessed with him being so kind and attentive, or the fact that he'd hardly paid any attention to the writhing tanga bottoms and star-nippled breasts of the Carnival girls. His eyes had hardly left the boy throughout. The boy knew. But at least he could now dispense with the subterfuge. 'How much?'

The boy thought for a second, plucking a figure out of the air. 'Sixty dollars.'

Duclos smiled. It was probably twice what the boy normally charged, but Duclos would have gladly paid double. This was great. Perello had just confirmed bank transfer details for his next $120,000 payment, and here he was in the middle of bargain-basement street kid heaven. Perhaps he'd make a trip back to Rio every few months. Exile was starting to look better by the day. 'Where?' he asked. Sneaking an abandanado past his hotel reception was too risky.

'I know somewhere near.'

Duclos contemplated briefly before nodding, though he'd known what his answer would be from the first second the boy made the proposal. He paid the bill and they left.

The frenetic activity of carnival hit them again outside. Fifty yards along they turned and the noise started to recede. Then another turn away from the main processions, and finally into a small back alley almost three blocks away. Carnival activity was now no more than dull background drumming and whistling. Crowds and people had also diminished with each successive turn: the back alley was deserted.

Paulo indicated a small door almost halfway along and led the way in. A deserted storehouse, old packing crates served as tables and chairs and some makeshift beds had been made with cardboard on the dusty concrete floor. It was obviously where some of the abandanados spent the night.

Paulo wedged a long block of wood between the floor and door handle. The only light came in from a high dusty window. Duclos handed over the money, and the boy tucked it in his shoe and started taking off his clothes.

Duclos was slow in taking off his own clothes, enjoying watching the boy strip: the lean, taut lines of the boy's body, his slim hips. An indefinable colour somewhere between teak and copper. Duclos' pulse raced with anticipation.

And then the boy was leaning over, going down on all fours, one finger beckoning. The blood pounded through Duclos' head.

Positioning himself behind the boy, he saw the faint film of sweat covering the body, and slid one finger slowly down the groove of the boy's spine, then slowly caressing with his whole hand, spreading around and up again. Exquisite. Duclos closed his eyes, felt himself sailing on a wave of pleasure.

Jahlep… Jean-Paul… Pascal… the many boys who had pleasured him through the years.

But as he opened his eyes again, the boy was turned back towards him, his eyes caught in a shaft of light from the window above. Tan brown with small flecks of green, soulful, imploring — and suddenly they reminded him of the boy in the wheat field. Sweet acid sweat mixed with the smell of peaches and ripe wheat. The wind rustling gently through the trees behind…

Only as he looked deeper, he could see that the boy wasn't looking back directly into his own eyes, but at something beyond. Slightly behind him. And the boy's body was suddenly tense. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

A faint shuffling was the only other warning as the man stepped from the shadows behind and ran the blade deftly across Duclos' throat, severing his jugular.

The boy scampered up quickly and grabbed his clothes, eager to get them clear of Duclos' blood spilling. The man wiped his blade on Duclos' shirt draped over a packing crate, and took the wallet from his trousers alongside as the boy dressed. He watched as Duclos slumped to the ground, as if ensuring that the wound had been fatal, and then the boy and him left together.

As Duclos clutched at his throat, his life blood ebbing away, the image of the boy's soulful brown eyes stayed with him. Only in his mind's eye they were staring straight at him, not beyond.

Miguel Perello made his call from an Ipanema phone box. It was picked up on the second ring. The person answering in California was expecting the call.

'It's done,' Perello said.

'Any complications?'

'No. None. He took the bait and it went smoothly.'

'Good. Take care of the rest of the clean up with the bank accounts and transfers, then that's the whole thing wrapped.'

'Fine.' Hanging up, Perello decided to join the carnival procession he could hear a block away. He felt like celebrating.

They could have kept Duclos hidden for a while, but eventually someone would have traced him and Duclos' first option would have been to trade juicy secrets in return for a lighter sentence. Not worth the risk when at stake was the bio-technology coup of the century. But it was Marchand who had unconsciously given them clues to the best game plan.

Marchand had been right, Duclos was too prominent a figure in France — and killing him in the middle of a high profile murder trial, well-planned accident or not, would have attracted far too much attention. Letting the dust settle for a while and removing Duclos far from the central spotlight had been a much better plan. Now he was just Gerard Belmeau, a Swiss tourist mugged and killed in a Rio back alley during Carnival. It happened every year.

Provence, August, 1996

Dominic felt the late sun on his back as he inspected the tangerine tree. He'd originally bought it not long after coming out of hospital. Part nostalgia, part symbol of his and Gerome's survival. Christmas past, there had been only four tangerines on the tree; now he could count eleven blossoms.

The day had been busy. The Capels had left just over an hour before. He'd been in the garden when they arrived, and now returned to do a bit more tending before it got dark.

The last skin graft for the burns on his arm had been that February, and his leg had been out of plaster now for over three months. Even his small limp had now gone. Giverny and his partner had been racing up the runway not far behind him and had managed to drag him free only eight seconds before the explosion. His only injury was a broken leg and burns to one arm.

Gerome had been more serious. The initial operation was successful, but he'd spent another two weeks in hospital for monitoring. Then two months later had returned for re-constructive surgery to his breastbone and the insertion of a plastic plate. Yves had ribbed him: 'At least you'll probably be the only man on the coast with an implant. Not a bad novelty line for chatting up on the beach at Cannes.'

There was a period of convalescence for them both at home, but despite Monique's fussing and small complaints that at times it was like having two babies again, Dominic could see her silent pleasure. Her prayers had been answered this time.

After two weeks Gerome went back to work, but Dominic stayed at home. The incident had been a stern prompt that it was time to take retirement: the pension was good, there was an invalidity top-up, and he had enough money put away. He was getting too old to chase villains along runways.

A month before he'd seen a bar in Juan-les-Pins for sale and made contact with Valerie, Louis wife, for advice: she knew the bars and hotel scene on the coast. Themed bars were popular, and his idea was late 50s or 60s with period memorabilia such as an old juke box and pop and movie posters. He had nearly all the period soul records for the juke box already. In the end Valerie was so enthused she offered to go in with him. The thought of the milieu possibly visiting one day for protection money particularly tickled her. 'Just leave it to me,' Dominic winked.