Blood Hunt

“That’s fine,” he said, sliding over his credit card. He was running up a huge bill on the card, but what did that matter when he might not be around come time to pay? Intimations of mortality bred a certain recklessness. Better financial recklessness than any other kind. He waited while the deal was done, looking for recognition in the woman’s eyes as she took details of his name from his passport. But there was no recognition; the police weren’t on to him yet. She handed back the passport and credit card, and then his ticket and boarding pass. Reeve thanked her and turned away.

There was a man watching him.

Or rather, he had been watching him. But now the man was staring at the morning headlines in his paper. Only he didn’t look like he was reading them; Reeve would bet the man couldn’t even read French. He could walk over and reassure himself of that with a couple of questions, but he couldn’t cause a fuss here on the concourse, not when his flight was still some time away. So he walked casually in the direction of the bathrooms.

The bathrooms were up a passageway and around a corner, out of sight of the concourse. They faced each other, the Ladies and the Gents. There was a sign on a trestle outside the Ladies, saying the place was closed for cleaning and could customers please use the other toilets at the far end of the building. Reeve shifted the sign to the Gents and walked in.

He was lucky; there was nobody about. He set to work fast, looking around at the possibilities. Then he went to the sink nearest the door and turned the tap on full, stuffing the plughole with toilet paper. The sink started to fill. On the wall by the door there was an electric hand-dryer. Perfect. On the far wall were some vending machines. Reeve dropped a ten-franc piece into one and pulled the drawer. The small package contained a tiny toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, Bic razor, and comb. He threw the toothpaste and comb aside and got to work, smashing the head of the razor against the sink until he’d snapped off the plastic. He pushed half the blade’s length into the head of the toothbrush until he was sure it was firmly lodged there. Now, holding the toothbrush by its handle, he had a scalpel of sorts.

Water was pouring onto the floor. He wondered how long it would be before his watcher would get suspicious and wonder what the hell was going on. Maybe he’d suspect another door, some sort of exit from the toilets. He would come to look. Reeve just hoped he wouldn’t call in first, letting his boss or bosses know the score. He wanted one-on-one. He sat up on the edge of the sink, right in the corner of the room, and reached over to the hand-dryer. An electric lead curled out from it and disappeared into the wall. Reeve pulled on the end of the cord nearest the dryer, tugging it hard. Eventually it came away, but he kept on pulling. As he’d hoped, there was cable to spare inside the wall cavity. Electricians did that; it made it easier later if the unit had to be moved. He pulled out as much of the cable as he could. Then he waited. Water was still pouring onto the floor. He hoped the bastard would come soon, or maintenance might get nosy, or a businessman’s breakfast coffee might work its way through…

The door opened. A man splashed into the water. It was the watcher. Reeve flicked the live end of the cable into his face, then hauled him into the room. With his hands up to his face, the man slipped on the wet floor and nearly fell. Reeve let the cable drop from his hand to the floor, connecting with the water, making the whole floor live. The man’s face went into a rictus spasm, and he fell to his knees, hands on the floor, which only made things worse. The electricity jerked him for another couple of seconds, until Reeve hauled the cord away and rested it on the sink tops. Then he slid from his perch, crouched in front of the man, and held the blade to his throat.

The man was shaking all over, sparks still flying around inside. Some people got to like it, apparently. Reeve had been trained in interrogation techniques, and one of the instructors had told him that some prisoners got hooked on those jolts so that afterwards they kept plugging themselves into the socket, just for old times’ sake…

“Who are you?” Reeve asked quietly. “Who are you working for?”

“I don’t know anything.”

Reeve nicked the throat, drawing a bead of blood. “Last chance,” he hissed.

The man swallowed. He was big, and had probably been hired for that reason alone. But he was not smart- not really a professional to Reeve’s mind-he’d fallen too easily. Reeve searched his pockets. The man was carrying cash, but nothing else, no papers, no ID, no telephone or radio.

“When’s your RV?” Reeve asked.

“Noon,” the man said.

So he knew what RV meant; a lot of Americans would have taken the letters to mean “recreational vehicle.” So he’d served time in the armed forces.

“That’s when your relief takes over?”

The man nodded. He could feel blood running down his throat but couldn’t see any, not at the angle his face was at. Reeve would bet the cut felt worse than it actually was.

“What do you do if I’m spotted?”

“Watch you,” the man said, his voice unsteady. He was losing color from his face. Reeve thought maybe the bastard was about to faint.

“And?”

“Call in to report.”

“Have you called?”

The man swallowed. “Not yet.”

Reeve believed him, and was thankful. “When you call in, what’s the number?”

“It’s in Paris.”

“Give it to me.”

The man recited the number.

“Who’s on the other end of the phone?”

“I don’t know.” More pressure with the blade, a fresh trickle of blood. “He hired me in L.A.,” the man said quickly, “at my gym. I don’t know his name, I only know an initial.”

“Jay?”

The man blinked at him, then nodded. Reeve felt his own temperature plummet. It was true; of course it was true. Reeve drew back his fist and hit the man solidly on the side of the jaw. The head jerked, and all resistance went out of the body. Reeve dragged him into a stall and locked the door, then hauled himself up and over the door. He tossed the blade into a washbasin and pulled open the door. A man was standing outside, briefcase in hand. He wasn’t sure about the sign. Reeve showed the man the floor.

“Flooding,” he said. “Toilet’s out of order.”

Then he walked back to the concourse and made straight for his departure gate.

PART FIVE. BIRDY

FOURTEEN

REEVE TRIED TO EAT the proffered breakfast on the plane but found he had no appetite. Instead he asked for an extra orange juice, and then for another after that. Heathrow was busier than Orly had been, but he still couldn’t spot anyone waiting for him. He went down to the Tube station and made the call from the telephones there.

“Hello?” a voice answered.

Reeve waited.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Jay,” he said.

“I think you must have a wrong number.”

“Oh?”