“How did you get this number?”
“Are you Dr Leblanc—?”
“How did you get this number?”
“From Sylvie.”
“She— I do not know any person called Sylvie.”
“Sylvie Leblanc. Isn’t she a relative?”
“I told you already. I do not know anyone by that name. Do not call here again.”
The line goes dead.
“I think he knows who she is,” I say after a pause. “He just doesn’t want to speak to us.”
“How far is Beaumont from here?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Around an hour’s drive.”
“Then we shall visit him.”
“Today?”
“Tomorrow. After breakfast.”
The following day, we wake to gentle rain tapping a rhythm on the window ledge. Lorenzo curses the weather, which seems to plague us during bike rides. He suggests we postpone our morning swim, but I argue that we will be wet anyway. Eventually, he agrees, and we brave the day.
After our swim, wearing swimming shorts and each covered from the weather with a towel held over our heads, we trace our steps back to the lodge. Light rains sizzle around us and daylight barely filters through the clouds. Lorenzo trudges in front with his head down.
I spot the danger too late.
Three figures in dark hats and raincoats appear from behind trees. Each holds a gun at chest height. One is a woman who shelters beneath a black umbrella held in her free hand. She barks orders to the men that I cannot quite hear. Lorenzo stands frozen to the spot, and I do the same. We have been caught in open ground. I look around, but there is nothing to dodge behind and nowhere to run without being shot. The taller man stands several feet away, his gun trained on us, while the squat but muscled one approaches.
“On your knees,” he says. “Both of you.”
We obey. My mouth is dry as the man ties Lorenzo’s hands behind his back. All the time, the other man keeps me in his line of sight. Once Lorenzo is restrained, the shorter man does the same to me. Were we alone, I am sure I could take him, but not with weapons trained on me. When we are both secured, they step away. The woman addresses the taller of the men. She speaks Russian.
“Is it him?”
“Yes. He is the one.”
“Does he understand Russian?”
“No. His partner, the old woman, does. But not him.”
“And the other?”
“I do not know who he is.”
“You,” she shouts at me in Russian. “Do you understand me?”
I continue to stare down at the dirt track.
“You,koyzol,” she shouts again, and the squat man yanks my head up by my hair. I look puzzled at him, then at her and shrug my shoulders. I seem to remember thatkoyzolmeans ‘goat’ in Russian, and that using it for a person is generally considered impolite.
“Take the target into the hut. I need to interrogate him before he is dispatched,” she says to the shorter man, before addressing the tall man. “Take care of the other one.”