The pension became his home for a longer term than he had anticipated but until he was ready to activate his plan; he needed to feel secure enough to venture back into Agency territory. It was dangerous and it was daring but it was also ingenious considering the circumstances.

Under the assumption that the Agency would figure he had gone to ground and would first be concentrating on likely boltholes; Richard chose to roll the dice and operate right out in the open.

It was a gamble but he needed to get some money to carry him over until he could find Monique and what better way than to steal more of what they already accused him of taking? The scheme took him to Turin, the stomping grounds of Pierre Tremblay.

Using the established methods of communication and an official sounding excuse, Richard set up his first meeting in a small village near the coast.

Pierre flipped his blonde hair from his eyes and slipped his sun glasses back on as Richard crossed the square toward him. The faded table umbrella made a valiant effort to provide some shade from an unforgiving sun. A group of barefoot children performed a comical tribal dance in their efforts to cross the hot cobblestones to the fountain in the centre of the square.

Richard took a chair across from Pierre and set the portfolio he'd purchased for the occasion on the table.

"You're looking very continental, Pierre." Richard said, lifting a hand to the waiter and twirling his finger at the table. "I presume another of those wouldn't be amiss."

"Au contraire, this is my third." His accent was almost a satire. Pierre only used some words of French and then in a Maurice Chevalier fashion, including the mischievous chuckle.

"Perhaps I should change the order then."

"Non, it is fine." He looked hard at his friend. "You have been missed, Richard?"

"You mean, missing?" Richard let his eyes sweep the courtyard out of habit.

"Ah, oui, missing." He flapped a hand. "Of course you have been missed as well." The Chevalier chuckle.

"But you have Monique to deal with now, surely that appeals to you more."

"Ah, oui Monique . . ." The sigh was heavy.

The drinks arrived and they proposed a silent toast before tasting.

"Something troubling you. Pierre?"

"I am, what you say, melancholy. My heart is sad and the drink eases the pain."

"My goodness, how dramatic. A woman no doubt?"

"As always, mon ami."

"Well, I can't help you in that department so I'll settle for doing business and then we can enjoy our drink and I'll be off."

"I am confused, isn't this Monique's responsibility?"

"She has been recalled temporarily on other business for the Agency; things will be back to normal shortly."

"Is she being replaced?"

"When did you last see her?"

"Our last transaction of course."

"When, Pierre."

"Three weeks ago. Sacre bleu, what is this about?"

So Monique was still carrying on as usual . . . how interesting. Richard waggled his hand. "She's just been called away for a bit. Something the Agency needed her for. I've been shoved back into my old job." He shrugged a smile to show he was unhappy but accepting that it was just temporary.

"Ah we also serve who fill in, eh?" He chuckled the Chevalier style again.

"We do indeed. Have you been talking to anyone from the Agency besides Monique, Pierre?"

"Eh? Moi? Non . . ." He pulled his glasses back down and ran a hand through his hair.

"That's odd, Pierre. Murray said he was speaking with you not too long ago."

"Oh . . . Murray." He rocked in the chair and held his hands out. "Uh, oui, Murray. I thought you meant uh . . ." He mimed holding a cigar and jutting his chin.

"Mandarins don't talk to lowly assets." The intended designation reflected in Pierre's face. "What did you tell him?"

"I swear, Richard, nothing. I had nothing to tell!"

"And what did he say?"

"To- to keep it that way. Mon Dieu, that man is the devil, Richard."

There was a few unsettling moments of silence then Richard nodded. "Okay. So, to business."

"Of course. Ever the diligent company man, eh, mon ami? What business precisely?"

"The cash Monique gave you for your next distribution, I need it back."

Pierre looked like he had been hit with a sandbag, "The cash- but Richard, it was distributed!"

"Bullshit, Pierre. I know some is used to clear your gambling debts and woo your beautiful women. I also know hard bargains are made with the people you are supposed to pay off so that some money always stays with Pierre. I frankly don't care what you do on your own, Murray will look into that one day. I want what's left of what didn't get distributed. I don't want to see you hurt, Pierre."

"Richard please," sweat suddenly dappled his broad forehead. "I am having a spot of trouble; the money- I- it can be ready but I need three days. This I swear to you, Richard."

"What's the problem, Pierre? Is there more to your spot of trouble than you're letting on?"

"Aaaah, the woman is the fiancé of my frère. We have been intimate."

In spite of the circumstances Richard's eyebrows lifted and amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Playing in another's sandbox always has its consequences."

He fluttered a hand and drew a sad expression. "She is too willing to play; it has left me walking a very dangerous ledge."

"Get off . . . and I mean the ledge, Pierre." Richard chuckled and a moment later both men were chuckling with less tension.

Satisfied that the excuse was the truth, not that it would matter to him, he accepted with the repeated promise of three days. The waiter dropped two more drinks off without pausing. Pierre immediately picked his up and drank.

They spent a few moments with their own thoughts and then Richard offered a cautionary nod and left, crossing back through the square to where he had left his car. Three days was a lifetime and he needed that money . . . he would have to come back.

***************

The time passed slowly and Richard could feel the danger mounting, so when the time to meet again arrived, he was anxious to get it done. He met with Pierre but in a different place in the same town and immediately saw the change in the man; the strain etched in his face. The affair with his brother's, short term wife, had been uncovered . . . literally . . . and Pierre was running for his life.

His brother, Jean Tremblay was an underboss in an organization that worked most of the small coastal towns in Pierre's territory and blood or not, Pierre had crossed a line that interfered with honour.

"What about the money, Pierre?"

"I have made arrangements, Richard. I 'ave a friend who is willing to help. I 'ave passed the money and my source list on to him in case- in case my brother's people catch up to me. I had no choice, Richard. It has gone too far for explanations and apologies. My friend will take care of you."

"Who is this friend?" This was a nasty turn of events; Richard had expected to collect and disappear.

"Roger Léger."

Richard's mouth dropped. "Roger! Are you nuts? And he accepted! The Agency will find out, Pierre and you and Roger both will have more than your brother to worry about."

"It's too late, mon ami. I 'ave already done the deal."

Richard looked about with a mind to getting away as quickly as possible. There was no telling how far his brother's mobster friends might go if he was found in Pierre's company.

It took a number of roundabout calls and messages to finally discover where Roger was in Italy and then establish a time for a meeting. There was no attempt to explain the reason and Roger didn't argue so Richard felt Pierre had said nothing to raise suspicion. A firm time was set with a covert warning.

Travelling to Italy meant leaving his base and Richard didn't want his absence noticed right away so he simply advised the manager that he was taking a short driving tour and would return soon; he wanted to keep the room open. He left Eze in France and travelled to Cuneo, Italy where he contacted and met Roger at their appointed spot.

Roger was unusually nervous, eyes darting about and fingers twitching on the scarred leather of his case and before they began to talk business, Richard made a quick, surreptitious study of the area.

His caution was not in vain; a trio of watchers all adopting the roles of casual patrons were situated around the square and paying too much attention to he and Roger.

"What's going on here, Roger? You realize you're being watched?" He hoped it was Roger and not him, not an Agency trap.

The pained expression and shrug made him want to lash out and he might have had they been alone. He suggested they get in his rental car and leave. Roger eagerly agreed and the moment they left their table in the café the trio of watchers jumped up and started after them.

Roger's panic grew and their departure became a brazen escape from the small square to the parking lot and, on squealing tires, down the highway with the trio scrambling in pursuit.

A bitter day with nasty wind gusts lashing the the trees furiously and scattering dust and debris across the road and into the windshields of the rushing cars. Richard steered with both hands gripping the leather covered wheel with grim resolve.

Keeping the rental vehicle from wandering required all his attention and the annoying whine from his passenger wormed its way under his skin making the task all the harder. Roger Léger huddled against the passenger door, two hands grasping the seat belt strap as one might a lifeline.

On his lap sat the battered briefcase he proudly carried, hoping it suggested a man of long, and active service. Inside, the contents rested in neat bundles, carefully counted and banded in equal sums.

"What did you do, Roger?"

"Nothing! I swear!" His voice pitched high and it squealed like the tires.

"Who are they then?"

"A group from the Basque I think. Promises were made and- and . . . things just changed."

Richard cranked the wheel and the car left the highway and bounced roughly onto a side road that angled away from the city and then tilted up into the hills northwest toward Busco. At least they weren't after him.

The frame thudded over potholes and his teeth came together painfully. A misting rain began to fall making the road yet more dangerous.

The Basque was a bullshit fabrication. "What things? You'd better tell me, Roger, or I'll leave you on the side of this godforsaken road to face them alone."

"Richard, no! They are killers!"

The car swerved again and banged noisily as the rear tire clipped a boulder at the side of the rutted trail. Richard glanced in the mirror and saw the small shape of a black van jerking over the same route-- and gaining.

"What things, Roger?"

"A friend, an old friend found himself in trouble." Roger waved a dismissing hand over the details; he wasn't admitting Pierre's involvement. "He needed to disappear and he asked me to assume his business duties to a client."

Richard smiled grimly at the editing.

"I agreed and he said it would be through an intermediary because he couldn't afford to be seen. I- I met the contact-a woman-and we . . ." His words ceased and Richard stole a glance. Tears were bubbling in the corners of his eyes and his lip was trembling.

"What happened?"

"She suggested we- we- oh, merde! I was so foolish, Richard."

"You were going to keep the money and each other." The car rolled to the left and Roger tilted with it.

"She was a devil, Richard. A scheming vixen . . . but- but so alluring . . ."

"Jesus, Roger, how old are you? You've been in this game long enough to know better." Look who's talking about knowing better!

"That's just it! I am old now. Chances like these don't fall into my lap like they do with young men like yourself." His sudden change of tone made Richard look over again and he saw Roger knuckle away the tears and his mouth set in a firm line. All Richard wanted to do was get his money and get gone.

Behind, the van crept closer.