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“That was you at the restaurant?” Rachel asked.
“Yes!”
“Did Fausto or Aurelio hire you?” I asked.
The guy squinted up at me. “Who the fuck’s Fausto and Aurelio?”
“Did an Italian hire you?”
“No!”
Rachel and I looked at each other in surprise.
“Maybe it was a middleman,” she suggested.
“Who hired you, then?” I asked the guy.
“I don’t know!”
I brought up my foot as though to stomp him again –
“I DON’T KNOW HIS NAME!” he screamed. “He’s just some guy I do jobs for!”
“What – assassinations?” I asked sarcastically.
“Yeah – hit jobs ‘n shite like that!”
Suddenly, I felt queasy. “Where’s he based?”
“Here in London!”
“Have you ever met him or seen his face?”
“No!”
“This work you do for him – is it connected to MI6 or British Intelligence?”
He peered up at me in confusion. “…how’d you know that?”
Holy SHIT.
Rachel audibly gasped – and then she asked, “Have you ever heard his voice?”
“Yeah. He calls me.”
She flicked her thumb across her cell phone and tapped the screen.
“Is this him?” she asked angrily as a voicemail from Alistair began to play.
“Darling, I’m stopping off at the wine store to see if they have that cabernet you like – let me know if you want me to – ”
“That’s him!” the shooter cried out. “That’s him, that’s him!”
“Mother FUCKER!” Rachel roared.
The guy looked shocked, like he’d been expecting her approval for verifying the truth.
“I’m just a day player!” he blubbered. “Don’t kill me!”
