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Back safely at the Belleclaire Hotel, Lafarge ascended to the fourth floor by means of a tiny elevator. He stepped out, shuffled past a young couple with backpacks and admitted himself to room 412.

Inside, his case was already packed; he would be leaving the country in a matter of hours. He sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the plastic handset of the hotel telephone.

“Reception?” he asked calmly, though he was far from calm, “I would like to place an international call.”

There was a pause. Lafarge pulled JB's crumpled letter from his pocket and unfolded it. A tinny voice in his ear gave him permission to proceed.

“Thank you,” he said, and dialled the number on the letterhead.

A few seconds passed, then he heard a faint, intermittent ring tone. The phone crackled. A distant voice responded:

“Bureau de Villard.” The voice seemed flat - perhaps because it was after 1am in France - but Lafarge was merely following instructions.

“C’est Gilot a l’appareil,” he replied. Then, in English, he added: "The item is now in my possession.”

“Please wait.” The responder’s tone was dispassionate. Then, after a few more seconds, he spoke again. “Please describe the item.”

“The item is a key - inscription, BCGE 331.”

“Please wait.”

Lafarge waited.

“Mr Gilot, the meeting point is Central Park. Please go to the Bethesda Fountain, then take the Bow Bridge north into The Rambles. Our contact will meet you there. His name is ‘Mister Banks’. Please be there in 20 minutes.”

“What?” Lafarge was not ready for this. “It’s late…. this park is not safe after dark… I don’t know these places you talk about! Perhaps somewhere else?”

“Obtain a map from your hotel reception,” came the clipped response. “Good evening.”

“Wait, wait!” stammered Lafarge. “My 50,000 Euros? This… Mr Banks will have the money?”

“He will have the money,” replied the deadpan voice then, somewhat more sternly, “Goodbye, Mr…. Gilot.”

The line went dead.

Twenty minutes gave Lafarge absolutely no time for thought. He paused briefly to retrieve a packet of Camels from his suitcase, then slipped out into the corridor and back to the coffin elevator. He took a map from the reception counter then emerged into the street, lighting up his cigarette while striding hurriedly in the direction of Strawberry Fields.

Everything about the phone call and the sudden meeting made him uneasy; but it seemed he was without other options. As he passed the Dakota building he stepped into the photo of a tourist, who wanted to record for posterity the place where John Lennon was shot. Lafarge cursed under his breath: so much for leaving no traces of his visit.

He stopped at a pedestrian crossing and watched the digits count down from ‘30’ as he waited. Yellow taxis sped past, taking theatregoers to Broadway. It was dusky and, across the road, Central Park was emptying out.

A sudden instinct made Lafarge glance over his shoulder – just in time to see a shadowy figure disappear hurriedly from view, some hundred metres behind. So - 'Mr Banks' was following him already! Lafarge considered doing his exchange right there, in the safer environment of the street, but then realised it was no place to display a large amount of cash. It would be better to follow instructions and persist with the charade.

Lafarge crossed and headed into the park. Walking briskly down Terrace Drive, he took a final puff on his cigarette and flicked the butt away. He looked down to his map, then surreptitiously checked over his shoulder: some distance behind, the black clad figure darted behind a tree. Lafarge continued, with a brief snort, turning left and stepping down onto the terrace. Buskers, students and New Age types climbed up past him as he descended the stairs.

Bethesda Terrace itself was almost deserted. Following the map and his instructions, Lafarge made for the lake, traced the shore and found the bridge.

The sun was setting, and street lamps were flickering into life. But as Lafarge crossed the bridge, the wooded area on the other side – The Rambles – looked dark and foreboding. There was no-one in sight. Lafarge pondered: how far in there was he expected to go?

He decided on a little trick. As he reached the other side, he scrambled up a bank and hid behind a tree, there looking down onto the bridge. Seconds later, as expected, his black-clad pursuer emerged onto it, his head covered by a hood which cast a dark shadow on his face. Lafarge watched from his hiding place as the man hurried across then passed him on the pathway below.

Good, he mused, it appeared that ‘Mr Banks’ was alone, and Lafarge now had the advantage. The dark figure disappeared off to his right, into the murk. Lafarge scrambled down the bank and back to the footpath. But just as he dusted himself off and turned to follow, a voice in his ear made him jump.

“Mr Gilot, what are you doing in the bush?” the voice was low, its tone quizzical.

“Merde!” Lafarge spun around and saw a short, bald man standing behind him. He wore a brown trench coat, and held an attaché case and a pocket watch.

“You’re late, Mr Gilot,” the man chastised him. His eyes were small and beady and his shrivelled skin like leather.

“Mr… Mr Banks?” Lafarge inquired, regaining his composure.

“Yes, yes, I am Mr Banks” purred Mr Banks. “Now, please show me the item.”

“You show me the money,” replied Lafarge.

Mr Banks knelt down, placed the attaché case at his feet, and sprung open the catches. He lifted the lid, revealing bundles of pink bank notes, then climbed to his feet and extended a gloved hand.

“The key, if you please.”

Lafarge glanced down with thinly-disguised satisfaction and took the key from his pocket. It had been a lot of trouble. He had earned this. But something still troubled him.

“Why was the Jones girl in the museum today? Your people put her onto me?”

“I have no idea who you are talking about,” replied Mr Banks, “now give me the key please." His tone was strained.

Lafarge decided against labouring the point: he would be on a plane in four hours and would never see Amanda Jones again. He put the key in Mr Banks’ hand and crouched down to count his money. There were twenty thick bundles of 50 Euro notes: 'JB' had been good for his word. He slammed down the lid, revealing Mr Banks’ shiny shoes behind.

“Goodbye, Dr Lafarge,” said Mr Banks.

“Eh?” Lafarge looked up, puzzled - and into the barrel of a small Walther pistol, pointed at his face.

“Ce qui se passe??” gasped Lafarge, reeling backwards the ground in shock. “I don’t understand…. I did everything you asked!!”

“You did a good job for us, Doctor” said Banks, grim faced, “but I can’t allow this waste of money. I am sure you understand.”

“Alors… take the money then, Banks! Just let me go….” Lafarge said with disbelief.

“Unfortunately that’s not possible," Banks sighed. "It would be terribly... inconvenient for me when you called JB, don’t you think?” He took a cylindrical pistol silencer from his pocket, screwing it to the barrel of the gun.

Lafarge looked up, disgusted: “Va te faire foutre!”

Then, something caught his eye: a red dot danced along the sleeve of Banks’ coat.

From his left came a sudden flurry of noise: rusting foliage, then a loud bang followed by rapid clicking. In front of him, Banks convulsed and let out a strangled cry – two small darts anchored a pair of long thin wires into his arm. He staggered back and the gun fell from his hand, clattering onto the path. Lafarge scrambled forward to grab it but, as his hand closed around the weapon, a booted foot stamped down on his wrist - he felt the bone snap and let out a shriek of agony.

A black gloved hand reached down and picked up the gun. Lafarge looked up and saw the hooded figure silhouetted by a street lamp.

“Please…. No……” he pleaded. The pain from his broken wrist was indescribable. He waited for the end.

But the end didn’t come. The shadowy man took the pistol, ran a few steps and hurled it into the air. It soared through the darkening sky, glinting briefly before landing with a splash in the lake.

On the ground, beside Lafarge, Banks moaned and twitched into life. Lafarge looked around for the attaché case with his money: Banks had fallen on top of it.

“Connard…” growled Lafarge, agony turning to rage.

The booted feet of the dark figure approached. Lafarge looked up. Above him, the black-clad man threw back his hood – to reveal a young woman with a dark ponytail. She looked intensely angry. From her pocket she pulled a long black cylinder and gave it a whip-like flick - it extended into a baton half a metre long.

Lafarge flinched and rolled into a foetal position, shielding his burning wrist, left arm covering his head.

"No...." he cowered at the sound of repeated thwacks, as blow after blow rained on Banks. Soon, Banks’ cries of pain stopped; but the beating continued. Lafarge felt no pity. He was sick with pain. He had lost interest in working out what the hell was going on. He had to get out of there.

He began to shuffle away, turning and rolling onto his knees; moving like a sad three-legged dog he made for the bushes. But there was no respite. Footsteps came from behind then a savage kick in the side pushed him onto his back. Arm and legs flapping, he rolled around like a flipped beetle.

Lafarge looked up and saw the raven-haired girl staring down at him, panting with the effort of the beating she had given to Banks. She lifted up the baton to strike once more.

“No no no…..!” gasped Lafarge.

“Where’s Amanda Jones?” demanded the girl breathlessly.

“What?” exclaimed Lafarge. The question was confusing. He was delirious with pain. “What do I care about that little bitch?” he replied.

A boot landed between his legs with a force that made him forget his wrist. Lafarge howled in pain, curled up and began to sob.

The girl raised her baton. Quietly, calmly, she asked again:

“Where’s Amanda Jones?”

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Back safely at the Belleclaire Hotel, Lafarge ascended to the fourth floor by means of a tiny elevator. He stepped out, shuffled past a young couple with backpacks and admitted himself to room 412.

Inside, his case was already packed; he would be leaving the country in a matter of hours. He sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the plastic handset of the hotel telephone.

“Reception?” he asked calmly, though he was far from calm, “I would like to place an international call.”

There was a pause. Lafarge pulled JB's crumpled letter from his pocket and unfolded it. A tinny voice in his ear gave him permission to proceed.

“Thank you,” he said, and dialled the number on the letterhead.

A few seconds passed, then he heard a faint, intermittent ring tone. The phone crackled. A distant voice responded:

“Bureau de Villard.” The voice seemed flat - perhaps because it was after 1am in France - but Lafarge was merely following instructions.

“C’est Gilot a l’appareil,” he replied. Then, in English, he added: "The item is now in my possession.”

“Please wait.” The responder’s tone was dispassionate. Then, after a few more seconds, he spoke again. “Please describe the item.”

“The item is a key - inscription, BCGE 331.”

“Please wait.”

Lafarge waited.

“Mr Gilot, the meeting point is Central Park. Please go to the Bethesda Fountain, then take the Bow Bridge north into The Rambles. Our contact will meet you there. His name is ‘Mister Banks’. Please be there in 20 minutes.”

“What?” Lafarge was not ready for this. “It’s late…. this park is not safe after dark… I don’t know these places you talk about! Perhaps somewhere else?”

“Obtain a map from your hotel reception,” came the clipped response. “Good evening.”

“Wait, wait!” stammered Lafarge. “My 50,000 Euros? This… Mr Banks will have the money?”

“He will have the money,” replied the deadpan voice then, somewhat more sternly, “Goodbye, Mr…. Gilot.”

The line went dead.

Twenty minutes gave Lafarge absolutely no time for thought. He paused briefly to retrieve a packet of Camels from his suitcase, then slipped out into the corridor and back to the coffin elevator. He took a map from the reception counter then emerged into the street, lighting up his cigarette while striding hurriedly in the direction of Strawberry Fields.

Everything about the phone call and the sudden meeting made him uneasy; but it seemed he was without other options. As he passed the Dakota building he stepped into the photo of a tourist, who wanted to record for posterity the place where John Lennon was shot. Lafarge cursed under his breath: so much for leaving no traces of his visit.

He stopped at a pedestrian crossing and watched the digits count down from ‘30’ as he waited. Yellow taxis sped past, taking theatregoers to Broadway. It was dusky and, across the road, Central Park was emptying out.

A sudden instinct made Lafarge glance over his shoulder – just in time to see a shadowy figure disappear hurriedly from view, some hundred metres behind. So - 'Mr Banks' was following him already! Lafarge considered doing his exchange right there, in the safer environment of the street, but then realised it was no place to display a large amount of cash. It would be better to follow instructions and persist with the charade.

Lafarge crossed and headed into the park. Walking briskly down Terrace Drive, he took a final puff on his cigarette and flicked the butt away. He looked down to his map, then surreptitiously checked over his shoulder: some distance behind, the black clad figure darted behind a tree. Lafarge continued, with a brief snort, turning left and stepping down onto the terrace. Buskers, students and New Age types climbed up past him as he descended the stairs.

Bethesda Terrace itself was almost deserted. Following the map and his instructions, Lafarge made for the lake, traced the shore and found the bridge.

The sun was setting, and street lamps were flickering into life. But as Lafarge crossed the bridge, the wooded area on the other side – The Rambles – looked dark and foreboding. There was no-one in sight. Lafarge pondered: how far in there was he expected to go?

He decided on a little trick. As he reached the other side, he scrambled up a bank and hid behind a tree, there looking down onto the bridge. Seconds later, as expected, his black-clad pursuer emerged onto it, his head covered by a hood which cast a dark shadow on his face. Lafarge watched from his hiding place as the man hurried across then passed him on the pathway below.

Good, he mused, it appeared that ‘Mr Banks’ was alone, and Lafarge now had the advantage. The dark figure disappeared off to his right, into the murk. Lafarge scrambled down the bank and back to the footpath. But just as he dusted himself off and turned to follow, a voice in his ear made him jump.

“Mr Gilot, what are you doing in the bush?” the voice was low, its tone quizzical.

“Merde!” Lafarge spun around and saw a short, bald man standing behind him. He wore a brown trench coat, and held an attaché case and a pocket watch.

“You’re late, Mr Gilot,” the man chastised him. His eyes were small and beady and his shrivelled skin like leather.

“Mr… Mr Banks?” Lafarge inquired, regaining his composure.

“Yes, yes, I am Mr Banks” purred Mr Banks. “Now, please show me the item.”

“You show me the money,” replied Lafarge.

Mr Banks knelt down, placed the attaché case at his feet, and sprung open the catches. He lifted the lid, revealing bundles of pink bank notes, then climbed to his feet and extended a gloved hand.

“The key, if you please.”

Lafarge glanced down with thinly-disguised satisfaction and took the key from his pocket. It had been a lot of trouble. He had earned this. But something still troubled him.

“Why was the Jones girl in the museum today? Your people put her onto me?”

“I have no idea who you are talking about,” replied Mr Banks, “now give me the key please." His tone was strained.

Lafarge decided against labouring the point: he would be on a plane in four hours and would never see Amanda Jones again. He put the key in Mr Banks’ hand and crouched down to count his money. There were twenty thick bundles of 50 Euro notes: 'JB' had been good for his word. He slammed down the lid, revealing Mr Banks’ shiny shoes behind.

“Goodbye, Dr Lafarge,” said Mr Banks.

“Eh?” Lafarge looked up, puzzled - and into the barrel of a small Walther pistol, pointed at his face.

“Ce qui se passe??” gasped Lafarge, reeling backwards the ground in shock. “I don’t understand…. I did everything you asked!!”

“You did a good job for us, Doctor” said Banks, grim faced, “but I can’t allow this waste of money. I am sure you understand.”

“Alors… take the money then, Banks! Just let me go….” Lafarge said with disbelief.

“Unfortunately that’s not possible," Banks sighed. "It would be terribly... inconvenient for me when you called JB, don’t you think?” He took a cylindrical pistol silencer from his pocket, screwing it to the barrel of the gun.

Lafarge looked up, disgusted: “Va te faire foutre!”

Then, something caught his eye: a red dot danced along the sleeve of Banks’ coat.

From his left came a sudden flurry of noise: rusting foliage, then a loud bang followed by rapid clicking. In front of him, Banks convulsed and let out a strangled cry – two small darts anchored a pair of long thin wires into his arm. He staggered back and the gun fell from his hand, clattering onto the path. Lafarge scrambled forward to grab it but, as his hand closed around the weapon, a booted foot stamped down on his wrist - he felt the bone snap and let out a shriek of agony.

A black gloved hand reached down and picked up the gun. Lafarge looked up and saw the hooded figure silhouetted by a street lamp.

“Please…. No……” he pleaded. The pain from his broken wrist was indescribable. He waited for the end.

But the end didn’t come. The shadowy man took the pistol, ran a few steps and hurled it into the air. It soared through the darkening sky, glinting briefly before landing with a splash in the lake.

On the ground, beside Lafarge, Banks moaned and twitched into life. Lafarge looked around for the attaché case with his money: Banks had fallen on top of it.

“Connard…” growled Lafarge, agony turning to rage.

The booted feet of the dark figure approached. Lafarge looked up. Above him, the black-clad man threw back his hood – to reveal a young woman with a dark ponytail. She looked intensely angry. From her pocket she pulled a long black cylinder and gave it a whip-like flick - it extended into a baton half a metre long.

Lafarge flinched and rolled into a foetal position, shielding his burning wrist, left arm covering his head.

"No...." he cowered at the sound of repeated thwacks, as blow after blow rained on Banks. Soon, Banks’ cries of pain stopped; but the beating continued. Lafarge felt no pity. He was sick with pain. He had lost interest in working out what the hell was going on. He had to get out of there.

He began to shuffle away, turning and rolling onto his knees; moving like a sad three-legged dog he made for the bushes. But there was no respite. Footsteps came from behind then a savage kick in the side pushed him onto his back. Arm and legs flapping, he rolled around like a flipped beetle.

Lafarge looked up and saw the raven-haired girl staring down at him, panting with the effort of the beating she had given to Banks. She lifted up the baton to strike once more.

“No no no…..!” gasped Lafarge.

“Where’s Amanda Jones?” demanded the girl breathlessly.

“What?” exclaimed Lafarge. The question was confusing. He was delirious with pain. “What do I care about that little bitch?” he replied.

A boot landed between his legs with a force that made him forget his wrist. Lafarge howled in pain, curled up and began to sob.

The girl raised her baton. Quietly, calmly, she asked again:

“Where’s Amanda Jones?”