The Informer E-Book

Z.J. Galos

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Informer
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 510

Beschreibung

Was Annika's death an accident or murder? Zsolt learns of Annika's sudden death on the way to the British Museum. Symi, once a friend of Annika, asks Zsolt for her correspondence, but Zsolt wants to investigate immediately, flies to London, and meets Symi and her friend, Helen. At Club Tango Argentino they meet Marcel, their former boyfriend, and his partner, Joan, a famous Tango dancing couple. At Helen's party, Marcel wants to sexually provoke Symi, Zsolt confronts Marcel and, after a heated chase, is stabbed. Symi and Helen, sweethearts, care for him and involve him in their act of love. Marcel provokes Zsolt, kidnaps Symi, and forces her to work for him as an informant. Zsolt and Helen's attempt to break Symi free is within reach, but Zsolt is knocked out by Marcel, L'homme Tango. He has faced a changed Marcel and meets his cousin John, who advises him strategically and can count on effective backup from his uncle. The situation escalates into a deadly confrontation and tension mounts as Marcel, the Tango Man, challenges Zsolt to a duel. Will he be able to save Symi? Zsolt and John are prepared.

Leseprobe

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Prologue

On her way to the city, she mused about her growing excitement, meeting him finally. The day appeared to her brighter and sunnier, holding the promise for a greater future within its general sparkle. Would these outer appearances herald a milestone in her life?

She laughed inside, but then stopped herself for a moment. She wanted to control her sudden emotional welling. As she pressed the button on the vertical chromium plated rail, requesting the driver to stop at the next station, she looked up into the dusky eyes of a stranger staring at her. She escaped the bus and the staring stranger and hurried on through the cool subway passage, to change bus-lines at Marble Arch.

The bus to Bloomsbury stopped behind two other buses. She hurried back waving her arm to the driver. As soon as she stepped onto the bus, she showed her ticket to the driver and squeezed passed passengers, taking the narrow stairs to the upper deck. The view from above offered an extended horizon, raising her expectation of the meeting ahead. The sweeping ride above the pavement and the overview onto Oxford Street added sensations of flying, when the bus moved in sudden spurts. She spotted the only free seat.

“Is this seat free?” she said, slowing down the words. The Japanese woman gave her a curious look, turning to stare out the window.

“Yes,” a man behind her said, “my wife understand no English.”

Odd, she thought, he sits behind her, wonder why?

Panoramic views along one of the busiest streets of London engulfed her into colourful perspectives. The bus glided on without efforts of straining, in a slow motion in midst of a grid-locked traffic. She gazed at Fraser’s, advertisements of fashion and the somber sign of a language school, until the bus accelerated, moving faster, closing gaps in the traffic: The big-eyed child looking down at her from a giant billboard, announcing endless successful performances of Les Miserables at the Palace, crowned its entrance. She daydreamed. From rags to riches, she thought. Finally the bus moved along with a reasonable speed, merging into the continuous stream of traffic.

Something hard hit her shoulder.

“Watch it! She cried-out. The foreign-looking man with a tanned face below a baseball cap rushed to an empty seat across the aisle from her, pushing the charcoal rucksack, released from his shoulders, below his seat. She turned to see him bending down, labouring with an effort. At that moment the loud voices of people outside, gathering for another political demonstration, distracted most of the passengers. She observed the face of the foreign young man with the baseball cap with the dark, frightened eyes, hurrying down the steps, looking at her. He had a cell phone in his hand that looked like hers. Taking her bag from the floor, she noted that her phone was missing. “Stop,” she cried out “you stole my phone.” She jumped from her seat, with a bad welling inside her stomach, spreading to her esophagus, choking her.

Then the terrible blast: The flash of lightning followed by a horrifying bang a split second later, debris flew into all directions, a rain of glass and shards of sharp metal. The mangled top of the double-decker bus tumbled through the air, landing on overturned cars in the center of the road, twenty meters away. People falling, dying, bloodied hands and faces, and the injured thrown to safety from the skeleton of the smoldering bus, and sirens started blaring. Nobody from the upper deck of the bus survived and many bystanders and demonstrators lay in heaps on the floor. Debris and body parts lay strewn around the roads and the pavements. The litter of glass shards covered the whole area in the vicinity, mingled with pools of blood. The windows of the nearby shops sucked out by the wave of explosion, landed on the red metal heap. Immediately the scent of burned rubber filled the air and cries and moaning of the shocked and injured cut into the aftermath.

Police whistles blew, as emergency units arrived at the scene, men cordoning the area off. Fire engines arrived first, blasting extinguishing foam upon the fires, and the black smoke. It smelled of petrol, burned plastic and diesel. Acrid smoke choked the people. Everything happened fast, events rushing on top of each other. The police pushed curious bystanders behind the established tape barriers. Then a group of forensic experts moved in speedily to secure evidence.

He waited for her in the cool paved hall of the British Museum, slick in his movements and dressed in an immaculate tight charcoal top and chinos. He looked up the glazed cupola as he heard a distant bang. Was she in time for the fated bus?

He paced up and down the circular central core. As he passed around for the seventh time, his mobile phone rang.

“Mom’s arrived back home,” the voice said with a distinct French accent. “Merci,” he said and paused. He stroked his oiled black hair at his temple and cut the connection.

1

Zsolt fidgeted with his feet, waiting for his desktop computer to perform. Something went wrong with the software. Lately he could not concentrate and missed a step, necessary to open a program. He noticed the memory of the PC to be low. Twenty GIG of memory seemed obsolete nowadays. He relied on his friend for help, who promised him to install at least eighty GIG of memory, the limit for his ageing hardware, but enough to keep him going for another year. He flicked through the favourite programs he could call up through his Internet connection. Suddenly all worked well again and he relaxed. He selected the program Annika had sent him, a few weeks back. He opened the pages, one by one, concerning the British Museum, and a pain built in his groin. What was she doing there at the height of the season, she usually avoided?

He stared at the pictures she had sent him from the city. She stayed the third day at a hotel in Hampstead. The name eluded him, Blackwater, or similar. She sent him pictures she took with her digital camera during the day, from the hotel’s computer. Every night. Fanatical about art, she overflowed, sharing her creative life with him. Damn, he cried out, as her self-portrait appeared. Annika had taken it the day before she stopped communicating with him. Why did she stop? His fist landed hard on the wooden desk and he felt a stabbing pain in his hand. A notebook fell onto the floor. Damned computer, he mumbled.

Then he straightened up again, picking his notebook from the floor. While he calmed down, he noticed a link on the program she had shared with him. It contained a messages system and names of galleries, institutions, restaurants, and a guide book: London Alive. He opened it, as he recalled his conversation with her:

“I want to see you Zsolt, this summer, in July.”

“Well, I cannot come this summer. I have to start a new project for an important client.”

“I thought I am important to you.” He recalled her teasing mood, sending him smiley faces and hearts she attached at end of a sentence.

“Yes, you are Annika, but I have to earn a living.”

“Well, I am invited to London. I thought you could come too.”

“That would be fantastic, but I could come in September.”

“Oh, bad luck. I will have to see the museums alone then. There is a special exhibition running about reshaping the face of the past.”

“Darn Annika, you give me always short notice, what is it about?”

She laughed and sighed. Her sensual and vivid personality touched him even online.

“It’s about a new technique, using magnetic resonance scanning; archeologists now can look at mummies, without touching any layers. The conserved skeletal data serves as a basis for reconstruction of the mummy into a human being. The virtual program renders the person to come alive.”

“Gosh, I want to see that.” She had indeed raised his curiosity and interest, as Annika always could.

“I will send you some pictures then.”

“Write to me, Annika, I need your thoughts too and your love.” He had to sigh as he saw her face appear on the video transmission.

“I will of course, I will.” She always kissed him with her parting words: a bientot, see you again, sending him virtual lips, beside her own. He kissed them back with his own set of audible animation, blown up in incremental enlargements on his monitor.

He stopped scrolling the chat program’s history at their last conversation. He activated the pages and printed them on his Officejet. Then he intended to add the pages to the file with the previous records of their talks, but decided to start another file with them. Placing the sheets into transparent polythene pockets, he added the pocket to the blue file that contained copies of all her letters. Every word that came from her had been precious to him. He closed his eyes and Annika faded away, but soon floated back again. He could see her hands moving through her silken hair, her voice teasing him and her lips blew him a kiss.

At times they entered into dogfights, either of them protecting their individual way of personal expression – both true artists in a visual and literary world: Annika with a critical lens and a pen of a liberated woman, who shared her ideas that furthered his creative world of painting and poetry. Their fights often ended in emotional uproar, followed by deep melancholy. Then quick as a flash, better understanding succeeded the next communicative phase, and the following day they shared sweetest reconciliation.

Zsolt woke into a wonderful morning with streams of soft light through cotton curtains. Annika – always emerged as his first thought, as he stretched. He felt his body arching, tensed with life. Annika stirred next to him, he closed his eyes again. Her soft brown hair tickling his bare chest aroused him. She appeared to him most mornings, but palpable only in his dreams.

He pulled himself up to sit against the huge cushion, she had selected for him, as he described his early morning habits to her. The last time he met her, she wanted to know the slightest detail about his daily life. He told her, he wrote his daily journals in bed, or sketched down shreds of a dream when he woke. She smiled at him, viewing his profile, like she used to. Her cheeky glances and her curled smile meant an inner overflow of happiness to him.

This morning’s softness deceived his mind with renewed jouissance as he thought of her in moments of a lustful awakening. Suddenly his mind stopped him writing. Only one word dominated his awareness: loss of love. Why would he think of loss at the height of a sweet dream of her that still hung like the scent of white lilac on his mind? He felt restless inside, like birds before a storm.

Since he had met her, she encouraged him to paint at her secluded bungalow, close to the Mediterranean Sea, which he visited each year. She adored his creativity that emerged with unusual depictions of her. He liked to paint her while she sat at her desk and wrote. He recalled her body, lying on the crumpled linen of a wrought-iron framed double bed.

He could not wait leaving again to see her. This year’s commitments of lecturing kept him back and a client turned up to have her portrait painted. He could not meet her in time for her trip to view and study art at the Tate Galleries in London, but wished now he could be with her. The famous galleries are continually on his wish list for a visit. The lectures at the colleges, awaited with great expectations from teachers and students, did not start until mid-September.

He leapt from bed, remembering that they had a standing appointment to talk; she on her laptop, while he used his desktop computer. He rushed to dress in jeans and pullover, took his bowl of cereals and milk and walked to his studio in the back of the house. He settled down, once he switched his electronic gadgets on. As she did not appear this morning, he left the connection open and started to draw another picture related to her in another layered variation. Harsher light flooded through the dark-grey patterned curtains, radiating a milky glow onto his drafting board. Then he heard a bleep from his desktop computer, announcing electronic mail. Annika, finally, he thought. He opened her letter:

Dear Zsolt,

I am writing this letter in a hurry. Too many happenings, but first things first: The attachments are sensitive. I ask you to save them to a disk for safekeeping. I have only you to trust in this matter. Unaware for some time that I have been treated as a carrier pigeon. Now as I settled at the “Brackwater” in Hampstead, I was forced to move again. I write to you from Blackfriars, I took a B&B in a hurry. I cannot tell you all but in a nutshell. I am at my room, writing to you in such confusion, it pains me. I anticipate every moment someone forcing the door to take these messages and letters off me; I will scrap all as soon as I have sent it to you. I can feel that my life is in danger. I have been threatened with death, Zsolt. It is a shock to me, as much as it will be to you. The evil forces are too strong for me to fight. Too late, I have thought I unmasked the villain, but all that’s left is his mask and his face is unknown to me. All I can tell you is my contact in London. I will include her name and address in the coded attachments: The code you do know as you marveled about it last summer, as we discussed favourite numbers. You can trust S., but be careful of the evil ring of informers, I have been trapped into. I would have loved to meet you here, but now I am leaving in a hurry. I will visit only the B- Museum, meeting S. there. Then I am off to the airport.

Love, Annika.

His body tensed up, her letter shocked him. Who would want to kill Annika? He opened her coded letters, using her seven and nine numbers only known to them.

He saved her letters to a compact disc, denoting them as Purple Letters. Then he saved the coded attachment file to a separate disc, as she had wished. He copied the two discs, to lock one set up in his bank’s safe deposit box. What was this meeting at ‘Nontas’ restaurant three days ago, when she arrived? Why did she still meet Symi at the British Museum, after her death threats, as the coded full letter inside explained? He could not make sense of the schedule of numbers and letters that appeared to him resembling dates and times. His mind urged him to contact Symi, he wrote a letter to her:

Dear Symi,

I am writing to you with the same urgency as Annika wrote to me this morning. She talked of threats on her life, and being afraid she would be killed. She mentioned you as her contact in London I can trust. I assume, as you have been in contact with her, you know more about these threats on her life. She sounded desperate and I am worried about her safety. Can you help? I have tried to phone you on the number I have found in her mail; your phone just rang.

Please reply as soon as you can,

With heartfelt greetings,

Zsolt.

He became restless, waiting for an answer. Gruesome scenes appeared in his mind. He tried Annika’s mobile phone, but she did not answer. He tried to search for Symi on one of his communication program’s search engines, but without success. This makes me crazier than necessary; he thought and started another drawing. His thoughts moved in a big circle: Symi, Blackfriars, and British Museum...

He scribbled on the drafting paper. The lines and geometric shapes became as muddled as his mind, he gave up. He needed a drink. Opening his security gate, he stepped from his study to cross the terrace and enter the house at the back door. He opened the fridge, popped some ice cubes from the container into his favourite glass and poured a stiff tot of Jameson’s onto the glistening ice cubes, listening to the crackling sound.

Then he took the glass and returned to his study, locking the security gates. The lady messenger in her red bikini flashed her blue eyes from his monitor, her hands held high, announcing the arrival of mail. He touched the screen with his cursor and she took a dive, splashing into virtual water. He liked the sound.

Dear Zsolt,

I have read your letter with great concern. I have to write step by step, I am still in shock. I am sorry to write bad news. I met Annika three days back, when she arrived. We had dinner at Nontas, not far from her hotel, she stayed in Hampstead. I have not heard from her until today. We supposed to meet at the British Museum, where she wanted to show me something interesting. She had moved to another accommodation in the city. I do not know her reasons. I spoke to her before she prepared for her way to the museum, but then did not pitch. I thought, she had changed her mind, but she would have phoned me then. As she did not answer her mobile, I left the museum and took the train home.

I received a call from the police department an hour ago. Annika had collapsed near the British Museum. The paramedics could not help her. She was dead. They checked her mobile phone and called me as one of the last persons she had called. I am sorry Zsolt. I know this must hurt you, much more than me. She had spoken of you to me during dinner the first evening. I expected some letters from her. I have a friend, who corresponded with Annika’s cousin on Lesvos Island in the Mediterranean. She kept the correspondence, as her cousin lived with her for some time. Can you send me at your leisure any letters you received from her, other than personal?

I cannot believe that she died suddenly. To me she looked healthy. There will be a coroner’s report. I know she spoke of some threats to her life. Do you think she was murdered? I am afraid for my friend Helen now.

Please write to me soon. Sharing in your loss with my compassion,

Symi.

He mourned for her. His mind raced in circles. A week passed after the confirmation of her death, after her move to the pension at Blackfriars, and the day she wanted to visit the British Museum. He opened the e-mail of her correspondence. He searched for all her letters, as he came across a group of members, she had talked to before, and who showed interest in correspondence on all matters of art and poetry. He opened one of the profiles, then another. At the third attempt, he stopped, his eyes hurt him and the memory of Annika’s picture edged still too strong in his mind to continue. He struggled with depressing feelings, his heart in pain.

The icy grip of her loss drained his physical resources. His emotional stir hammered at his conscious with a continual beat. It’s the end he thought. He tried to dive into the world of creativity, she had established with him, but now her image, shattered into millions of shards like a mirror, became the challenging puzzle, he wished to put together again. She is still alive for me, he mused, sensing her presence. He could touch her and smell her scent: white lilac, his senses recalled from many months ago.

He took her black Parker pen, a generous present from her, and started to write. Her spirit present, the words would flow from the nib, often ending in a poem, a drawing of incomplete bodies, shards of human limbs and objects. Her face intact, eyes closed and her hair ending always in garlands and spirals. Hibiscus flowers strewn over them, he could see her smile and all her deconstructed pieces assembled again in his mind. He could write a poem to her instantly and from the depth of his heart, as he felt still loved and waves of desire flowed through him. She had read all his work, mused about all his drawings and he took all her critique to his heart, even if he disagreed. In love though, one does take all in, good and bad, soft and hard, smooth and spiky.

He realized he had to put Annika to rest one day, but not before he found out who murdered her. Now it seemed like high time he made a move. He grieved for a whole week for her and then wished to carry-on with his new quest to find the face of the villain, Annika had pulled the mask off. While he finished with his documentation, he transferred to two sets of CD’s, he wondered about coincidences. What if he had met her that day in London, would chance have directed them traveling together to another location? He could have protected her and this thought stabbed at his inside. Would they now be together, united in life or in death?

These thoughts tumble me into deeper depression, he said to himself. I need some fresh air.

“Do you love me?” She said out of the blue.

“Yes I do love you,” he replied.

“I love you too, she said and kissed him.

They made love and it happened unforced, unbridled. Whenever he met Annika, he felt stirred and excited by her slightest touches. She responded to his lovemaking all day long, visiting an exhibition, strolling along the narrow streets of a city. Their togetherness enticed them both. They complimented each other. He called her: “My other half.” She called him: “My man.” These moments returned in regular intervals.

“This is insane,” she said.

“Why is that?” he replied.

“We are both committed to others, and yet we are most happy together, like children.”

“Yes,” he said “leave it like that.”

“But what about our lives together?” she persisted.

“You question too much,” he said.

“Don’t be annoyed Zsolt, I always analyze.”

“No,” he said “too much of that will paralyze our relationship.”

He had to move on in life, damn, how could he ever rid himself from her embraces? He never thought falling in love with a woman that lived on another continent. His interest in art and poetry propelled him forward and made his life bearable, as all had instantly changed.

He searched his entire life with a fine comb to find her in the thick hair of a tropical island’s forest. Now he thought like a forensic scientist, prepared to reconstruct the last episode of her life. He would set out to collect all pieces of evidence, any conceivable object strewn around the places of her last stay. He had to interview people and an inner urge told him to get there fast. He felt his weary mind at times blown into smithereens by some rattling noises outside, recalling wars that never end. Shit!

“Who would you choose if I suddenly died?” She puzzled him with such extreme questions she asked and looked with sad dark eyes at him. He paused.

“Someone intelligent,” he responded “but why do you ask such a question Annika?” She smiled, as if knowing some deeper secret, she would not give him access to.

“Zsolt, I have thought all my life about death,” she continued. He froze, his mind always centred on love and life, never on death.

“You are now more dead than alive,” said a voice inside his body.

“Never!” he shouted “never!” He cried-out as his anger welled inside him and as he argued back and felt the pains of rebirth stinging him.

He took the book of Gestalt Therapy and read the first pages. “To die and to be reborn is very difficult,” he read out aloud.

“Never!” he shouted aloud again “I am in love with her and she loves me too, can’t you see that you Klutz?”

But during the weeks of mourning, he realized that his life changed, whatever he intended to undertake. He must step out of this bus stop, sitting on a plastic bench and waiting. The bus to the pearl gates of this museum in the void, she visited, would not arrive. What did he think of her trip, ending at a shining gate, a visitor’s room to face her ghost? He still held onto his life that his hands molded into anything he liked. She can’t talk to him any longer and he did not wish to rest here forever. He had fulfilled his dues to her, hugging her portrait in the galleries of his remembrance. Yet he still waited for a sign, something to happen, as she appeared in front of his mind’s eyes. Her lips opened, he could hear her words in his ear, touching him gently.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, her eyes dry from the tears she had shed for some time, “to which Muse you wish to go to now?”

“Someone like you,” he said, his heart crunched in a feeling of compassion towards her and moistened his eyes. Her senses as always, sharp like blades, grazed the surface of his skin. A shower of needles pricked his body as he reclined in his chair.

“Give me your hand,” she said and placed his palm between her thighs. She wanted him to merge completely with her being, a last time before he left. Her fears of death, without him present, seeped like poison into her and dissolved her in loneliness with pain that become a new reality for her. She would not say anything to him yet about her foreboding.

“Ah,” he said, “you are moist.” She smiled and pulled his hand, leading him to her bedroom.

Her picture turned-up on his monitor, with clicks of his mouse. He enlarged the window and she seemed familiar: Symi, Annika’s contact.

She touched him inside, a flash-fire; something stirred him since he looked at her: Symi? That is an unusual name. Spanish or oriental? He mused. Her face sunk into him like the warmth of a pleasant dream, merging with Annika’s face and then stayed with him reborn, as an altered side of her being.

Day by day it grew more detailed in him, like a revisited portrait at a gallery, a photographic image of her, ingrained into his memory. He closed his eyes and her image appeared. He could recall it at any time.

Symi responded to his e-mail the next day, quicker than he thought. Communication with her started off well and his mind inspired with fresh ideas to win her heart, resulted in many letters he wrote to her. He noticed his heart’s exuberant beating, while he composed his e-mail for her. Yet Symi remained reserved and sparse with words.

Where did he meet this dusky-eyed woman with racy looks before?

Impossible, he thought, Symi appeared to him as a younger Annika.

Suddenly a door opened as he walked back into his life as a student. He wondered about her racy appearance. Her expression of fright, a flicker in her dark eyes, brought back the day he sat next to her in an exam. She looked gorgeous in her dark-red cotton dress. Her scent of white lilac wafted into his nose and he felt a stirring deep inside him.

“I cannot talk long,” Symi said as he finally could establish a connection.

“Are you that busy?” he said “tell me more about yourself.” He played for more time to listen to her oriental accent of phrasing words with a pleasant alto voice.

“I am due to my club at seven for dinner,” she replied with an accent on dinner, reminding him of music.

“I have written a poem for you,” he said.

“Thank you Zsolt,” she pronounced his name correctly and he felt accepted by her, “can you send it to my e-mail address?”

“Yes, I can, “he said “if you give it to me.” Her readiness to trust him amazed him. She wrote her electronic mailing address down that he immediately transferred into his e-mail address book. By the time he copied it into his red pocket notebook, she had logged out.

He called-up the mail program that Annika sent him once and he attached his poem: Peacock. He added some greetings and a request for comments. In a few minutes the mail would be on its flight through space and be placed into her mailbox. He had a childish delight in watching the letter fold into a paper airplane, as it flew off with a swooshing sound, pushed by invisible hands.

He noticed her advertising site where she looked for new friends, but he attached no importance to that. She might look for a new potential husband, he mused. Human bondage to a single person only, meant nothing to him any longer, since his life with Annika came to an end. She taught him varied levels of communication. Even in love, the existence of many emotional layers signaled the presence of intensity and variation in a personal relationship.

He remembered someone that looked like Symi. The young woman he met at an examination in Egyptology, part of the course in ‘History of Buildings,’ in the faculty of Technical Sciences, the Department of Architecture had been integrated into that year. He could not recall her name: Hamouni, or Holoumi, something similar. He remembered Symi mentioning in her family a cousin who studied architecture in Europe. Discussing with Hami, as he used to call her for short, ancient far eastern architecture, especially Babylonian-Assyrian palace buildings, returned as a flashback in his mind.

Only a few students qualified from eastern countries to study in Vienna through state bursaries. He would ask Symi next time they exchanged messages.

He’ll rather write to her. Symi’s short notes and her taciturn attitude irritated him in their communication, and he felt strange about it. In the evenings he checked his mail. When he saw the bold letters of her name, his face lit-up and he smiled. He opened her letter:

Dear Zsolt,

Thank you for your poem: Peacock. I liked it very much. I will send you one of my poems, which my friend Helen has helped to translate into English from Suni. Take care,

Your friend Symi.

He settled at his desk, took a pen and composed a letter on his notepad, before he would type it into his PC. Since he lost once a short story, typed directly into the personal computer, he first wrote everything he conceived in longhand. He liked the visual world, since he met Annika online. He could express himself easier in letters. Often he concocted stories for her, to cheer her up and Annika loved them. Would Symi like his letters and his stories? Writing became a ritual for him, a daily event again, building a purpose in his life, based on the sparse words Symi sent him, talked to him and encouraged him with.

He spun his own web of words, he knew she would read and he could capture her attention and raise her curiosity with, slowly unfolding her heart to him. But would she ever? How can he engineer an opportunity to meet her? He wished to know all about her, but she held back. And all he received from her amounted to morsels of information and clues leading to a wild goose chase. The slow process to receive information from Symi, worried him. But she received her data in turn from her friend Helen. Sometimes she held-up a poster with bold letters with a cue, but he hardly qualified as an actor. He neither knew if she acted, nor why she held back her history and he speculated about her personality. Fat chance, he would give her Annika’s letters, without being involved in the intimate knowledge of the murderers behind Annika. And only then would he consider handing over information he held, bit by bit for an equal exchange that guaranteed him a face to face confrontation with the head of the unmasked villain, who had slain her.

“I would like to be with you Zsolt,” Hami told him on a bench in the park, behind dense shrubs, shielding them from the entrance portal of the Technical University, where her brothers fetched her from at set times.

“We are lucky,” she said “the exam finished early today. I am happy that we both passed”

“I am glad we have time in hand,” he said, kissing her. “I love your full lips. I cannot get enough of you Hami.”

“I like the way you kiss,” she said. I would like to be with you, but I cannot.” She looked sad and he stroked her hair, sliding to her nape. She leaned her head back, enjoying his touches.

“I must go now,” she said, as he moved his hands up her thighs, kissing her a last time.

“Do I see you again Hami?”

“I let you know,” she said, straightened her dark-red dress, pulling it down onto her delicate ivory thighs. Then she hurried away around the shrubs onto the center path of Ressel Park. She took the detour to the side entrance, the way she always came to the marble tiled entrance hall, to meet her chaperoning brothers.

Dear Zsolt,

“I have two sisters and three brothers. I am not close to my younger sister, she dislikes me. The name Hami is strange to me. I do have a cousin by the name of Hamani. I think she studied in Vienna at that time you mentioned. It is possible you met her, as few girls were privileged to study there. I have no photograph of her, but will enquire through my family. There is a connection here, both incidental and awesome. It is incredible and I am excited. Could you find the letters from Annika we have talked about?””

Symi.

Zsolt felt the Goosebumps on his spine. My god! He exclaimed: if this is not the greatest coincidence? It is Hamani, he remembered her name, being called out by the examining professor.

Annika, Hamani, and Symi cast from one mould of character and personality?

Annika possessed with a number phobia, with her favourite seven, while Hamani related her fate to number nine. Now Symi with her preference of unequal days, or did he imagine the connection his mind concluded to form a circle? Whatever, he mused, this number phobia had no great importance to him, but communication always had and it turned out to be rather a trickle of responses from Symi’s side.

She was completely swallowed-up by her social commitments. With her exotic looks and noble breeding, she called-up some distant relatives in his background. Two generations before, on his parental lineage, members of his family related to nobility as well. Could this be a call of matching blood?

He wondered how she rated him, as he concocted a list of many questions.

Hardly any answers offered from this exercise appeared logical. For the time being he must rely entirely on his gut feel, rereading Annika’s letters until he memorized them by hard. If he would give Symi the letters, he would betray Annika and break his promise to safeguard them.

She appeared attractive, serious and regal on one side, wrapped into layers of mysterious peacock feathers which featured many eyes on the other side. Who wanted Annika’s letters so desperately? From whom did she protect herself, but unwanted or dangerous company? He disliked these cloak and dagger moments, squeezing her for answers, like a pebble for a drop of water. Information about this background of informers turned out to be the key to Annika’s murder. Names of her friends and contacts, connected to her, she never gave to him with willing ease. Helen appeared as the only name she had mentioned so far, connected to the case.

“Hello Symi,” he started another conversation, as soon as her dialogue window appeared on his monitor.

“Hi Zsolt, nice to have you here again.”

“What are you doing Symi?” He inquired straight away.

“I am selling a flat,” she said “it’s on the first floor.”

“Are you an agent?” he said.

“No,” she replied “I sell my own, the one my late husband bought.”

“I see,” he said “what are you doing for a living?”

“I have many social commitments. Oh, my doorbell rang, excuse me. Can I see you later?”

“Yes,” he said “good luck with the sale.

“Thank you,” she replied and then her connection closed.

Symi’s personality intrigued him. The way she talked and laughed. He detected a taint of sadness in her, left from the death of her husband. He would not press her for more details at this stage. She could tell him more about her past life in time. He wondered about Symi’s movements and imagined her playing sports. Which sport did she like? How did she look in her sports garb? Did he see Annika’s body with Symi’s face, and the clothes Symi wore resembling the garb Annika used to wear?

As he closed his eyes, he imagined Symi as an extension of his student love, Hamani. Her looks and figure played in his mind a merging game. He saw the wooden, painted bench in Ressel Park, his arms around her; he whispered sweet nothings into her ear she laughed about. He said he liked her, describing the beauty of her body to her, still whispering. Then he kissed her, his fingers touching her nape. As his hands circled her waist, he pulled her closer. She pressed against him in response and then swung her leg around; her short sports skirt slipped-up her thighs, as she sat in his lap, moving with his kisses. They touched lips and tongues, fingers and thighs, the shrubs disappeared. The small park became smaller and melted into the darkness of the night, as their world of pleasure opened-up with flashes of colourful lights and oscillating excitement.

Then the sudden stop. Rough hands pulled her off his lap; shouts rang in a foreign language. Her ever-watching brothers had arrived. A fist struck him on his chin and he fell, his hands shadow-boxing. Another hit in his back. Hamani shrieked. He tasted blood.

“Don’t ever touch her again, or you are dead!” The sharp voice hissed. He licked the metallic taste in his mouth and the scent of putrid dust. He had to cough, and he coughed until he staggered to the tap nearby. He washed his face and rinsed his mouth. He spit the blood from his bruised lips. The cold water revived him, his senses returned as his temples throbbed.

He adjusted his clothes and then he stared into the evening. The lights in the lanterns around the park suddenly lit-up. Hami ripped away from him, torn from his side like a piece of his flesh. He hated her brothers, but more he hated to be powerless. He’ll pay them back, but how would he deal with barbarians, maniacs, henchmen, two street fighting bullies? He spat onto the pavement in anger.

*

2

The Sports Centre in the countryside of Richmond sat like a polished emerald with perfectly trimmed and maintained greens, around a landscape with a flow of slight undulations. Intercepted by copse of plane trees and ash in their lush summer foliage, the air carried sweet and mossy scents. The sound of voices roared now and then like moans of a waking giant. Nearby a game of cricket was contested in the final innings. The intermittent thud of balls on wooden bats cut into their conversation. The scent of fresh scones wafted across the terrace, where Symi enjoyed her morning.

“Hello Symi,” you look well this morning,” Helen hugged her.

“Hi Helen,” I feel better today,” she yawned.

“You had a late night yesterday?”

“Well, I am still puzzled, but excited,” Symi smiled.

“You have been out?” Helen’s eyes showed curiosity.

“I have been on the Internet, responding to a letter from a man, whom I wanted to meet.”

“Where is he from Symi?”

“He is South African,” she said.

“What is his background?” Helen’s eyes opened wide and Symi smiled.

“Well, he seems pleasant, he is cultured,” Symi replied, but holding back detail.

Helen paused and looked disappointed, watching the distant flight of swifts.

“He is unusual,” said Symi, her mind trailing off. In the distance a haze of cloud cover lay like a lost scarf across the horizon.

“Well Symi, who needs men?” Helen mused “what you need is someone right here, close by, and someone who could afford you. What is his name?”

“Zsolt,” said Symi, “I looked-up his name, it’s Hungarian.”

“Who knows,” Helen snaps back, “it could be a false name. Anything goes on the Internet. You should be careful Symi. I am concerned about you.”

Symi smiled. “He behaved well and is genuinely interested in me. I will answer his letters, he writes to me with such panache.” She exuded happiness for the first time, Helen noticed.

The sun emerged from the cumuli clouds and warmed their faces. Symi leaned back on her chair. Helen brought a tray with tea from the self-service bar. The stillness induced a leisurely feeling. The cricketers had retired for a tea break. Helen joined Symi, on the adjoining sun bed. A breeze of air moved Symi’s dark hair. A bright coloured wren stopped at a stone slab nearby and warbled.

“How beautiful,” Symi murmured, gazing at the bird.

“You are beautiful,” Helen whispered and leaned over to kiss Symi’s cheek.

“I care about you Symi.” Symi opened her eyes, startled that Helen had discovered the line of her thoughts.

“Thank you Helen,” she said. Lately Helen acted with affection towards her and whenever she talked to her about men. Symi could sense Helen’s jealousy, she displayed suddenly. They both had been married for many years, but Helen had been married for a longer time and she had a daughter, who stayed most of the time with her mother. Symi’s husband had delayed a decision to have children. Helen liked to touch her and brush against her. Symi never thought of her gestures to be innuendos for an erotic encounter.

“I guess you are my guardian angel” Symi replied, “but let me phone my friend now, it’s already lunch break in South Africa.”

“I need to change into gym clothes” Helen said, “I’ll see you in twenty minutes on our usual court.” She walked from the terrace towards the change rooms.

Symi nodded her agreement. “See you just now,” she mumbled as she searched for Zsolt’s number and pressed the dialing button.

“Hi Zsolt, are you well?”

“Symi, what a surprise” he said, “yes, thank you all’s well here and with you?” Zsolt sounded keyed-up to her.

“Helen just left to change,” she said.

“Are you working out?”

“We are due for a game of badminton,” she said.

“I wish you to win, Symi,” Zsolt laughed.

“Well, we’ll see. I dislike winning against Helen,” she said.

“Why is that?”

“Helen is a bad loser,” she emphasized the adjective. “I do let her win by a point or two.”

“Symi, I have sent you mail, please read it,” he said and paused midway to draw her attention to it.

“I will Zsolt,” she said, “I have to go now, Helen is waiting.”

“All right Symi, I wish you a good game. Are you online tonight?” he said.

“Yes, we could meet late, say ten pm your time.”

“All right, bye for now.”

“Bye Zsolt.”

He pressed the red telephone button on his mobile and took a sip from his glass of white dry Backsberg. He took a small bite from his provolone sandwich. As he munched, savouring the citrus overtones of the wine with the delicate taste of the cheese, his mind pictured Symi smiling, toasting him. Their glasses clinked.

“I won,” shouted Helen, capturing the last point.

“You played well, Helen,” Symi said, her mind on Zsolt. He sounded always enthusiastic and full of life, just what she needed now. She felt in great spirits, having talked to him and she could have knocked the socks off Helen in a competitive club game. But being a friendly game, her heart had been not in it.

“Never mind Symi” Helen said, and noticed her lacking concentration, “next time you’ll win.”

“That’s all right Helen” she replied, “I’ve enjoyed the speedy exercise. You are playing well at present and your game has improved a lot.”

“Thanks to you” Helen smiled at her, placing her arm across her friend’s shoulders.

They walked along the passage towards the change rooms. “Hello Symi, did you have a good game?” Barry rushed down from the squash court area.

“Yes, thank you Barry. May I introduce you my friend Helen?”

“Nice meeting you” Barry said, without taking Helen’s hand. She stopped her hand halfway towards him

“Can I have a word with you Symi? He said.

“I will see you later Symi, at seven.” Helen kissed her cheeks.

“Good afternoon” she said with a cold voice, turning towards Barry.

“She likes you Symi” Barry said and frowned.

“Yes, she’s my friend, have you noticed it?” she replied with a sarcastic tone.

“I’m having some friends over for supper on Saturday night, would you like to join us Symi?”

“I do not know yet” she said, “I have already made arrangements for Friday and Saturday lunch and all afternoon.”

“What is that about? He said.

“Tango Argentino School,” she replied.

“I read something in the papers about it” he said with a flat voice.

“This weekend Marcel and Joan will entertain at the grand opening.”

“Interesting” he said and rasped.

“Are you coming along Barry?”

“No, I won’t. I do not give much thought to dancing, as you know.” He grinned. “But we could have dinner after the opening.” His eyes livened up.

“I don’t know Barry, I will check with Helen, she has arranged provisionally an evening, following the dancing classes.”

“Well then, Symi, I will call you. Cheerio.”

“Good bye Barry” she said and walked towards the change rooms.

Her mind focused on Zsolt immediately. I cannot take his face from my mind. He has soulful eyes, she thought, a poet’s eyes. I adore his beautiful letters and I cannot wait to read them again. He is fond of me, available at all times, whenever I need him. He is becoming precious for me. She felt a surge of power welling through her, as she took her Nike sports top off. Her full breasts looked still in good shape, as she checked her appearance. Not much sagging yet, she mused, admiring herself in the full length mirror, close to the steam rooms. Her midriff lacked more shaping, it’s the only place she fell victim to weight gain. Her hips looked better now, she thought as she turned sideways and then took a glance at her back. She noticed gaining her streamlined shape back again, since she played badminton with Helen. I wonder if Zsolt will like me, when he’ll see me naked. She hung her body towel on the hook of the cream tiled wall, opposite the full height armor-plated glazed section. She opened the door and entered the steam room. She noticed nobody present as she chose a seat stepping up the glazed tile ledges through the white mist. She hosed down the white glazed tile seat on the top. Then she leaned against the warm tiled wall. She closed her eyes. Zsolt came alive, touching her face, kissing her.

While she took a shower in the glazed cubicles, opposite the steam room, she made-up her mind: she does not need Barry Bower in her life. He is mad about her, but she does not love him, she felt it again this time she met him. Why can’t Barry be Zsolt?

She thinks of Zsolt’s letters: A poet, painting me, clad with the feathers of a peacock. She smiles. It is absurd, but it all makes me happy. How long ago is it now that she smiled this way? Have I fallen in love again? With Zsolt I can fall in love instantly. He does not know how fond I am of him. Zsolt’s poems and letters stir heat waves in me. Yet I cannot give away my past to him, even if we have a connection through my cousin Hamani; but what a strange coincidence. Helen said I have to be careful with Zsolt, or any men. To hell with Helen, she mused, toweling off and dressing into her skirt and top.

The opening night at Marcel’s Tango Argentine School draws a huge crowd of enthusiastic and curious people, young and elder. There are prizes to be won with the draw of numbers that are reflected on the entrance tickets. Helen arranged a table close to the dance area, where Marcel and Joan will perform a Tango dance demonstration. “There you are Symi,” Helen calls-out as a waitress guides her to the table.

“Hello Helen, nice to see you,” she said.

“Where is Barry?”

“He does not like Tango dancing,” Symi chuckled.

“Never mind men” Helen smiled. “This promises to be a good evening and I have a surprise for you, Symi.”

“What is that?”

“Just wait, you’ll see” Helen said with a mischievous flashing in her eyes.

The waiter, dressed in tight black chinos and shirt, took their orders. “Fillet steak, medium done, with French fries” Helen said.

“For me”, Symi paused, “veal escalope with vegetables.”

“And to drink?” the waiter enquired.

“You chose Symi”, Helen challenged her.

“I’d like to try the Desiderius Crystal Cape champagne” she said. “What about you, Helen?”

“That’s fine with me” she replied.

“Thank you madam” the waiter kowtowed and hurried away.

Dinner served, cooked to French tradition, by an imported French cook, was praised by everybody. The champagne, processed as Cape Classique, methode champagnoise, from the Cape region, similar to French champagne, tasted exquisite and complimented the meal.

“Cheers Symi,” Helen clinked glasses with her.

“To you Helen,” she said. “Where do you know about this champagne Symi?” Helen’s eyes scrutinized Symi’s face.

“Zsolt told me about it,” she said and smiled.

“It is a fine drink indeed,” Helen emphasized.

The man on the multimedia mixing board, behind tinted glazing, dimmed the lighting in stages. He enhanced the atmosphere with projections of Tango dance performances and music from popular Tango bands to Astor Piazzolla’s famous quintet and to the enjoyment of good food and drink. The tango music through the surround-speaker system set the basis for the mood of the guests, in anticipation of the forthcoming tango demonstration by the stars of the evening.

A series of amateur dancers warmed up with well-rehearsed steps and introduced various dance styles to the young, while refreshing the movements to the elder patrons.

“Ladies and Gentlemen let me introduce the main dancing event this evening,” the loudspeakers announced. A short introduction followed about Marcel and his partner Joan, known as M&J to fans.

The master of ceremonies bowed to the couple:

“Ladies and Gentlemen the inimitable couple Marcel and Joan, icons of the Tango Argentino, will dance for us. Give them a big welcome.”

Once the clapping subsided, the dancers moved to the centre of the wooden dance floor, taking up position.

The lights dimmed completely for a few seconds. Then the music started and Symi recognized the melody, she recalled from her days as a teenager, now transformed into a modern version. The couple started slow and with sensual moves, then abruptly changed to cool and distant movements, just to draw closer again. “Fascinating,” whispered Helen. Symi nodded her head, being caught in the ban of the dancers. The actions followed close and flowing: Molding into one, loosen again from bends and touches, twists and turns: Now almost in slow motion, then again in a whirlwind of speed and thrush. Perfect harmony and with dedication to subtleties, the dancing had softness and longing, desire and flashes of passion, keeping to the rhythm at all times. At one point the breathtaking back bending of Joan, touching the floor with her head, with acrobatic artistry and tightest coordination of all movements, peaked with the musical highs.

“Wow,” Symi gasped to Helen, who nodded her head this time. Then in an act of defiance, Bizet’s Carmen came to mind with their style of dresses. Marcel in tight black and Joan in dark blue and red asymmetrical midi dress, with lace stockings that ended midway on her thighs. In midst of the dance Alberto threw his partner off him, and she spiraled into a pirouetting mode, sliding along his leg, and she straightened up again. As she fell in successive actions towards the floor, he caught her by her arm. Then holding her tight, he stroked Joan’s thigh, whose leg circled his hip. The dance sparkled with sensuality and stirred the audience. The infallible sharp and almost violent movements before, changed to smooth and soft loving strokes in variations of hands and legs moving everywhere...

Finally Marcel held Joan by one hand, swirling her in a circle, before he fell to his knees and she landed on his shoulders. He rose and held her high. Then the applause erupted like thunder, all pent-up energy broke loose from the patrons of the dance. The noise smothered the voice of the master of ceremony’s microphone. M&J bowed to the audience, who received them with tons of enthusiasm.

A Tango dance competition for the best amateur pair for the evening followed.

Helen waved to Marcel and he returned the gesture. The celebrated couple finally left for the change rooms.

“Hello Helen,” he kissed her cheeks.

“Hi Marcel,” Helen smiled “long time no see.”

“Indeed. May I introduce you my partner Joan” he said. They shook hands and hugged.

“And this is my friend Symi.” Helen introduced her to Marcel and Joan. “But please take a seat. Thank you for reserving these seats for us, Marcel.”

“My pleasure.” Marcel took a seat at the table, his mind trailing off; he glanced at his watch and tapped his fingernails on the polished wood, causing irritation to Symi opposite him. He interrupted the conversation between Helen and Symi.

“Tell me Helen” Marcel said, “what have you done all these years?”

“I design interiors and write for magazines” she said.

“That’s great, unfortunately on tour I have no time for reading anything.”

“Congratulations to both of you” Helen said. She tried to be charming to the hosting couple.

“Your dancing… Symi cut in, “held me in awe and increased my heartbeat.”

“Have you interest in joining our school? Joan said.

“Yes,” Symi said. “I came with Helen to experience the Tango Argentino. As I now have, I am enthusiastic about joining. It has overwhelmed me and all is still new for me; you have won an admirer in me.”

“Thank you Symi. That sounds great, we both teach,” Joan said.

Marcel interrupted her rising from his seat and walking across to the bar. He asked for his cellphone. He returned with the flashy gadget, dialing a number.

“Hello Sissy, are you up to no good? Indeed. I am glad you are not bored. Where, at the Grenadier? It would have to be later, after my performance only.” He smiled at Symi, who frowned.

Marcel assured the table that he had another appointment with a prospective member to his staff. His sharp cut face changed expression for a second to look like steel. His eyes gleamed like daggers.

“You like all here Symi?” Joan asked with her Gallic accent.

“Yes I do,” she said and entered into an easy chat with her. She preferred talking to Joan than to Marcel, whose eyes pierced her with an impudent stare.

“What are your immediate plans Marcel?” Helen said.

“First, we both conduct a workshop here for a whole week. I hope you are attending.” He smiled self-assured, showing off his strong white teeth.

“Yes, we are both attending.” Helen smiled back, as Marcel took her hand, connecting to her as an old friend.

“I see you are still married,” Marcel said, “I forgot the name of your spouse.”

“Nick,” Helen said. “He could not come tonight, married to his business nowadays.”

“This champagne tastes unusual,” Marcel changed the subject. He sipped a few times on the tall glass.

“Symi’s choice,” Helen looked at her.

“It originates from the Cape,” Symi said.

“Where is that?” Marcel frowned.

“It is in South Africa,” she replied.

“Have you been there Symi?” Marcel’s curiosity suddenly raised.

“No,” Symi said, “but Zsolt introduced me to it.”

“Who is Zsolt?” Marcel said.

“He’s my friend,” she replied. A serious expression showed on her face and remained there.

“Well, Marcel prefers French champagne,” said Joan. She smiled at Symi: “But I do find this Cape Champagne’s taste fresh and spicy for a welcome change.”

“We have to attend the prize giving, excuse us,” Marcel said. “We will see you later; perhaps you join us for a nightcap?”

“Thank you Marcel, we will be here,” Helen said, looking at Symi, who had wandered off in mind to somewhere distant.

Marcel, powerful dancer, dark southern man with a part French background, introduced repeatedly by the master of ceremonies for any late comers, bowed to the applause. The five competing couples assessed by the four judges, two men and two women, stood at the side of the dance floor. Joan and Marcel had checked the results, finalizing the winning order.

The young enthusiastic announcer called up the winners for third place. Then the second placed couple. Finally the winners, a popular choice, the crowd supported the panel’s judgement.

“A diplomatic decision,” Helen said to Symi. “Of course this is the opening of the Tango Argentino School, which has to win the hearts of all the followers.

“Do you know the judges?” Symi asked.

“Yes, they are well known in social circles,” Helen said.

“Tango is a way of life,” said Marcel in his final address for the evening. “I hope to see you all here for the following competition next weekend.” The crowd confirmed their participation with cheers, demanding another Tango Argentino demonstration. Marcel asked Joan for a dance. This time they danced a modern Tango.

“This is a modern ‘Piazzolla’ composition,” Helen whispered to Symi.

“You live for Tango dancing Marcel?” Symi said, as he chose to sit next to her, having finalized the demonstration dance after the prize giving.

“Yes,” Marcel said, “but it is a long story.”

“Tell me about it,” Symi pressed him. His face appeared smooth and relaxed.

“In a nutshell,” Marcel replied, “I was born in Buenos Aires. From an early age – I recall I was seven or eight – my parents took me to their preferred Tango dancing places. I picked up the dance quickly, growing-up with it. At school breaks, we danced in the streets with friends.”

“Let’s have some champagne,” Joan said. ‘Do you mind Symi if I order Marcel’s preferred brand?”

“No, of course not,” Symi replied.

Marcel carried on with his memoir of his early years in Buenos Aires, he loved.

The waitress served the bottle and Marcel checked the label.

“Veuve Cliquot brut,” she announced to him and he nodded. The cork popped and she filled the tall glasses.

“A toast to us all;” Joan said, “nice meeting you Helen and Symi.”

“To our new students,” Marcel added.

“A votre sante,” Joan toasted.