Engineman - Eric Brown [78]
He wondered how she had changed over the years - hard to imagine she was now a woman of twenty-five. He recalled the photograph she had sent him seven years ago, the one in which she was all over her lover, an Engineman many years her senior. It showed her as tiny as ever, thin and pale, and she had shorn her long black hair. He'd wondered at the time if the photograph was the first step on the road to a reconciliation, or a taunt. He saw it now for what it was - a taunt, an aggressive gesture against everything for which he stood, a statement of Ella's freedom and new-found independence.
Would she be more worldly-wise now, cool and sophisticated and - Fernandez, no! - bourgeois? Somehow, he could not imagine it. She would still be the rebel, the tomboy, the anarchic impressionist shunning success for the type of aggressive art she wanted to produce. Yes, that was more like it. He hoped so... He so much longed to see her that the wait was like an ache within him. He had so much to apologise for, so much for which to make up.
He was wondering whether perhaps the Chagal was the right venue in which to meet his daughter - she would probably turn up barefoot, in radiation silvers - when someone entered the restaurant and crossed to his table, but it was not Ella.
Rossilini cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir." He was holding a silver envelope.
"Yes, Mr Rossilini?" Hunter gestured to the seat opposite.
"You told me to report when the private operator came up with anything on Christiana Olafson..." Rossilini sat down and laid the envelope on the table before him. Something about his stern expression worried Hunter.
"What is it?"
"We received a report and photographs from the operator an hour ago. Olafson's dead, killed in a flier accident."
Hunter imagined the colour draining from his face, or rather from half of it. He tried to remain calm. "When was this, Mr Rossilini?"
"Two days ago, at seven in the evening, German time."
Rossilini slid the envelope across the table. "I'd give the photographs a miss, sir, if you're thinking of eating."
Hunter withdrew the contents of the envelope and skimmed the operator's report. It detailed Olafson's movements on the day she died, and included the German police report which stated the cause of the accident as engine failure.
Hunter looked up. "Send someone to Hamburg to look into the accident, Mr Rossilini."
"I've already done so, sir."
"Good." Quickly, Hunter leafed through the police photographs taken at the scene of the accident. A microwave pylon had sheared the flier in two. Olafson's remains were scattered across the flat roof of a nearby building. Bosch, Hunter told himself, returning the photographs to the envelope. Definitely Hieronymus Bosch.
"Two days ago I had mentioned to no-one that I was considering employing Christiana Olafson on this mission. I had not at the time even decided myself to approach her. There can be no way this accident is connected with us."
Rossilini said, "I did consider that, sir. But I thought it best to send someone to Hamburg anyway."
"You did right, but I think they'll find that it was what it looks like; an accident." Hunter paused, considerably relieved now after his initial fright. "And anyway, if by any chance our enemies were onto us, they'd surely strike at the very heart of our operations, not at the Enginemen and -women we might employ."
Rossilini picked up the envelope. "I'll leave you to it, sir. I hope you enjoy your meal."
Hunter smiled. "Thank you, Mr Rossilini. I intend to."
He took a mouthful of brandy, the macabre photographs fading from the forefront of his mind as he reassured himself that the accident was not the work of the Organisation.
He looked at his watch. It was six-thirty. Ella was late. He would give her another thirty minutes. He ordered a third brandy and sat back, trying to regain the composure he had felt earlier. The little scare with Olafson, though, and Ella's impunctuality, had served to spoil his optimistic mood.
Did Ella