Stolen Souls

77

THE CONTACT SAID, “It’s in hand. Lennon will leave for the station with the girl. They won’t get there.”

“Good,” Strazdas said.

He sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, naked, his knees up to his chin. An icy draft explored his body. He had opened and closed the window a hundred times today. Boiling or freezing, there was no in between.

“Then I want you on a plane out of here,” the contact said. “There’s a flight from the International Airport to Brussels at eleven in the morning. I’ll arrange a taxi for you.”

“All right,” Strazdas said.

“And I want paid,” the contact said.

“Just do what I asked you to do,” Strazdas said. “Then you will be paid.”

“It’ll be done,” the contact said.

Strazdas shivered. “One more thing,” he said.

“What?”

“I need something.”

“Like what?”

“Herkus would get it for me, but he’s dead.”

“What do you need?”

“Coke,” Strazdas said.

He listened to seconds of silence before the contact said, “Fuck off.”