The Killer

TWENTY-FOUR

Charles de Gaulle Airport, France

Thursday

07:30 CET

She saw him approaching, walking toward her in a perfectly straight line, relaxed, unfazed by the chaos of the airport around him. He was about five-ten, broad shouldered yet slim. Dark haired. He was wearing a fine black suit, jacket open, top button of his white shirt undone. No tie.

There was something almost mechanical about his movements, each action measured, controlled. He already had his passport in hand, and she took it from him, opened it up. Borland, James Frederick. James. He looked like a James.

He hadn’t shaved today, and the dark stubble disguised his otherwise strong jaw line. His skin badly needed some color, and his hair wasn’t styled, just cut short and fashionless. He had great bone structure but clearly didn’t make the most of himself.

“What is the purpose of your visit to France, Mr. Borland?”

The man’s reply was candid. “Business.”

His British accent was cultured, refined, the voice of a true gentleman. He had the natural class of someone who didn’t have to try. With a bit of work she could make him into a real head turner.

His eyes were blue, incredibly intense. He was especially handsome she decided, but it took a second look to realize. She compared the passport photo with the face before her and noted how in life he wore the same serious expression. She could tell he was a very deep person. If he blinked she didn’t see it.

She remembered she had a job to do. “What kind of business are you in?”

Again a one word answer.

“Removals.”

He wasn’t a big talker, but that didn’t matter. Nothing worse than a guy who never shut up.

“Are you from London? I love London, it’s a fantastic city. I think you English are the nicest people in the world.”

No reply. Not one for chitchat then. He just waited with that unwavering blank look on his face. Maybe he was just shy. Yes, that must be it. She managed to sneak a glance at his left hand. No ring. No jewelry of any sort, in fact, and his watch looked like the kind of thing a diver would wear, not a businessman. What was with this guy? It was almost as if he was trying to play down his appearance. What was the point of being a looker if no one looked? If he hadn’t been walking directly toward her, she probably wouldn’t have noticed him.

She smiled, touched her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, ran a finger along her neck, fluttered her eyelashes like mad-anything to give him the signal to chat her up. He wasn’t taking the bait. Yet. Maybe he liked to tease.

She checked the information on her computer. The man traveled a lot: Luxembourg, Egypt, Hong Kong. And they were just in the last month. She added well traveled to his list of qualities. She hit a few buttons on her keyboard and handed the passport back to him. He took it from her fingers so smoothly that she had to look down at her hand to make sure he actually had it.

“Enjoy your stay in France.”

She gave it one last try, tilted her head to the side, and looked at him all doe eyed with her best take-me-to-dinner-and-fuck-me look. He walked away without a word.

Arrogant prick, she thought. He was probably queer.