Ancient Paths

by Dave Siddall

It began as it so often did: an airport lounge, a girl I didn't know and a kid who wasn't mine. Introductions were brief, talk light. When we landed I left her at the carousel. I wouldn't see her again for a week.

Outside it was getting dark. Already I could detect the familiar, grilled meat incense as the local tavernas geared up for the night's entertainment. My instructions were precise and a short walk led me to the car: a silver Lexus saloon. Its door was unlocked and keys tucked behind a mirror. A Browning automatic lay in the glove compartment.

I drove west.

Ten kilometres in and the road began to rise. Like a black snake, it coiled around a pine clad mountain and I followed it, climbing ever higher until I passed through a village of narrow streets and whitewashed houses. A little further and I reached the summit. I turned off the engine, collected my bag from the back seat and checked in to my hotel.

The Levant was small, clean and understaffed - the guy at reception must have been a hundred and three. I could hear his bones creak as he passed me my room key. A manila envelope came with it. Inside was a photograph of the man I was hired to kill.

* * *

Ten thousand dollars: once it would have been triple that. But times were lean. Since the Balkans the casuals had gone back to their day jobs in Manhatten and Canary Wharf while we, the professionals were left to fight over scraps and follow the same ancient path we always had. It was a path I'd walked for many years, and was how I came to be working for the Albanian.

Sneaky, underhand and deceitful - I'd worked for Mustada before; but ten thousand dollars? I couldn't afford to turn it down.

* * *

As was my habit, I woke early. Washed and shaved, the sun was just clearing the mainland as I left the hotel. A few hours later I caught the mark as he left his estate.

Andrea Papalidos or Papa Andreas to his people was not a hard man to follow. He drove a red, Aston Martin Volante and the man himself was nothing less than distinct. He was a big man: six four, with a face as gnarled as knotted wood. Peppered hair curled over his collar and a beard of uncontrolled strands peaked below his chin. I kept my distance, but at this time of the morning there was only one place he was going: Corfu Town

More Italian than Greek, the city's Venetian, French and British past showed in the architecture. Balconies in faded, tall white buildings soared over the narrow streets while in the old town squares, tavernas, cafes and shops throbbed with the life of a vibrant, cosmopolitan city.

Papalidos left the car in one of the labyrinth of streets. These were his people. There were handshakes, backslaps; flesh squeezed and lips brushed as he met the need for undiluted human contact. He bore it all with dignity and good grace. Eventually he fought his way through to the market.

Held in the lee of the old Fortress walls, the covered avenues seethed like a conveyor belt of constantly moving humanity. A rock in the stream, Papalidos stood tall. He picked out fish from one stall, veg from another then forced the owners to extol their freshness and merits. He laughed loudly. I guessed he was enjoying himself.

I bought half a kilo of dried figs and retreated to the shade of a pavement café. I sat there for half an hour, drinking coffee and picking seeds out of my teeth until Papalidos emerged and I followed him back to the car. Afterwards I returned to the hotel. I'd seen all I wanted.

* * *

Early the next morning I parked near to Papalidos's estate. I wandered down a single track road to a pair of wrought iron gates. The track continued beyond, winding through a grove of ancient olives until it disappeared from sight.

I climbed the railings and jumped down onto his land. Somewhere beyond the trees, surf was breaking. Birds sang, a soft breeze rustled the trees and for the first time in a long time, I felt truly at peace. It was a rare lapse.

“What are you doing on my land?”

I spun quickly, drew the Browning from the shoulder holster beneath my jacket and in a two-handed grip, pointed it at Papalidos's chest. He stood twenty paces away. In his arms he held beets just pulled from the earth. He smiled when he saw the gun and took a step forward.

I raised a finger from the pistol's grip. “That's not a good idea.” He opened his hands. The vegetables dropped to the floor. “One move and I'll pull the trigger.”

He laughed. “Isn't that why you're here?” The accent was thick, heavy but his English good. There was a wry smile on his face “American? - English?” He shrugged. “It makes no matter.” He dropped his hands to wipe the soil on his trousers and at that moment I should have pulled the trigger.

“Keep the hands up.”

Papalidos had never taken an order in his life. His eyes blazed. “No, I don't think I will.” He took a step towards me - then kept coming.

Focusing down the blade sight, my finger tightened on the trigger. Men react differently when confronted by death. Some stand their ground convinced there is honour in a noble end, others beg for a misused life while others fall apart and hope I have a conscious. Papalidos was different. He didn't care.

As he neared I fired a double tap. Red eruptions sprang from his chest. Still he came, but now each movement was an exercise in slow motion, each step a lifetime of effort. I fired again and he fell to his knees. One more and he went all the way down.

As the last echo of gunshot died away, I walked over and pushed him with my foot. I bent down and put a bullet into the back of his head.

It was two days later when I saw him again.

* * *

The small resort of Kassiopi lay no more than an hour's drive from my hotel. Around its neat, traditional harbour, the waterfront restaurants were popular with local and tourist alike. Away from the bazouki's and tourist trap bars, I found a place to while away the hours. A run-down taverna owned by a ramshackle Greek, was my kind of place. The retsina was coarse, the metaxa only three star and the food basic. But it was quiet, no one asked questions and Spiros didn't mind if I sat there all night. We had, I think, mutual respect.

I was sitting outside, watching the crowds promenade near the water's edge, when my eyes latched onto a familiar face. I knew him instantly. I swear he even inclined his head to acknowledge my presence.

I stood up too quickly, caught my knee on the table edge and almost knocked it over. I scanned the throng. He was gone. But the commotion had drawn attention and people were watching me, had seen the agitation lining my face - even Spiros came out to see. I put on a smile, straightened my jacket and as I left, threw a few coins on the table for his girl.

That night I searched. I searched the bars and tavernas of the old town, then the clubs and restaurants of the new. In the early hours I gave up and retreated to my hotel. I wanted answers. And I knew only one place to get them.

* * *

From the moment five days before when my plane had landed, I'd been shadowed. I guess Mustada liked to keep an eye on his investments.

In the morning I continued the charade and drove to an abandoned quarry. I left the car with the driver's door open and the engine running. My tail's curiosity soon got the better of him. He was searching the glove compartment when I left my hide of a dozen empty oil drums, grabbed his neck and pushed his head into the dash. The gun I pressed into his side. “Tell your boss I want to see him.” I turned him around.

Dazed by the blow, he had enough wit to put on a show of confusion. “Boss? You are mistaken sir. I saw the abandoned car and…”

I cocked the weapon. “The restaurant near the Achillion Palace . Two o'clock .” I shoved him towards his own car. “And tell him I don't like waiting.” I had no doubt that Mustada would be there.

* * *

The Achillion Palace was a gaudy edifice built by the Empress of Austria in the late nineteenth century. Just to the south, and capturing the newly ‘cultured' on their return to the beaches, the Bella Vista was a jewel in a crown that had long lost its lustre. It had a small bar, a flagged terrace and panoramic views over the northern part of the island. It also served the best ice coffees in the world.

I set myself up in a corner of the terrace. Behind was a sheer drop, the sea and in the distance, the Albanian mainland. On either side were round cast iron tables. The left was empty. On my right: mum, dad and two kids. I watched dad, spooning chocolate ice cream into a little girl. I pulled a chair close to my right hand and laid the Browning on the seat.

Mustada did keep me waiting. It was two fifteen when his black Mercedes pulled into the space beside the gates. He hadn't changed: a little fatter, a little less hair but the same pig eyes that sparkled when he heard the rattle of money. I swear if I dropped a penny he'd catch it before it hit the floor. Two minions in dark jackets and reflective eye-shades followed him in. But at least they were trying. Mustada wore a threadbare jacket over a pink button shirt. Dark patches of sweat swelled beneath his arms.

I looked at the men, one large one small. The bigger man had a steady, unhurried manner. He glanced at me briefly and held my eyes a shade longer than necessary. If it came to it, I'd drop him first. The smaller man I'd met before. He had a square of surgical dressing attached to his forehead.

Without invitation Mustada sat at my table. He gestured with an open hand towards his men. They sat at the empty table on our left. “My assistants,” he said. And smiling, added, “I believe you have already met Mika.” Mika glared and instinctively ran a finger towards his wound.

He pointed to my empty glass. “Something stronger?”

I shook my head. “Iced coffee is fine.”

Disappointed, he beckoned a waiter with a crooked finger and ordered beer and a dish of cold meats and salad. He watched silently as I broke the seal on a packet of gauloise and shook one out.

His face wrinkled. “You really enjoy those?”

I placed one between my lips and struck a flame. “They were better before they moved the factory. But it's not so much the enjoyment,” I said breathing in the smoke, “as the experience.”

He waited until I took another drag on the cigarette. “Well?”

I took it from my mouth and watched the glowing end dim. “It's very good.”

There was a long expel of breath. “My friend, you requested this meet,” he waved his hand. “My time is valuable. If you don't wanna talk,” he shrugged, “then I have better things to do.”

As he began to rise, I grabbed his wrist with my left hand. My right hovered above the chair at my side. Mustada winced and glanced quickly at his men. In unison they had begun to rise and reach beneath their jackets. Perhaps my instincts were off, but I was counting on Mustada's innate sense of self preservation. Urgently, he motioned them to sit back down. I relaxed my grip. He shook himself and reluctantly retook his seat. He rubbed his arm.

“What is it you want?” The joking had stopped.

“I completed the contract.”

“And you will be paid.” He shrugged. To him the matter was closed.

I leant across the table and whispered in his ear. “When I kill a man I expect him to stay dead.”

Mustada's eyes widened and his mouth dropped. Before he could speak, a waiter came and placed his beer and food on the table. Mustada's face changed again. Quickly he became the genial host, placing items of cheese and salad on an empty plate and pushing it in front of me. “Maybe you are mistaken.” But Mustada's face had told me all I needed to know. He pushed a piece of feta into his mouth and followed it with cucumber and tomato. “This is delicious. Try some.” He held loaded fingers towards me. When I gently pushed his hand aside, he shrugged, ate it himself and washed it down with beer from the bottle.

“There was no mistake,” I said. “Who is he, a brother a twin?” I lowered my voice. “More importantly, how does he know me?” Like a cow chewing the cud, Mustada's mouth moved slowly side to side. “Don't even try to lie,” I said and casually placed my hand on the seat next to me. He watched and I made sure he saw the barrel pointing at his flesh.

A smile spread across his fat face. He inclined his head towards his men. “You think you would escape?”

“By then, you wouldn't care.”

For a moment he considered this and then, weighing my words, began to talk. “The man you saw was not a brother; it was Papalidos. I just didn't expect you to see him so soon.”

I didn't interrupt.

Mustada picked over the meal with an air of lost interest. He stopped and raised his eyes from the food. “He is not as we are.”

I shook my head. “I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about?”

Mustada looked over my shoulder. In the distance, the hazy blur of Albania ran north to south. “The ‘Old Ones', they ruled these lands many thousands of years ago.” He shrugged. “But men forget, their memories become vague and as men forget these creatures fade away until lost forever.” He sighed deeply. “Except Papa Andreas - he does not allow you to forget.” He shook his head. “He is one pain in the ass – immortal, but a pain in the ass.” Mustada's demeanour changed quickly. He threw the fork down onto the plate and clawed his chest in a gesture of self abasement. “I have talent, I am ambitious, yet look at me.” He flicked a hand over his clothes. A loose white button flew from his shirt and fell to the floor. “This is what I am reduced to.” He leant in close to whisper. “Everyone knows Papa Andreas. Everyone knows he controls the island.” He cupped his hand as if weighing coins. “You understand?”

I nodded.

“There is big money here, enough for us both. “So I say to Papa Andreas, ‘You and me,” he used his hands like a pair of scales, “partners.” He winked. “And you know what he say; eh?” Mustada's face contorted as he spat out the words. “‘I don't need anybody,' and then he wave me away like a little boy.” Mustada reached for his beer, drained it in one and banged the empty bottle down.

I waited a moment for the anger in his eyes to fade. “Then why,” I said, folding my hands and placing them on the table in front of me, “did you put a contract on a man you cannot kill?”

“Those who seek to destroy must be sought and destroyed in return.” The words were like a mantra. “That is the way of it.” He smiled. “You are good at evading the authorities,” he laughed, “now you must evade the dead.”

“And while he pursues me, you take over his business?”

Mustada's open handed gesture was a testament to his genius.

I smiled and shook my head. Mustada laughed too but I had heard enough. Beneath the table I jabbed the Browning into his crotch. The laughing stopped. I held a finger up to his boys. “Not a move,” I said. “Not one little finger. You tell a good story Mustada, but I don't believe in ghosts. Now you tell me what's really going on or…”

There was a scuff of a shoe behind me. I began to turn but I was too late. A heavy blow landed on the back of my head. And as I began to lose consciousness, I could just detect the faint, sweet smell of chocolate ice cream cutting through the blackness. Even so, it didn't make the crack any sweeter.

* * *

I came to sitting in the driver's seat of the Lexus. I had nothing; just my passport, the clothes I wore and a note in my pocket detailing the account where my dollars had been deposited. I thought about Mustada, thought about revenge. But his boys were itchy and there was man on my tail who shouldn't even exist. I figured I'd outstayed my welcome.

That night I slept in the car and got to the airport early. The girl and her kid were already there. When we landed, I dropped her off at her home and gave her the rest of what had been agreed. She kissed me on the cheek and made it plain I didn't have to leave. Freshly tanned and with a skirt that barely covered her ass, I was almost tempted.

As I pulled away from the kerb, a figure stepped from the shadows into the road. I nearly ran him down. Shapeless and indistinct, by the time I had stopped and looked back, he was gone. But something stuck. Mustada's words burrowed into my mind, took root, and began to flower into a kind of paranoia. I still didn't believe him – not then, and I drove away, blaming the journey for my tiredness and a girl who had gotten into my head.

It was a week later when I saw the headlines: a boy and his mother brutally slain in their own home. That was the start of it. From that moment on, everyone my life touched died bad.

Mustada was right. The man I could not believe was Papalidos pursued me. Through every city and town, every hotel and back-street pension I dared lay my head. The word on the street was that I'd lost it. Contracts disappeared. I worked for gangs, thieves and penny-bit hoodlums, a hand to mouth existence where food and a night's rest became my only concern.

And so to this: a black night in Naples , a back street hostel and a single room. I lie on the bed, basting in my own stink with hardly enough money to cover my bill. But it doesn't matter - not any more.

I light a cigarette. It will be my last for I hear his step, the rise and fall of each foot and the creak of the fifth stair from the landing. The handle of my room begins to turn.

But I'm ready for him, ready to see him again. An automatic lies on the bed beside me. It's a 9mm Browning. When he enters I'll smile, spit in his face - and blow my brains against the wall.