Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

He leans forward into the lamplight and I can see he’s got a bead of sweat across his brow. Only I don’t think it’s the heat. “You refused me once before, Stephen. I don’t like that; it undermines my reputation. You understand about reputations, don’t you?” He sits back, suddenly aware that Hooper’s watching him now, not me. Men like Hooper are always on the lookout for chinks in the armour, and there’s no bigger chink than a boss who shows signs of letting a minor problem get under his skin. Loyalty in his world is a commodity, and can be sold. “There’s a rumour going round that you won’t work for me.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Frankly, I don’t care if it’s true or not — and in any case, as you can see, it’s both false and at the same time, useful.” He smiles coldly. “Ring me the moment you complete. Be back here afterwards to collect a payment. No handover or no return here by three at the latest and Hooper gets to play with his blowtorch in sunny Devon.”

I pick up the envelope as the Chairman goes back to his computer, and turn to find Hooper watching me with dangerous intensity. He’s hoping I’ll fail.

Outside, I breathe deeply and search for a cab. Eventually I pick up one going my way and get back long enough to have a shower, make one important phone call, throw on some respectable clothes, and dig out my passport. Then it’s off to the airport to wait for a plane and blag a ticket.

Brussels airport is all aluminum and zero atmosphere, and there are few people at Arrivals save for a couple of cleaners, a man with a bunch of flowers, and a fat, sweaty individual in a green suit. This last one is carrying a section of brown cardboard with the name Bouillon scrawled across it in large, black letters, and is staring at me with a look of deep melancholy.

I check my instructions and the name matches. When I look up, he’s waddling away fast, his green jacket flapping in the breeze like an elephant’s ears.

“Hey—” I go after him, but the man has a head start and leaves me behind, in spite of his size. What the hell is this?

It’s only when I get a prickly feeling in the back of my neck and turn round that I realise I’m being followed by two men. One of them is the man with the flowers.

Shit, as we say in the courier business. This doesn’t look good.

I stuff the envelope in my pocket and go after Green Suit. I don’t know what his problem is, or what the envelope holds which is so important he’s being tagged by two men. But I really don’t want to get left holding it and have Hooper go after Auntie Ellen just because of some local territorial disagreement by a bunch of Walloons.

Running is out of the question; nobody runs in airports anymore, not unless they want to be brought down by a burly security guard and have a Heckler & Koch stuck in their ear.

I settle for a fast walk, with occasional snatches at my watch, like I’m late for a meeting. Behind me, the two men have split up and veered off at angles, no doubt so as not to appear on the same security monitors as me. One man hurrying, fine; three men hurrying, cause for alarm.

I end up out by the taxi rank, and catch a glimpse of Green Suit across the road, panting his way up the stairs to the upper levels of the multistorey. The place is bedlam, as usual, with taxis and cars streaking by without paying too much attention to the pedestrian crossing, but I risk it and race across after him. I leave a trail of burnt rubber and angry horn blasts in my wake, but at least I make it.

I hit the top level to find him about to squeeze his way into a tan Mercedes.

“What,” I gasp, throat dry, “is your pigging problem?”

For some reason he looks puzzled, then scared. “Okay,” he hisses. “Give it to me!”

Okay? Like he’s doing me a favour? Now there are certain formalities we go through in this business, like exchanging IDs. It’s not been unknown to have someone turn up for a collection who shouldn’t, if you know what I mean. And with Hooper and Patrick waiting to take a trip to Devon and perform industrial injury on two lovely old people, there’s no way I’m handing over this envelope to an unknown, two others in hot pursuit or not.

He huffs and puffs but hands over a business card. It confirms his name and I give him the envelope. Moments later, he’s heading for the down ramp.

As I walk back down the stairs, I get out my mobile and dial a number.

“Yes?” It’s the Chairman. There are voices and the sound of glasses clinking in the background. Must be a breakfast meeting in gangland.

“Delivered,” I tell him. Then I see the two men at the bottom of the stairs. I show them my empty hands and they turn away as if deciding to cut their losses. “There seems to be some local interest, though.”

“Local interest?” The Chairman sounds bored. “What sort of interest?”