Evening drew in slowly at this latitude and the sky was still inky blue when I left my hotel, the rats' nest that called itself Spíti ton Oneíron, the House of Dreams. I hadn't had any dreams I could recall in the week since my meeting with 'Rebecca'.

​

I walked my usual route, from the flop-house, to the bodega, to the bar. The winding way was as secure as I could make it. Glass-fronted shops made it easy to spot a 'tail' if I had picked one up; three random stops to tie my laces or bum a smoke; and enough petrochemical exhaust residue and the stink of food rotting in bins made it difficult to track me by scent. Unless, of course, they had one of those new souped-up German Shepherds following me, in which case, I'd feel the bite of titanium-reinforced teeth before I had a chance to turn around.

​

My destination was Il Drago, a low-budget drinking den, accessible by a worn flight of stone steps below street level. The place was packed, as usual, and I was approached by the regular selection of hookers, dope dealers, scam artists and off-duty cops as I threaded my way to the bar. Head spinning from a mixture of narcotic smoke, alcohol, cheap perfume and body odour, I tapped on the scarred wooden surface.

​

Ibrahim turned. I was expecting the usual lopsided grin, complementary drink and filthy joke. None of that tonight. No smile and no joke. Even less funny was that I had to pay for my scotch. Ibrahim served it up on a green napkin and went to serve another customer. He always used a black napkin.

​

A cold sweat trickled down my spine. The napkin was a clear message that no-one else in the bar would understand: I'd been given the green light.

​

***

​

The city spread like a human anthill around the foot of a jagged mountain where, it was said, the gods still lived, shadows of their former selves but still inclined to meddle in mortal affairs. Palmists, cartomancers, crystal-gazers, mystics, and other charlatans of all stripes made a respectable living predicting the moods and vagaries of these supernatural entities, for the lost and desperate, the gullible tourists and those with agendas of their own.

​

One night, drunk and high, I had made a wrong turn and ended up in a palmist's den. According to the old crone's reading, my lifeline said that I died five years ago. Screaming imprecations, prayers and mantras of protection in half a dozen languages, she forced me from her booth and back out into the night. At least I hadn't had to pay. I tried to visit her the following night, only to find an empty tin shack and no sign of the crazed old bat.

​

On leaving Il Drago, I made my way through the nighted streets, nerves a-jangle, jumping at every sound: a rat squeak, a footstep, a kid kicking a can, the impassioned cry of a whore faking her climax against a wall.

​

A striking thing about this hive of a city were the spaces, scattered like angry acne through the walkways, alleys and streets. These would be centred around a well, fountain or ancient weather-worn statue. Occasionally, a withered tree or weed-choked flower bed clung to life in the heart of the square. One such plaza was my destination for tonight.

​

The square formed the meeting point of four narrow alleyways, roughly aligned North, South, East and West. I approached from the South and paused in the shadowed arch of the alley. The tree, with it's splayed roots, twisted trunk and two upstretched branches looked for all the world like Sergeant Elias in the movie Platoon, as if it was begging for mercy, rescue or a swift death. 

​

I looked down. Scratched in the dirt by my left foot was a crude zigzag, 'Rebecca's' coded icon for 'tree'. That meant walking forward, away from the safety of the shadows, from the cover of solid walls, into the open plaza. I scuffed the mark away.

​

I swallowed hard and tried to summon spit into a desert-dry mouth. I failed.

​

I waited in the darkness for ten, what? Seconds? Minutes? It felt like hours as I examined the surrounding buildings, the dark throats of the other alleys, the shadow of the tree, the trash bins clustered in one corner of the plaza. In fact, any place that could harbour a killer and whose target was me.

​

No matter how hard I tried, how many times I scanned each potential hiding place, how often I thought I sensed death, the square was deserted. The crack of a rifle shot, the subtle 'phut' of a suppressed weapon, the twang of a crossbow, maybe even the sound of running then the searing pain of a knife in the back. Which would it be that ended me?

​

As perspiration soaked my back and underarms and leached into my suit, I took the first step. I reasoned that to halt after one step would look as suspicious as lurking in the shadows, so I kept walking. Two steps. Three.

​

I stood in the shadow of the tree, in the Y-shape of its upthrust branches. In the semi-darkness I could just discern a fissure in the trunk, about two-fingers wide, a regular gap in the irregular bark. 

​

I reached into the hole, using my thumb and index finger to probe inside. Something moved. I grasped it and pulled.

​

I had the briefest glimpse of the object before the shot rang out. The bullet crashed into the tree, blowing a hole in the trunk where my fingers had been.

​

Run!

​

***

 

There was nothing else to do. I heard the scrape and click of a rifle being cocked but was already running towards the eastern alley, the object gripped in my fist. The next bullet 'spanged' off the sandstone building, showering me with grit and plaster dust.

​

I pelted along the alley, relishing the darkness and the obscurity it afforded me. But darkness doesn't stop bullets. A third shot missed my head by scant centimetres. I ducked left and dodged down a narrow path between two houses.

​

Dogs barked. Angry owners shouted at their animals. Lights came on, banishing the darkness in a yellowish glare.

​

Perhaps the illumination saved my life? I don't know. A black-clad figure, exposed by the light, raised a pistol, just a second too slow. I barrelled into him, sending the thug to the ground, and carried on running. 

​

I emerged into a narrow street, lit with dim red globes. Men and women, of all ages and appearances, strolled the street or stood on corners, chatting, smoking, shooting up, or negotiating prices with passing pedestrians or slow-moving cars.

​

"Looking for someone, honey?" The girl's voice was a soft amalgam of French and Spanish, a product of the city's multicultural heritage, born of the centuries of conquest and occupation by rival countries.

​

I turned and looked her up and down. I wasn't checking out her looks: I was checking if she was armed. "No," I replied. "I took a wrong turn. I just need a cab."

​

"A cab will take forever to get here," she purred. "Don't you want some company while you wait?" She rested her hand on my shoulder. 

​

"I really must run," I said, as I looked over her head to see if I was being followed. Two men emerged from the narrow path I had used just a moment before.

​

The girl was not deterred. She grabbed the lapel of my jacket and dragged me closer. "I can be really good," she whispered, "or I can be really, really bad." With surprising force, she pushed me against a wall and pressed close.

​

Her perfume, mixed with perspiration, marijuana and body heat, had a powerful effect on me. Black hair, smooth as satin, framed a heart-shaped face and deep, dark eyes. My will evaporated. I leaned down and tried to kiss glossy red lips. I didn't see the two thugs race past where we were standing.

​

"Non!" she said and pushed herself away. "None of that. Kissing costs extra."

​

The girl looked around. "They're gone." She sounded pleased. "Time for you to go, too." She turned to face me.

 

"Whoa!" I gasped. "What are you doing with that thing?" I kept my eyes fixed on the stainless steel pistol she had pointed at my stomach.

​

She reversed the gun and handed it to me, grip first. "Rebecca said you might need it. Looks like she was right." She cocked her head to the right and eyed me. "You don't know how to use that thing, do you?"

​

I shook my head.

​

"Basic training is going to shit," she cursed and snatched the gun from me. "Glock 19. Fifteen rounds in the mag, eject it like this." She pressed a catch on the side of the pistol grip. "See? Now, slide it in until it clicks, got it? Pull back the slide to put a round in the chamber. Then it's just point and press."

​

I reached for the gun but she pulled it away. "This is the safety catch, right? Make sure it's on unless you intend to use it. And I hope to God you won't have to. You'll find a box of ammo behind that dumpster."

​

I found the ammunition box. "Where did you hide the gun?" I asked.

​

The girl ran a hand back through her hair and dislodged a couple of clips that held the wig in place. "A lady never tells," she said with an impish grin.

​

She discarded the wig in a nearby bin and produced a rucksack from another. The hairnet she had used to confine her blonde curls followed the wig. With infinite care, she popped out the brown contact lenses and revealed her natural baby blues. Heedless of my presence, the girl stripped down to her underwear, threw the clothes into the same bin as the wig and changed into sneakers, jeans and a t-shirt for a band I'd never heard of before. She slung the rucksack over her right shoulder.

​

"You still here?" she asked. The exotic accent had gone, replaced by an American deep South drawl.

​

I could only nod, amazed at the transformation I'd just seen. From hooker to college student in less than a minute.

​

"Then cover your eyes."

​

I did as she ordered but my hands couldn't block all of the glare from the small thermite bomb she used to incinerate her disguise in the bin.

​

"Now, get the hell out of here," she said, in a tone that could not be disobeyed. "Head north, two blocks and you'll find a club. This time of night, you should be able to pick up a cab from there."

​

She started to walk away, heading south.

​

"Hey!" I called after her. "What's your name?"

​

The girl spoke over her shoulder as she continued walking. "You can call me Alice. But don't bother remembering it, 'cos you'll never see me again."