An Unremarkable Man (1/4)

When Byron Gray was murdered, I’ll admit that I took it personally. It made me look like an idiot.

I don’t want to go into too much detail because the trial is ongoing and there are restrictions on what I’m allowed to say, but the upshot is this: I was hired to surveil Gray, the notorious CEO of Ekoil. And I did my job pretty well, right up to the night of San Lorenzo, when he was shot in the head.

My employer was Clean Hands International, an organization that polices transnational organized crime. Thanks to a whistleblower from Ekoil, CHI had enough dirt on Gray and his shady dealings to put him in prison for decades, but he wasn’t really the one they wanted. He was the sprat for catching the mafia whale. Turned out that in the previous decade Gray had accepted massive amounts of cash in return for laundering money and collaborating in oil fraud. Cornered by CHI, Gray recognized the extent of evidence against him and accepted a plea bargain; he’d finger the ’ndragheta operatives in exchange for a get-out-of-jail-free card.

To say that Gray was unethical would be like saying that water is damp. The guy was as crooked as a heavy-weight’s nose. One example: in the middle of the Sudanese Civil War, Ekoil withdrew its private security, allowing government forces to use AK-47s to clear an oilfield of troublesome civilians. Another: Ekoil carried out exploratory drilling in a pristine nature reserve without asking the locals or bothering to get permits. The only thing that ultimately saved the zebras was the realization that the reserves turned out to be disappointing. Then there were disturbing rumors about its human resources department. That whistleblower I mentioned ‘committed suicide’ by tying himself to a chair, pulling out his fingernails and shooting himself in the head. Quite an impressive feat. Twenty years ago, Byron Gray had been Ottawa’s guy, which goes some way to explaining how he avoided prosecution for so long. Now his luck had run out; he was a PR liability.

The trial where Gray was to be a key witness was scheduled for August. His lawyer managed to negotiate a two-week holiday for him at a beach resort called Thetis near Gallipoli in Southern Italy. This was where I came in: CHI ordered me to go incognito, making sure Gray didn’t do a midnight run.

At first I thought it would be a fun gig. I was going on the company’s dime and all I had to do was I could do that lying on a sunchair with a beer in my hand, one eye on sunbathers the other on Gray. Besides, there was no reason to think that he would bail. They had him very much by the balls. My presence was pretty much a pro formaprecaution.

The first time I saw Byron Gray in person, I’d just walked into the dining room at Thetis (that’s the name of the posh resort). The funny thing was that he was nothing like I expected. I thought he’d be at least noticeable—grotesque or charismatic or brash—something. Instead, he was so bland that the eye slid right off of him. Gray by name, gray by nature. He looked like a German bureaucrat. There he was, forking a seared swordfish while opposite him was the most spectacular creature I’d ever seen.

I knew about Aisha Gray of course—second wife, model, philanthropist, minor Gulf royalty. As anticlimactic as was her husband’s presence, hers was revelatory. She was someone you simply couldn’t help looking at. She had the big dark eyes of an Arabian horse, a ballerina’s posture and an expression of acute misery.

I was so struck by Aisha that at first I didn’t notice there was a third person at the table, a ridiculous looking man of about thirty in a Hawaiian shirt, wearing a gold Rolex and sulkily thumbing a message into his cellphone, which had a cover that seemed to be encrusted with jewels. Of course, this was Duke Gray, Byron’s only son, the issue of his first marriage.

A strikingly tall African waiter approached at that moment and led me to a table near the family. There was a view of the Ionian Sea, a spectacular turquoise and calm as a lake. A few sailing boats were out on the horizon, like a child’s painting.

I pulled the menu up to my face and scanned the room to look at the other guests. A grim white-haired woman—American?—was holding the bowl of her wine glass and looking abstractedly into the distance. Two British women in their early twenties, a cute blonde and a brunette—were talking in loud posh voices about nothing much.

“The pistachio was to die for,” said the brunette.

“I know,” said the blonde, “Absolutely mouthwatering…”

In the middle of the restaurant a big Italian family were seated at a long table, all singing happy birthday to a young girl as the tall African waiter carried in a cake full of sparkling candles. Presiding at one end of the table was the paterfamilias—a short, stout tough looking family man. At the conclusion of the song, everyone in the restaurant clapped indulgently, except Byron Gray.

The tension at the Gray table was palpable.

Duke put his phone down and spoke loudly.

“Ugh, this place is fugging boring.”

“Duke!” Aisha hissed. “That’s extremely rude.”

Duke directed a stare at his father, who was ignoring him.

“So Byron,” Duke said. “Have you considered the proposal?”

“The answer is no,” said Byron, without looking up from his fish. His voice was unexpectedly raspy, dry, sharp.

“But I told you,” Duke said impatiently, with the hint of a whine, “I had Harry look the plan over and he said it was foolproof. He predicts the revenues will double in six months. We have everyone we need—I’ve got a team together that’s the best of the best. All we need is capital, and we can pay that back, with interest, in a year. Harry said it’s a sure thing.”

Bryon patted the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin and folded it before replying. His voice was quiet but penetrating, his eyes meeting Duke’s gaze, beating it down.

“I don’t give a good goddam what Harry says. I’m done with your idiotic schemes.”

“All I need is a chance.”

“You’ve had a hundred chances already.” Bryon picked up a glass of wine, sipped and savored it. He looked up at Duke, who was scowling back at him. “Thirty years ago, when I held a baby in my arms, thought I’d have a son I could be proud of,” he said softly. “Instead I got...this clown.” He looked up and down at the son in question, sneering.

Duke’s chin quivered.

“You bastard,” he whispered, his voice quivering, tears in his eyes.

Byron said nothing but kept gazing at his son with expressionless eyes.

“Rot in hell old man!” Duke yelled.

With that malediction, Duke got up, knocking his chair over and stumbling out of the restaurant, blinded by tears of rage. Everyone looked him go and then looked curiously at Byron Gray, who calmly took another sip of wine. The waiter rushed to the upset chair and set it upright.

“Oh honey,” murmured Aisha, reaching for her husband’s arm. “That was harsh. You know he’s struggling right now. He could really use a hand…”

Gray said something that I couldn’t quite hear but I saw Aisha draw back, horrified, as if bitten.

“You’re upset or you wouldn’t have said that,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Wouldn’t I have?” he asked lazily.

Aisha bit her lip and looked as if she was trying to bite her tongue too. She failed.

“You know that happened before I even met you,” she said. “The only reason I asked you to pay was because my family will be mortified. It might even put my sisters’ lives in danger. I’m afraid, Byron! It’s a conservative country—you know that perfectly well.”

“You knew it too when you took your clothes off in front of a camera,” said Gray.

“Have you ever thought that this will reflect badly on you if it comes out? After all, you are my husband,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“For now,” said Byron evenly, with the same dead-eyed look.

There was a long, tense pause.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Aisha murmured, standing up, “I’ve lost my appetite.”

Byron shrugged.

Aisha clacked out on mile-high heels, shoulders back, chin jutting forward.

***

I was smoking on the terrace after dinner, watching the sun sink over that turquoise sea, thinking over the drama I’d just witnessed. Gray was also on the terrace, the other end, with a cigar and whiskey, talking to someone on his phone. I couldn’t help thinking he was a real throwback. Humphrey Bogart without the chivalrous streak.

The brunette half of the English duo sidled up to me.

“Hi there, mind if I join you?”

She smelled like jasmine flowers. I looked down into green eyes and a pretty smattering of freckles across her nose.

“I’d be delighted,” I said, honestly, and was rewarded with a smile.

We sat smoking in companionable silence for a moment or two, taking in the view.

“You know what night it is?” she murmured.

“Erm, Friday?” I said.

She laughed.

“It’s the night of San Lorenzo. It’s the night you look for shooting stars, which are the tears of the saint. As soon as you see one, you make a wish and it will be sure to come true.”

“San Lorenzo, eh? How did he die?”

“Burnt on a gridiron. I must say if that happened to me I’d do more than shed a tear. I guess that’s why he was a saint and I’m not,” she grinned.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Kelly. Yours?”

“Nate. What brings you here? You don’t fit somehow.”

“Why? What do you think I look like?” She looked half amused, half worried.

I enjoyed a socially acceptable excuse for drinking her in. Long hair, nice proportions, odd tattoo on the inside of her elbow, scar on her neck. Mocking eyes, killer smile… a little stringy for my tastes but...a possibility.

I shrugged.

“Post-graduate in…archeology? Physics? Some science shit. Backpacker, war-tourist type. You have money, sure, but you don’t want to show it off. Tough but femme. What’s this?” I touched the tattoo and she closed her eyes for half a second, flinching a little. I saw goosebumps break out on her forearm.

“It’s a monkey, you know from that kid’s game ‘Barrell of Monkeys’?” Her voice was suddenly uncertain.

“Oh yeah, I know that game,” I left my index finger on the tattoo and stroked it gently, interested in the effect it was creating. “You pick up the monkeys, right? In a chain, right?”

She pulled her arm away suddenly.

The waiter appeared beside us, graceful as a dancer, with drinks clinking on a tray.

“Complimentary limoncello sir, madam?” he asked in a deep, melodious voice. I could see the whites of his eyes in the moonlight and just for a split second I saw him glaring at Kelly, and I saw her answering look.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Yeah, that guy gives me the creeps,” she said, clearly shaken. “It’s the second time he’s done that tonight. Not sure why he has it in for me.”

“I’ll give you three guesses. But it looks like you can take care of yourself.”

“Well, yeah, I can, but what makes you say so?”

“That scar on your neck. Get it in a sword fight or something?”

“Something,” she said, unconsciously bringing her hand up to hide it from me.

“So was I right in my summary of your type?”

“Not bad. I have an MA in microbiology. I’m stinking rich and also a countess. Ordinarily I wouldbe backpacking somewhere interesting but my best friend Sophie broke up with her boyfriend and decided to invite me to a fancy resort instead. Not my scene at all.”

“Sophie’s the blonde?”

“Sophie’s the blonde.”

“In short, bullseye.”

She smiled. “Now I’ll do you.”

She looked me up and down with a critical expression.

“I feel like a piece of meat right now,” I grinned.

“And a pretty fishy piece of meat you are too,” she concluded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” she smiled, leaning in so her breath warmed my ear, “You’re a spook, right? Or something like that.”

I leaned back and looked at her briefly.

“Something like that.”

“I saw you watching those people tonight. Who are they?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” I said.

Sophie the friend came over and, ignoring me, told Kelly she was ready to go to the club.

“You wanna come?” Kelly asked me.

“Ahh, thanks, love to but I can’t,” I said. I was being honest but she left looking disappointed. It wasn’t until I'd watched them walk out the door that I realized that Byron Gray had disappeared.