The Tale of the Lazy Dog: A chilling espionage thriller from a master of the genre (Charles Pol Espionage Thrillers Book 2) by Alan Williams

Author:Alan Williams [Williams, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2019-11-21T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 2

The light from outside was very strong, even through the half-drawn Venetian blinds. It fell in yellow stripes across the carpet and the muted plain decor. It fell on Pol, standing in front of the balcony windows in his bulging blue silk suit, striped green and ultraviolet like some psychedelic jungle creature. Pig-Buddha or sly fat cat? Murray wondered: for all associations with Pol had now become animal in his mind — even feline and soft-footed, as he stood balancing on a pair of tiny ballet slippers, smiling over his pointed beard.

‘Murray, I have ordered champagne.’

Murray smiled back: ‘In a carton?’

Pol shook his head: ‘I don’t think they’d try the same trick twice — do you?’

‘No. I don’t think they even tried it once.’

‘No?’ The smile hardened; but neither of them moved. Murray said: ‘Let’s see it, Charles. You didn’t call in the police, so it must still be here. Where is it?’

At that moment there came a tap on the door. Pol moved with surprising speed. ‘Who is there?’ he called in English, and suddenly there was a gun in his hand — a small blunt weapon which he held cradled behind his back.

A voice from the other side said something that Murray did not catch, and Pol said ‘Come in’ — slipping the gun back into his trouser pocket as the Thai waiter appeared with a tray of champagne in an ice-bucket and two tulip glasses. Pol nodded him towards the balcony, handing him a ten-baht note as he went out again.

The door closed and Pol came across grinning. Murray stood in the centre of the room, watching him, undecided. There was always the chance of a mistake: a special report in one of the Cambodian papers, secret information that Pol might have come by in his mysterious capacity as adviser to the Sihanouk regime. He said again: ‘The bottle of Hine, Charles. I’d like to see it.’

Pol sighed, his pudgy little hands swaying at his side. ‘Some champagne first?’

‘The brandy first. The plastique.’

‘You really want to see it?’

‘That’s what I said.’

Pol gave him a quick, almost sorrowful glance; then, with a shrug, turned and padded over to a writing desk under the windows. Murray followed him. Pol was bending down with a creak of silk as Murray moved up behind him, making no sound on the carpet. Pol saw him and began to turn, one hand reaching into his trouser pocket, and Murray jumped him.

He threw one arm in a lock round his neck, jamming it up into the rolls of fat under his throat until the Frenchman began to choke, while his free hand dived down to the pocket with the gun. Pol lurched for a moment, then suddenly, with a great lunge, dragged Murray forward across his back, grabbing at one ankle while Murray’s hand scrabbled down across the man’s tight-stretched thighs, trying to reach the gun. Pol grunted and hissed, his neck bulging slimy with sweat, silk splitting under his armpits — until, with a final mighty heave, Murray’s feet left the floor.

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