Chapter 10

Chapter Ten: Endgame One

The false Mr. Largo, whose real name was Gus Keller, sat in the Polar Bar, consuming a hot fudge sundae which he held underneath his chin. The briefcase containing $50,000 was on the table in front of him.

“This is it,” he thought. “My first assignment in the field, and I blow it. I let her get away.”

But what had happened, he thought. Why had she given up fifty thousand dollars? It couldn’t possibly be true that her grandmother had really died! People like Taran Tula didn’t have grandmothers!

No…she was a cold-blooded professional…and he’d tried to get into her pants and she must have known he was trying to get into her pants. She’d decided to stiff him.

Gus smiled a little. She had stiffened him, a bit. But she hadn’t stiffed him – she’d left the $50,000. Why? Well, obviously the real Largo’s employers in this matter would have gone after her to get their money back… but nobody knew who she really was…she could have disappeared with ease, and kept the money. Yet she hadn’t taken it.

Gus stared into the depths of the empty sundae glass. Well, there was nothing for it. Time to go up to his room and in that privacy, call his bosses and give them the bad news. At least he could give them back the money, and he had that spoon with her thumbprint on it. That ought to be worth something.

Suddenly, he felt a buzzing above his heart. It was his cellphone.

He flipped it open and saw that it was his boss, Garth Ransom. Jeez, just what he needed.

“This is Keller,” he said.

“Keller, get out of there now,” said Ransom without preamble.

“Uh….what?”

“You’re in deadly danger. Get out of that hotel now!”

“Jesus,” said Keller. “Mr. Ramsom…what are you talking about? She’s gone.”

There was a silence. Then it was Ransom’s turn to say “What?”

“It’s Taran Tula,” said Gus. “She gave me the slip. I got a call first thing this morning from the desk. She checked out, and left the briefcase behind. $50,000 and the homing device in the case.”

“I see… Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What’s going on, sir?” Keller asked plaintively.

“We’ve been working on Largo non-stop, trying to get more stuff out of him. He finally came clear this morning. We told him you had successfully met Taran Tula and that we’d have her in chains next to him in no time. We were speaking metaphorically of course. Then he laughs and tells us that he knows the bitch, and that she’s probably already gutted you.

Keller felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the ice cream he’d just consumed.

“Does she make a habit of that?” he asked. “Gutting people?”

“That’s her rep,” said Ransom. “We’ve never been able to find the bodies, but all that means is she’s very good at disposing of them.”

“Jesus,” said Keller. He stared at the briefcase. He’d opened it up, seen the money and the note. Could she have poisoned the note? Was he even now dying of tarantula venom. Jesus, he told himself, don’t be stupid.

“So explain this to me again, Keller,” Ransom said heavily. “What do you mean, she left the money?”

“She left the case, and all the money. I didn’t count it, but I’m sure it’s all there. She also left a note. “So sorry. Grandmother died. Have to withdraw from project.”

“You are kidding me.”

“No sir.”

Ransom chuckled. “You must have made a hit with her, Keller. That’s all I can think of. You should be dead by now.”

“Yes, sir. Well, what do I do now?”

“Bring that case back here. And the money. We’ll debrief you then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keller replaced his phone in his pocket and went and got another hot fudge sundae.

Why hadn’t she killed him, he wondered. Could he really have made that much of an impression on her? Had she decided to spare his life?

Keller was a man, and all men believed themselves to be physically stronger than any woman on earth, but she could have stabbed or poisoned him at anytime she wanted, because he’d been totally unsuspecting. He’d been at her mercy, but she hadn’t killed him.

An hour or so later, Keller returned to his hotel room. He was feeling slightly sick – probably form eating so many hot fudge sundaes, he told himself. He tossed the briefcase on the bed.

On the nightstand was the spoon in its clear plastic bag. The spoon with her fingerprint on it.

He went over to it, picked it up, and put it into his breast pocket along with his cellphone.

He’d return the case, and the money. And he’d tell them everything that had happened. Except about that spoon. He’d take care of that spoon, and that thumbprint, personally.