Page 59 of Belgian Betrayal

Catya’s nostrils flared. “I can’t let him get away with what he did.”

“And we won’t let him get away with it. But we have to know all the players.”

Catya released the door handle.

“Get the camera,” Fearghas ordered as he slipped the headset over his ears and pointed the listening device at the man leaning against the car.

The man had a gravelly voice with a hint of a Cockney accent, made even more difficult to understand by the distance and static in the device.

Fearghas increased the volume.

The guy on the street was saying, “... said he’d be a minute...” He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask him. I’m just the messenger.”

Catya raised the camera with the long-range lens and focused on the man beside the limousine. She snapped several shots. “What’s he saying?”

“I think they’re waiting on someone,” Fearghas said. “I can’t hear the man inside the vehicle, just the one standing in the street.”

“None of them can be traced back to us,” the gravel-voiced guy said. “We took care of your guy before we left Bruges. Yeah. The bitch got away. Didn’t have time to go back and take care of her.” The man turned toward the building behind him, giving Catya a better angle of his face.

She snapped more pictures.

“Here he comes now,” the gravel-voiced man said and stepped back as another guy dressed in dark pants, a black jacket and a dark flat cap descended a set of stairs.

As he passed the gravel-voiced man, he murmured, “Get off the street before anyone sees you.”

“Ain’t no one out this time of the night,” the gravel-voiced man protested.

“Just go,” the other man said and climbed into the limousine.

As soon as the door closed, the vehicle pulled away, leaving the other man standing on the sidewalk, grumbling. He shot a finger at the disappearing limousine, turned and walked toward the end of the street where Fearghas and Catya sat in the car.

They couldn’t drive away without drawing attention to themselves.

“Duck,” Fearghas shoved the listening device to the floor between his legs and leaned low over the console, his fingers wrapping around the gun in the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

Catya laid the camera on the floor and bent double.

Fearghas held his breath, listening to the sound of footsteps getting closer.

The footsteps stopped.

His hand tightening around the pistol grip, Fearghas got ready to spring up and shoot if he had to.

Then the footsteps started again, getting closer until they passed on the sidewalk beside the car and continued, fading away.

Fearghas rose enough to peer through the rear window. The man continued walking until he reached a motorcycle parked on the sidewalk. He slung a leg over the seat, fired up the engine and drove back toward them.

“Stay down,” Fearghas said and hunkered low in the car until the motorcycle drove past.

As soon as it did, Fearghas sat up and looked for a license plate on the back of the bike. There wasn’t one.

Catya sat up and laid the camera across her lap. “No license plate?”

“No,” he said. “Did you get some shots of the new guy?”

“I did.”

“Send them to my phone. I’ll get Dmytro and Swede working on identifying them through facial recognition software.”

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