of a similar age to the kitchen. It was divided into five rooms, only three of which showed any signs of habitation: a lounge and dining area, a bedroom and a bathroom.
‘It’s the only room in the building that has anything approaching modern facilities,’ Leeson explained.
‘Approaching,’ Francesca echoed.
A narrow, winding staircase led to the first floor. Each step creaked and bowed under Victor’s weight.
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ Leeson assured him.
There were four bedrooms but no upstairs bathroom. Three of the bedrooms were fitted out each with a single bed, bedside table, dresser and wardrobe. Threadbare rugs partially covered the floorboards. The first two rooms showed signs of occupation – in one the bed was unmade and there were clothes on the floor, in the other a scent of deodorant or aftershave lingered in the air.
‘This will be your room,’ Leeson announced after opening the door to the third bedroom. ‘Neither Francesca nor I stay here, so I’m afraid you were incorrect in your deduction.’
Victor stepped in and turned on the spot, quickly examining each feature and fixture as his gaze passed over them.
Leeson said, ‘You’ll find it basic yet functional.’
Victor nodded. ‘What about the fourth bedroom?’
‘Storage.’
‘Welcome to the Dark Ages,’ Francesca added as their eyes met.
Leeson sighed. ‘The medieval period, or Middle Ages, when this farmhouse was built, and the Dark Ages are not the same thing.’
‘I do so love these history lessons, Robert. Dark Ages, Middle Ages, who cares? This place is a hole.’
‘My dear, you’re not exactly helping to sell the venue to our new friend here.’
‘It sells itself,’ Victor said.
A voice drifted up from the stairwell: ‘That’s a good answer.’
The stairs creaked as they had done when Victor had ascended. Leeson and Francesca turned to face the open bedroom doorway, ready for the speaker’s arrival. Victor did so too, but he knew who was going to appear because he recognised the voice. It was deep and coarse, every word laced with a subtext of anger and resentment and barely contained psychosis.
‘You’ve already met each other,’ Leeson said as a man stepped into view. ‘Mr Dietrich, this is Mr Kooi. He’ll be working with us from this point forward.’
The tan that covered Dietrich’s face and bald head was deeper than when Victor had last seen him in Budapest. He stepped into the doorway of Victor’s room and leant a muscular shoulder against the frame. He wore khaki cargo trousers and an olive green T-shirt. Sweat darkened a small area over his sternum. The grip of a small combat knife protruded from a sheath fixed to the right of his belt buckle. He stared at Victor. Victor held his gaze.
Neither spoke.
‘Mr Dietrich resides in the room opposite,’ Leeson said, breaking the silence.
‘So you’d better not snore,’ Dietrich said, then with a smirk added, ‘Your Majesty.’
‘Play nice, Mr Dietrich.’
THIRTY
Leeson led Victor outside. Dietrich and Francesca didn’t follow. The sun was bright and hot. There was an annexe separate from the main farmhouse as well as the newer barn.
‘The generator is in the annexe,’ Leeson explained. ‘Wait here for a moment, will you?’
‘Sure.’
The younger man approached the barn and Victor stood in the sun, pivoting on the spot to look out at the surrounding land. Wherever he looked fields of olive trees stretched into the distance. Green mountains rose in the east. Farmhouses littered the landscape, but the closest village was about five kilometres to the south.
Leeson opened a door and disappeared momentarily into the barn. He closed the door behind him. When he reappeared he walked back towards Victor, followed a few seconds later by a huge figure.
The man filled the doorframe. Victor had had to duck his head to avoid colliding with the farmhouse’s low doorframes, but this man had to bend his knees and angle his shoulders to walk out of the barn, and he ducked his head to one side so his ear almost touched one shoulder.
His head and hands were in proportion to the rest of his body, so Victor knew his physique had not been built with weights but was ingrained in his DNA.
Leeson said, ‘This is Mr Jaeger.’
Jaeger’s shadow fell over Victor and he extended his right hand. It was massive, fingers twice as thick as Victor’s own. The wrist was wide and dense. Knotty muscle bulged from the forearm.
‘You must be the new guy,’ Jaeger said.
The accent was German. He was about forty years old. He wore jeans stained with oil and a white undershirt dark with sweat. Hair covered his arms, shoulders and