The Photograph

They sat outside the Carlton Towers hotel in a nondescript black on black parked car in the pouring rain.

Russian pop music crackled faintly in the background as the air filled with cigarette smoke. One of the two men wiped clear a spot on a foggy window then huffed over it mindlessly as the rain drummed down. Heavy enough to trap them inside the Mercedes, light enough for a man to forego an umbrella.

Neither of them spoke, instead stared out of the windows unseeing the Saturday shoppers scurrying to and fro Sloane Street.

“So…. Herve gave me your number.” One said croakily breaking the heavy silence.

Not looking at the speaker Serge Beroskovich lit another cigarette and crushed out the dying embers from his previous smoke.

Serge’s face and body language could be described arrogant and cruel. A proud masculine face set with high cheekbones with thin hard lips and a Roman-esque aquiline nose. His only redeeming feature was his piercing ice-cold blue eyes fringed with long dark feminine eyelashes. Cold in colour, cold in emotion an ex lover once said.

Even when sitting in the driver’s seat he still cut an imposing figure. 6’4, a muscular body that screams he works out for hours a day everyday. His hands, devoid of any rings, were almost comical: huge damaged shovels.

Daniel Ableman itched to crack open the window even for a splinter of air just to relieve himself from the choking hold the Red Malboro smoke had on his lungs.

He prided himself on being healthy and taking care of his body. In the gym by 6am sharp, he barely drank and certainly didn’t smoke let alone do drugs. He was judgemental when it came down to others that abused their bodies but he wasn’t about to unleash the spiel on Serge.

Daniel took a deep breath: “Look I need to know I can trust you. I’ve never done this before. This can never come back to me. I could…”

“Give me photo”. Interrupted Serge impatiently.

“Yes yes of course”. Daniel started rummaging in his designer man bag before fishing out a large envelope.

Serge plucked the envelope out of Daniel’s hand and ripped it open before pulling out a photograph.

“Is this her? Serge demanded studying the photograph.

Daniel cleared his throat before answering sounding like a bumbling English fool.

“Yes that’s her. That’s the mark. Do you call them marks? Or is it victims?”

“What has she done?” Serge asked in a rare moment of kindness.

Daniel looked at him sharply.

“I don’t see what’s that got to do with it. Herve said I could rely on you, said you’re discreet and professional. So are you? Can you do this?”

Serge eyed Daniel with contempt.

“It’s 70% deposit in cash upfront and the rest you pay cash on completion. Once you have given me the money there is no going back so be sure Mr White.”

“I’m sure but burn the photograph after.” Daniel said.