Dying to Live

Chapter 37 - Lucky for Some

I'm scared, but this is exciting. My heart thumps hard as I make the first phone call to one of the many dodgy diamond dealers who crossed my path when I worked at MIB.

"Hello, is that Claude?" I say, putting on my poshest telephone voice, but I think the nerves are still coming through.

"Who's that?" he replies in a thick French accent. It reminds me of Frenchie in Bangkok and a string of horrific memories flood my brain. I shake my head, I need to focus.

"You don't know me, Claude, but I was told you might be interested in some off‑the‑record diamonds?"

CLICK.

Well, that didn't go well. I guess I'm not really surprised, why would anyone trust the voice on the other end of a cold call? I need to think of a better approach. I don't want to identify myself, of course, no point in taking a risk that details of my enquiry might filter back to MIB. Maybe creating a false persona for now would do the trick.

I realise that it may take some time to perfect my approach, so I reverse the order of my phone calls. I wish I hadn't phoned Claude first. He was my best bet, I think, and now I've blown that opportunity. I've got fifteen potential shady dealers on my list, so now I'm trying the fifteenth least likely.

"Hi, is that Albert?" I say, putting on my poshest telephone voice again. The nerves have gone now, up to a point.

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is Robert Williams," I say, realising too late that Robert shortens to Robbie. When I make the next call, I'll have planned a better nom de plume. I remember meeting a girl called Victoria once, I asked her if it was her nom de plum, she thought I was a moron which maybe explains why I only met her once.

Silence. I guess he's waiting for me to say more or have I missed something while I drifted off into thoughts about Victoria?

"I was given your name by Mr Montri, he's a contact of mine in Bangkok." I like that touch, using a real contact in the industry. I just wish I'd got the name of the Rio dealer from Kevin. That could create a neat red herring trail for MIB. I'll sort that out before my next call.

"I know him," replies Albert in a French accent you could cut cheese with. Two Frenchies in a row. "So why did he give you my name?"

"He thought you might be interested in a business opportunity which has come my way."

"What was your name again?"

"Robert Williams?"

"Do your friends call you Robbie?"

Had I been rumbled? "Robbie? No," I say.

"How is it that you know Mr Montri?"

He's asking too many questions. Time to bail out.

"Does this sound like the noise a phone makes when it's hung up?" I hang up the phone before he has a chance to answer.

I make my way to the kitchen where Marty is brewing a cuppa.

"Well, how did it go?" he asks.

"Not great, but I got a few ideas about how I can make my approach an awful lot better."

"Example," he says doing a bad impersonation of Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction.

"I need to have a proper cover story, I mean, in the first call, I hadn't even got a false name planned. It's funny how your mind goes blank when someone springs a question on you."

"Nonsense."

"Okay, smartass, make up a name. Go on. Now."

"Jim. George. Frank. Gerald. Michael," he says without a pause.