Chapter 3 Conversations over coffee

They meet again

Usual disclaimers apply. Thomas Harris owns Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter. No copyright infringement intended

ANY comments rude or other wise gratefully received, other wise how do we get better at these things ?

By 6 am she was settled in the second floor room overlooking the plaza.

Three bottles of water in the rusting fridge in the corner; fan sitting on the floor, wheezing as it turned;. a worn sofa with a sweat stained sleeping bag tossed across one arm; two sagging wicker chairs and two tripods, one holding a video camera with a high power lens and the other a binocular telescope. The floor to ceiling shutters across the open window were half open, the paint peeling off, inside and out. There was a small wrought iron balcony with a design of curled fruit, just outside, covered in bird droppings and feathers. The room smelt of stale sweat, old cigarettes and Gatorade.

The square below had a small fountain in the centre, which was turned on at 7 am. It was surrounded by a semi formal garden with acacia trees and 4 triangles of sunburnt grass. There were shops and confiteras around the perimeter, but most importantly, directly opposite Clarice, were the offices of a taxi firm, underneath the shade of a cloister extending the entire southern side of the plaza.

They had been watching this office for 3 weeks, recording comings and goings on the camera. The hooded lens needed constant adjustment as the sun drifted across the square.

They were looking for one individual in particular – Diego Valdes according to his latest passport – a big dealer with, more potently, many shady, political connections. Jose was desperate to catch this particular big carp

There was activity in the office almost 24 hours per day. They only expected to see Valdes when it was quiet when his body guards would have a clear view of the plaza and everyone in it, but not this early in the morning. Buenos Aires was a city for night people. More likely to see him during siesta, so, Jose just assigned one person to the early morning watch.

This was Clarice's favourite time. The street cleaners had just swept the plaza and sprayed the paving with water. The smell of the geraniums and lavender planted around the square, drifted up to the room as the sun heated up the stones. There was some activity in the square – deliveries to the cafes, night workers returning to their apartments, a gardener in a floppy straw hat cleaning leaves out of the fountain. This purposeful domestic activity comforted Clarice. It reassured her that some people enjoyed ordinary lives.

Clarice sipped some iced water from the bottle sitting in the shade of her chair. She splashed some water on her neck and immediately, it brought back the picture of his hands under the fountain, last night.

She had woken that morning and had viewed the night's events as a hazy nightmare. Now looking onto the sun soaked plaza she knew it was true. So...he was here. He had been watching her. How had he known where to find her ? Stupid question. Her move had been trumpeted in the press and spun by the FBI as corporate kindness – getting her out of the media's eye and not simply firing her ass but re-crafting her career in another arena. Why was he watching ? Another stupid question although....she had assumed that he wouldn't have wasted his time, once she had given him her answer. "Nut with a crush"- the phrase sat like a burning coal in the palm of her hand. Maybe it was just serendipity. Maybe fate had other ideas.

Clarice wasn't naturally superstitious, but viewing her life dispassionately, all her self made efforts had come to nothing. Lately she had felt that greater forces than she could see were pulling strings she didn't know existed.

Now.....what to do ? Call Washington. Would they believe her ? Almost certainly not. She would need proof. So she would have to flush him out again. She knew how to do that – distress of one flavour or another. Tell the others, right now ? No way, until she had the proof. Fanciful schemes floated through Clarice's head as she sipped her water and watched the taxi office.

About 8 am the confitera on the west side of the square put out its chrome tables and chairs and opened up its umbrellas – the colour of a savannah sky . Early morning workers with set expressions on their faces, still inanimate with sleep, settled at the tables and opened newspapers and absently lit cigarettes over their espressos. There was one waiter – a tall thin lad of about 18 with black hair spiked with hair gel. He had long hands with knobbly fingers and an immaculately starched long white apron tied around his waist. He moved with self conscious speed and élan, spinning and tilting his tray of sparkling white cups and glasses of iced water, flicking the tables with a stiff white napkin and sorting and counting change out of the soft leather pouch around his waist with one or two flicks of his forefingers.

Clarice watched fascinated for a minute. She loved to watch people who were masters of their art.

A flurry of activity in the office guiltily snapped her eyes to the video camera. Nothing important – coffee and pastries being delivered to the front door.

Her eyes wandered back to the waiter and the café. He was standing by one of the tables, weight on one leg, tray balanced on widely spread fingers. He was talking, to someone seated at the table, his left hand relaxed by his side. He half turned, still talking over his shoulder, as he moved away.

Clarice's breath stopped somewhere in her chest. He was there, sitting at the table, his right hand lying over a rolled newspaper, one immaculately pressed trouser leg, crossed over another, his left arm resting over a book on his lap, his mutilated left hand not visible from this angle. He was wearing a dark grey linen suit with a white shirt, open at the neck. The way the collar lay made Clarice think that it must be silk. A black fedora hid half his face. He carefully removed it and placed it precisely alongside the newspaper. Not a hair out of place. Black and swept back, as she remembered. Longer than it had been at the Chesapeake but cut in a precise curve and peak to follow the curves of his neck. The skin smooth and unnaturally pale in this city of sun and open skies.

Clarice had immediately swung the binocular telescope around to get a better view.

In the basement, after the first shock of seeing him on the video, she had spent three evenings, sipping beer straight from the bottle watching him, over and over again, trying to marry his movements to that familiar and particular voice. She had hardly seen him move at all in Memphis or Baltimore and only heavily drugged memories of what had happened by the Chesapeake. She had never seen him in the full light of day. This was unknown territory for her – how he used his body. In the video she had been struck by the languor of his movements when he was actually choosing the essences for the perfume, even allowing for the jerkiness of the film, and the purposefulness of his walk. More toe than heel. Like a cat setting out for a night's revels.

'You should be watching the office Clarice ... you should be watching the office Clarice....' Clarice compromised. She lifted her head about once every three minutes to quickly glance across the square but the rest of the time her eyes devoured the small scene in the café below. She watched him intently, unblinking, like a fox watching a hare. She caught herself dissecting every gesture, every nuance. What manner of man is he now ......here .... in this place? Quiet or garrulous? Contained or flamboyant ? How does he treat the world around him ?

The waiter returned with a tall mug of chocolat and a thin crisp pastry dusted with icing sugar and a dripping glass of iced water with a sectioned lime amongst the ice cubes. The saliva was thick at the back of Clarice's throat. She couldn't reach for her water without moving her position.

Dr Lecter looked up at the waiter smiled and murmured a few words. The waiter paused for a moment to reply. Hand behind his back in almost a deferential pose, he nodded and then turned away into the café.

The doctor reached for the glass of water, sipped while looking straight ahead and licked his lips with one swift movement of his tongue. A shiver went down Clarice's spine. He lazily turned his head to right and left surveying the square and everyone in it and then raised his head a little to survey the higher levels of the plaza.

Clarice, startled, pulled back from the binoculars, deeper into the room and almost tipped over her rickety chair. 'Shit. Does he know we are here ? Of course he does Clarice – why would he be sitting there, otherwise ?' After counting slowly to 10 and breathing out slowly, Clarice moved back to the telescope. His head was bent. The book was open on his lap. Apart from turning the pages with his right hand and sipping occasionally from his mug of chocolat, he was completely still.

There was an intermittent breeze in the plaza, it ruffled the pages, but he simply put out one slim forefinger to hold the fluttering paper still. Clarice was dimly aware of the slapping sound of trainers on marble and the next instant the door to the room slammed open

"How ya doing Special Agent Starling ?" It was Zack, small, wiry, all tendons and ligaments like a piece of beef jerky, cured by the cigarettes he smoked almost continuously.

At the instant the door opened the Doctor looked up, and Clarice found herself staring directly into two eyes, as dark as plague pits. He hesitated only a second and then his eyes moved on to scan the rest of the second floor balconies. Clarice allowed herself to breathe out.

"Something going on or ya just admiring some cunt's jugs ? Let's see. Who knows, maybe our tastes in Latino pussy co-in-cide" He licked his lips and winked at Clarice He reached for the binoculars and stared fixedly for a moment ."What the fuck ? You getting wet for a 70 year old gardener?" Clarice smiled inwardly.

"No just scanning. Now you're here I'm going to get myself some breakfast. Want anything ?" She said this with ice in her voice.

"Pack of Marlboros and a lighter"

Clarice picked up her bag from the sofa and ran swiftly down the stairs.

The sun was blinding when she exited from the building and even at this time in the morning, she could feel it burning. She didn't hesitate. She walked straight to the café and sat down at the table next to him, her back to the room.

"You're following me"

"Hmmm" He hadn't moved when she sat down. But now he shut his book and placed it on the table by the newspaper. He carefully removed a slim black leather case from an inside pocket and unfolded it on the table revealing a chrome plated manicure set with slim ivory handles. He selected a long file and started to run it over the nails of his right hand. He held the file expertly between three fingers of his left hand. There was a neat scar where the thumb had been.

"I'm relieved to see that you haven't turned entirely into a creature of the night Clarice"

There was a pause with just the sound of the fountain and some distant traffic and the leisurely swish of the file against his nails.

"However, you do seem to have cultivated a death wish of monstrous proportions. I think too, that you are having no fun at all which, in this city, I would classify as a crime against humanity" He stopped filing and looked into the middle distance while reaching for his chocolat.

The waiter appeared from inside the café. Clarice ordered a café latte and some sliced melon and pancetta.

"Your Spanish is very good Clarice. Where did you pick up such an authentic cadence?"

"Oh here and there. On the streets"

"You must have an exceptional ear. What music do you listen to?" He had resumed his work, pushing back the cuticles.

"Can we talk about something else ? like what you think you're doing following me ?"

"I think it would be unwise to stray into emotional territory right now Clarice. The weasel with the nicotine addiction will notice. In fact, it would be sensible to have a story to tell him of inconsequential conversations with Argentinian gentlemen. He will require a full report, I'm sure" With this he turned in his chair to look at her properly and smiled. That full on smile from last night. Clarice's heart skipped a beat. This she didn't recognise. This wasn't him.

The waiter returned and laid a snow white plate with the pale melon and dusky pink pancetta on the table by Clarice's elbow. Doctor Lecter leaned forward and raised one manicured forefinger to retrieve the bill from the waiter's tray. "Please, allow me."

"So .... Music" He raised an eyebrow. At that instant a red Ducatti bike slewed to a stop at the top of the square. Clarice recognised the sound. It was Jose. Something must be up, they weren't due to meet until lunchtime.

Dr Lecter smiled impishly. "Duty calls, I see. Well ... until next time Clarice" and he gave an infinitesimal bow from the waist and picked up his book again.

Clarice snatched her bag and sprinted back to the building