November 7th, Slopes above Montreux, Switzerland, No 45

Irina stopped in front of a chalet at the end of the road. As she got out of the car, she heard noises coming from behind the building. Neil Caputo was in the backyard, chopping wood. Short, fat, and with a beer belly hanging over the waistband of his pants, Caputo was even uglier than she remembered.
"Neil, how are you?"

Without stopping to look at her, he kept swinging the ax high above his bald head.
"Not bad, thanks. So you met Mr. Bolomey" The man's rudeness in failing to look at her or even to inquire about her well-being did not astonish Irina.
"Oh, you mean the guy in the car?"
"Yeah, he is nice, don't you think?" he sneered.
"Well”, said Irina, trying to be tactful, “let just say that he gets the job done! Neil, do you remember me?"
"Of course I do, you are Irina Vassileva, and if hadn't remembered, believe me, you would not be here. I had my, ah, lawyers, run a quick check on you before accepting this meeting. We met in Abu Dhabi a few years ago, right?".
"I'm delighted your memory is so clear".
Irina struggled to keep her tone civil, neutral.
"Well, my dear”, Caputo looked at her for the first time, letting his gaze wander salaciously over her body, “you are not the kind of woman that people easily forget, specially if you show up to a party in one of those countries".
Grinning voraciously he continued, “"What's the reason for this visit? Were you missing me perhaps?" As he laughed, his belly bounced and jiggled.
Despite her revulsion, Irina looked at him blandly.
Evenly and almost sweetly, she replied: "No, Neil, I need your expertise...can we go inside? May be you could offer me a cup of coffee since I didn't get to drink my tea"

As they strode to the house, Irina delicately picked her way though discarded gardening tools, and abandoned cardboard boxes. Inside a kitchen that had not seen a trace of cleaning in a decade, Irina sat on the edge of a chair. She looked at the book shelf along the wall in front of her. It was full of all sorts of objects, as well as discarded plates of food, but no books.
Next to it, a bald, naked female mannequin stood proudly next to the door, watching the threshold, draped with two ammunition belts and a M16 rifle. On the other end of the table Irina saw a pipe that certainly was not used to smoke Dunhill Tobacco. She turned to Caputo, busy at the sink with a kettle.