The Perfect Fake

by Barbara Parker

  With a malevolent grin over his shoulder, Marek went up the steps.

  Tom leaned against the table and took some deep breaths, trying to figure this out. Insanity seemed like a reasonable explanation. The guy was a lunatic. Then he dropped to one knee, pulled the backpack from under the table, and unzipped the main compartment. He felt inside. The map tube was still there. He took one end off and saw the spiral of antique ivory-colored paper.

  Tom didn’t know what Marek had been looking for, but one theory made sense. Rhonda Barlowe wanted the Corelli map, and she had sent this thug along to make sure she got it. Or it could have been Larry’s idea. He couldn’t steal the map on his own; he needed help. This made sense except for one thing: the strange questions Marek had asked him. Will you see Oscar? How much are they paying you?

  The pitch of the engines increased. Everything in the cabin bounced as the boat crashed against the sea: the table vibrated; dishes clattered; anchor chain clanked in the hold. They would arrive in Bimini soon, refuel, and go on to Nassau. One hundred and twenty-five miles of open water. And then what? Without the map, Tom had nothing.

  It wouldn’t be a bad idea, he thought, to hide it himself. Whichever one came below the next time might think the other had taken it. At least it would slow them down. He glanced around the cabin. He lifted one of the bench seats and found a storage space with rope and rain gear inside. Closed it. He opened other cabinets and drawers, then noticed the sleeping compartment. He scrambled across the slick satin comforter and drove the map tube between the bulkhead and the mattress.

  When he went topside, both men looked at him. Marek sat on the side bench with his arms spread over the back of it and a cigarette protruding from his mustache. The wind lifted the hem of his red flowered shirt, revealing a barrel torso with a mat of black hair.

  Larry gave his empty beer bottle to Tom and asked for a replacement.

  Tom pitched the bottle into the trash and opened the cooler.

  A second later he was going backward, his feet dragging across the deck. A thick arm was around his neck, the elbow at his larynx, the bicep and forearm squeezing his throat, cutting off the blood to his head. He dug his fingers into the arm. He’d been grabbed like this before, by a Latin Kings gang member in the Dade County jail. In seconds he would pass out.

  He thrashed his legs and heard Larry shouting.

  Then he was conscious of being underwater. A fist held the back of his pullover, and as the boat moved up and down, the waves swirled over his head. He lay on the walk-through to the swim platform. The boat dipped again, and he held his breath for the next wave. He came up coughing.

  Then somebody grabbed his legs and pulled. His chin hit the step, and his teeth came together on the side of his tongue. His shirt scraped up his abdomen. He was dumped on the floor of the cockpit. He rolled over and spat out seawater and blood.

  Larry was screaming, “What the fuck? What the fuck was that?”

  Marek flicked water off his hands. His cigarette still hung from his mouth, still lit. “He needed a walk off the back of the boat. Some fresh air.”

  Tom sprang to his feet and came for him. In two seconds, he was on the deck again, and a fist was poised to break his cheekbone. Then Marek smiled and patted his shoulder. “A joke. It’s only a joke. Look, my knees are wet!”

  When Tom got up again, Larry held on to his arm. His eyes were wild. “Don’t do it, man. Let it go. He’ll kill you. Just leave it. Tom, leave it!”

  Tom went below and stripped off his clothes, transferring everything from the pockets of his wet cargo pants to dry ones: passport, wallet, address book, cash. Drops of water leaked out of his cell phone. He pushed buttons, but the screen stayed dark. He thought of throwing Marek’s suitcases overboard, then thought better of it.

  The sun was no more than a vague wash of orange in the west when the low spot of land called Bimini emerged from the sea, first the channel markers, then pinpoints of light onshore. On a map, the island looked like an empty triangle: one island at the bottom, another on the west, and low-lying marshland making up the rest of it. Most of the people lived on the western strip called North Bimini.

  Tom had been here a couple of times with Eddie to fish. They had stayed at one of the cheap hotels in Alice Town and drank at a bar that Ernest Hemingway had gone to. The island had been a drug runner’s rendezvous in the 1980s, Eddie had told him, but the DEA put a stop to that. As the lights drew closer, Tom remembered the layout of North Bimini: There were marinas and bars on the east side, facing the harbor and shops on King Street, the only main road. The police station in a one-story pink building. Cinder-block houses with tin roofs, chickens in the yards. Everything within walking distance.

  As they approached the narrow channel between the islands, Larry cut the speed and told Tom to take the spotlight forward and look for rocks. Following the beam of light, the boat went straight, then took a hard turn to port, coming up the east side of the island. Past the entrance, Tom clicked off the spotlight and sat cross-legged on the bow. They passed the Blue Marlin Hotel, then a couple of waterfront bars with loud music, then the Sea Crest Motel, where Tom and Eddie had stayed.

  Larry finally pulled up next to a run-down dock about half a mile north of the port of entry, avoiding customs inspectors, Tom assumed. An old Bahamian in an unbuttoned shirt and rubber thong sandals got up from a folding chair at the fuel pumps. Cutting the engines, Larry shot a dark look at Marek and said they were lucky to have made it. Another ten minutes, the pumps would have been closed. Tom went forward and tossed the old man a line, which he looped over a piling. Larry did the same at the stern.

  Marek stepped off and said he would be back; he wanted to get some chips. Light came through the screened windows of the marina store; a woman laughed; someone spoke with a heavy island accent. Larry opened the fuel access hatch in the stern so the attendant could get at it with the hose. Numbers spun on the oldfashioned pump, and a bell rang for every gallon.

  Standing on the side of the boat, Tom took a look around. A floodlight under a metal shade lit the cockpit, but a shadow fell across the foredeck, cast by a head-high stack of lobster traps on the dock. A wooden lobster boat was tied just ahead of Larry’s cruiser. Beyond that some dinghies lay quietly in the unmoving water. Then the rocky shore, a wooden shed, some coconut palms and scrubby pine trees, and a gravel parking lot that fronted King Street, which, if Tom remembered correctly, led south to Alice Town.

  “Larry, you mind if I have some of your tortellini salad?”

  “Help yourself,” Larry said from the dock. “Make me a plate while you’re at it. Try the shrimp, too. I used jerk seasoning.”

  Tom went below. He looked up at the ventilation hatches. Two small hatches forward, two bigger ones in the galley. He put his hands on the hatch above his head and estimated twelve inches wide, thirty inches long. The cover was down, held in place by two metal rods with black handles that tightened against the frame. Tom went over to his backpack, removed most of his underwear and a fleece pullover, and shoved them out of sight under the table. He retrieved the map tube from behind the mattress in the sleeping compartment, put it into the halfempty bag, zipped it up, and tightened the straps as far as they would go.

  He remembered the rope he’d seen under one of the forward seats. In a drawer near the sink he found a chef’s knife and cut off about six feet of it, which he tied to the top handle of his backpack. Then he got on top of the counter with the knife, crouching to slice the hatch screen close to the metal frame. He unscrewed the hatch locks, pushed, and slowly raised the cover. The angle wasn’t right, but he could get his arms, then his shoulders, through. Hands on the deck, he pushed up and saw Larry watching the pump dial spin. Marek stood in the stern opening a bag of Cheez Curls.

  Having lost his footing on the sink, Tom had to swing over and feel for it before dropping to the cabin floor. With the rope between his teeth, he climbed back on the sink and went up again, this time bringing his legs out as we
ll. Through the windshield he saw Marek turn and walk toward the cooler. Tom flattened himself on the deck, a darker shape in the shadows.

  He heard the clanking of glass, then a lid closing. The nozzle being hung back on the pump. The old Bahamian said, “One hundred twenty-eight dollars.”

  In a minute or two they would cast off. Lying on his stomach, Tom pulled the rope hand over hand up the hatch. The backpack swung free, came closer . . . then caught. He pulled harder. A strap had snagged on one of the hatch locks. He cursed for not having pushed the bag through first. He reached an arm through and felt for the strap. The boat dipped slightly as Larry stepped onto it.

  Tom lowered the backpack and tried again to pull it through. He felt the vibrations of the engines, heard the splash of water at the stern. Larry said, “Marek. Go untie the stern line, then get the one at the bow.”

  “Where is Tom?”

  “He’s down below getting something to eat.”

  Tom had the top of the backpack out. He pulled and jerked but it remained stuck. He saw the problem. The hatch was narrower at one end. The bag wouldn’t fit through unless he took more out, and there was no time. Tom’s mind raced over a list of things in it that couldn’t be replaced. Gripping the top handle, he opened the zipper far enough to take out the map tube. He let go, and the bag fell away.

  Staying low, Tom scooted to the railing and stepped onto the dock. He went behind the lobster traps, got his bearings, and ran.

  Chapter 13

  At Claridge’s, a man in a greatcoat and top hat opened the taxi door as Allison paid the driver. She had just come from Victoria Station after a

  half-hour train ride from Gatwick Airport, preceded by a fruitless hour waiting outside customs in the faint hope that Tom Fairchild might, after all, have been on the 8:55 AM flight from Kingston, Jamaica. Allison hadn’t expected him to show up, but Stuart had asked her to go and make sure.

  Tom had called Stuart from Jamaica at two o’clock yesterday morning. Allison had only heard it secondhand, from Stuart, but he’d said Tom had asked him what in hell was going on; that somebody had tried to kill him; that he was stuck in Jamaica, and what was Stuart going to do about it? At first Stuart had thought Tom was drunk. It had taken a half hour of apologies and begging before Tom had said he might consider finishing the map. Or he might not.

  And now? Gone. Tom Fairchild had vanished. He had taken the Corelli map and disappeared with it. Allison’s mood was as gray as the weather, not only for wasting three hours when she could have been snuggling under a down-filled duvet, but more for the distress she’d heard in her father’s voice, and for having trusted Tom Fairchild when she’d known better.

  As she stepped from the taxi, a gust of wind flipped back the fur-trimmed edge of her coat and threatened to dislodge her red beret. Holding it on, she looked up at the five-story brick facade of the hotel, with its white marble columns, colorful flags, and filigreed iron portico. The doorman touched the brim of his hat, and Allison found herself smiling as she hurried to the entrance.

  She was staying at Claridge’s because her family had always stayed at Claridge’s. Her grandparents had honeymooned here. Her father stayed here when he came to London on business. Once, when she was ten, and Rhonda had wanted her out of the way for a week, Allison had come, too. She had tagged along to a bank or a government office, so glad to be with him that she hadn’t thought for a moment of being bored.

  But this trip to London would be cut short. It would be best, she had decided, to go straight back to Miami. The concierge could arrange a flight. Othello wouldn’t know what to think, seeing her back so soon. Allison had left him with Fernanda at Stuart’s house, told him to stay inside the fence, leave the birds alone, and she’d be back in two weeks. Now the poor cat would be stuck in the condo again, gazing through the tenth-floor window.

  Gloves in hand, Allison pushed through the revolving doors to the lobby. An immense Art Deco chandelier gleamed on the checkerboard marble floor, and a fireplace burned cheerfully opposite the wide, curving staircase. People came and went, putting on coats and hats as they walked toward the street. Allison went straight on toward an arch that led to the elevators.

  She became aware of a movement, someone getting up from an armchair near the fireplace, walking quickly in her direction. Her eyes went to the blue logo on the front of his sweatshirt: Toronto Maple Leafs. His hair was sticking up, and he needed a shave. His cargo pants were grimy, and a knit cap hung out of one pocket.

  “Tom!”

  “Good thing you showed up when you did,” he said. “The management was about to throw me out of here.” “How did I miss you at Gatwick? I was right outside

  customs. Didn’t you see me?”

  “I wasn’t at Gatwick. I got in at Heathrow about the

  same time on a flight from Canada.”

  “I don’t understand,” Allison said. “Why did you take

  another flight? You could have flown straight here from

  Jamaica.”

  “It’s been an interesting trip,” Tom said. “Nice coat.

  Leave it on. We’re going to a bank.”

  “A bank?”

  “That was the deal, remember? Upon arrival in London, I get another five grand, plus expenses. Does your

  father still want the map?”

  “Of course he does. You could have called,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you? We’ve been trying to reach you ever

  since yesterday. My father is frantic.”

  “My cell phone was full of seawater,” Tom said. With

  a hand on her elbow, he turned her toward the entrance.

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, I need some

  money, and I need to get some sleep.”

  She pulled backward. “What have you done with the

  map? Where is it?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s safe.” His hand tightened on her

  arm. “Let’s go.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  One of the hotel staff was watching them intently.

  Tom said, “You want answers? I want to be paid what’s

  due. Or I can leave right now, and you can tell Stuart he’s

  not getting his map back.”

  Allison made a face of utter disgust. “I knew this was

  a mistake.”

  On the street, a misting, icy rain shone on the pavement. Allison took a small umbrella from her tote and hit

  the button to pop it open. Tom pulled his blue knit cap

  from his pocket. A Maple Leafs logo was on the front of

  that, too. Hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders

  against the cold.

  “Where’s your coat?” she asked.

  He laughed, and the vapor puffed out of his mouth. She shook her head at the doorman who gestured

  toward the boxy, black taxi at the curb. “My father wants

  the map, so I’ll pay you the five thousand—as long as

  you can convince me I should. There’s a tea shop on the

  next corner. We can talk there.”

  “The tea is on you,” Tom said. “I’m running short of

  cash.”

  They were shown to a small, wooden table by the lacecurtained window. Allison ordered a pot of Earl Grey and tea biscuits. It was early for lunch, but Tom wanted a roast beef sandwich, which he ate greedily as he told her why he had gotten off the boat in Bimini.

  Allison’s tea went cold in her cup as she listened. She interrupted to say, “It’s hard to believe you were in danger. I mean, he wasn’t really trying to drown you.”

  “Well, Allison, I guess you just had to be there,” Tom said.

  “And you’re sure he was trying to steal the map?”

  “I couldn’t take the chance. Who is that guy, anyway? He told me he sells truck parts in Dubrovnik, then Larry told me he was looking to buy apartments in The Metropolis.”

  “Marek’s
last name is...I can’t remember, but Larry told me he’s a friend of one of his customers at the restaurant. I’ve met him. I can’t say I liked him, but I don’t think he’s a psycho.”

  Tom used a toothpick to pick up the last bits of meat. “Marek was in the Yugoslav army shooting at Muslims. He spent eighteen months in prison. Might have been for using civilians for target practice.”

  Filling their cups with more tea, Allison said, “This is so different from what Larry told my father.”

  “I’ll bet it is.”

  “Larry thinks you stole the map, and you were going to hold it for ransom or something.”

  “You told me he didn’t know about the map.”

  “Well, he does,” she said. “Rhonda probably told him.”

  In the gray light that came through the small panes of glass, Tom’s eyes were so green. Looking at him across the table, Allison could see the changes that twelve years had made. His blond-stubbled cheeks were leaner. The lines at the corners had become permanent, and the crease to the left of his mouth had deepened. Allison remembered that his smiles began on the left. His lips were fuller than a man deserved.

  He raised his brows. “What?”

  “You have some mayo on your chin,” she lied. “Right there.”

  He swiped it with his thumb, then picked up his napkin. “Does the name ‘Oscar’ mean anything to you? Did Larry ever mention anyone named Oscar? Maybe in connection with The Metropolis?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Marek asked me if I was going to see Oscar in Nassau. He asked if I was working for him or for Larry. What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea.” She watched Tom drink from the little porcelain cup. His knuckles were scraped.

  When she lifted her eyes, they met his. The left side of Tom’s mouth curved up. He said, “I like the red beret. It’s cute with the glasses.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “You’re looking good,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  “I mean it. You are.”

  Breaking eye contact, Allison chose one of the tea biscuits on the plate. “What will you do after the bank?”