The room was silent for a time.
Ricker spoke: “You know, this idiot may really be as ignorant as he claims.”
Rising to his feet, Suarez walked over to the map and smoothed it flat. “How old did you say this is?”
“Five hundred years. It’s by Gaetano Corelli. Universalis Cosmographia, fifteen-eleven. It came out of an atlas. Be careful with it.”
Suarez held it up and looked at the light through the bullet holes.
“I’ll tell you about Mr. Zurin. Leo Mikhailevich Zurin is the only son of a major in the Soviet army. His mother was a violinist in the Moscow Symphony. In 1953, his grandfather was executed by Stalin for treason. Zurin’s father was demoted and exiled to a post in Kazakhstan, where Zurin worked in the oil industry. Eventually he went back to Moscow, and they sent him to southern Asia and the Middle East, where his job was obtaining weapons for Soviet-sponsored insurgents. After the Soviet Union fell apart, Zurin made a fortune buying up parts of the previously state-owned oil business. He bought a villa on an island off the coast of Croatia, where he keeps his yacht. He has an apartment in Paris and a house in the Italian Alps. That’s where he is now. As soon as The Metropolis is built, he’ll have a place in Miami.”
Rolling up the map, Suarez slid it back into the tube. “Zurin has a lot of interests. Skiing. Music. Fine art. Yachting. And now we find out he likes maps.” Suarez came back to Tom’s chair and stood looking down at him. “Where is the duplicate?”
“I’m still working on it. It’s on my computer.”
“How are you doing it? Photoshop?”
“Not exactly. Similar.” Barely in time, he held back Eddie Ferraro’s name. “I’m making a new engraving plate. Then I’ll print the map on antique paper and put in some age spots and a tear along the fold line.”
“You think it will fool Leo Zurin?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
Ricker said, “How much is Barlowe paying you for this?”
“Enough to make it worth doing.”
“How much?”
“I’ll net about a hundred thousand—if I finish on time and Leo Zurin believes it. Barlowe wants it a week from now.”
The men looked at each other.
Ianucci shrugged. “That works.”
“You give it to Barlowe,” Suarez said, “and Barlowe delivers it to Zurin, and Zurin approves or he doesn’t. Is that the plan?”
“That’s right.”
Suarez crossed his arms and thought for a minute, then sat down again. “Pay attention. Contreras is buying about two million dollars’ worth of small arms, machine guns, RPGs, antitank weapons, ammunition, and other assorted hardware from Leo Zurin. The weapons are currently en route from one of the former Soviet republics, scheduled to arrive in Genoa in a week, give or take. Unfortunately, we don’t know where they are or what route they’re taking. When the weapons arrive in Genoa, they’ll be shipped to a location in North Africa, then flown to South America, where they will be used in destabilizing a country that until recently has been on our side.”
“Peru,” Tom said.
“Correct. The arms trade is not illegal. Selling or importing arms without the proper licenses is. Contreras’s boss is a former drug trafficker who gave up the cocaine trade to go into politics. He wants to be president and work for the rights of the poor and oppressed and stand up to Uncle Sam. That’s all well and good, but he’s still a narco-thug. If he loses the election, his supporters—well armed, thanks to Contreras—will contest the results. You see how it goes. Now we come to the part where we tell you what we want. We want to know the name of the ship and the day it’s leaving Genoa.”
“I don’t know that,” Tom said. “How would I know something like that?”
“You’re going to find out for us. I thought, until we talked, that you might be here on Oscar Contreras’s behalf, and that you’d have that information. It’s possible you’re lying, but I don’t think so. Stuart Barlowe is here to see Leo Zurin; that seems fairly certain. Maybe he’s here about the weapons deal, maybe he isn’t, but he has to give Zurin the map. That makes things easier. Zurin sticks close to his house in Champorcher when a deal is in the works, so I don’t see him coming here to Florence. It’s more likely that Mr. Barlowe will deliver the map there. Champorcher is in the Alps about an hour north of Milan. You go with him. We want you to leave a couple of listening devices in Zurin’s house.”
Tom looked from one of them to the other, too stunned to reply.
Ianucci said, “They’re amazingly small nowadays. No one will notice. We’ll meet you again and show you how they work.”
“I can’t go with Stuart Barlowe. I can’t just invite myself along. He wouldn’t let me.”
Ricker put a hand on the back of Tom’s chair. “Ask his daughter to fix it up. She’s your girlfriend. Right? You shared a sleeper on the overnight train to Italy.”
“Don’t ask me to get her involved. I won’t do it. Plant the bug yourself. You guys are experts at it.”
“We can’t get inside,” Ricker said. “You can.”
“Leo Zurin is an arms dealer. If Marek Vuksinic sees me again, you think he won’t ask what I’m doing there? You think I’ll be alive a week from now?”
“You’ll be with Stuart Barlowe,” Suarez said. “You have to go because Zurin has to approve the map. You simply tell Barlowe to introduce you as his map expert. If we thought there was any serious risk, we wouldn’t ask you to help us.”
“Bullshit. You people are such liars. You’re worse than cops. Go ahead, send me back. I’ve got six years to serve. That’s better than a bullet in the back of the head.”
“Then let me put it this way.” Suarez came in closer, elbows on knees. “Eddie Ferraro. Is he a friend of yours?”
Tom looked at him.
“Eddie Ferraro,” Suarez repeated. “He checked into the Hotel Brianza with you and Ms. Barlowe. I think you’re basically a good guy. Despite your record, I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would sell out a friend. Eddie has twenty years to serve, and I would be just as happy to put him on the same flight back to the U.S. that you’re going to be on. It’s up to you.”
Chapter 25
They would keep Larry overnight in a semiprivate room at Santa Maria Nuova. They had wanted to patch him up and send him out the door. Nobody
could speak English, or else they were being typically Italian. Your son isn’t so bad—non è molto grave. But Rhonda had demanded that he be taken care of properly. She would pay whatever was required. Finally they gave in. Tomorrow. Domani, signora. Come for him tomorrow.
As soon as Larry was wheeled into his room, which he shared with a withered old man who smelled like death, the nurse allowed Rhonda cinque minuti, five minutes, no more. They had shot Larry so full of painkillers and sedatives he would be out for hours.
Stuart waited just inside the door with his coat over his arm, as if a black eye and a broken nose were catching. Leaning over her son, Rhonda touched her lips to his bruised forehead and swollen cheek. She carefully straightened his hair—getting bald already; how he hated it.
“We should go,” Stuart said quietly.
“Not yet. A little longer.”
Larry had called as she was dressing for dinner, and
she’d had to scream at him to make him slow down, tell her what had happened, where he was. Stuart came out of the shower, but by then Rhonda was reaching for her coat and her purse. She took a taxi to pick Larry up, and she used her scarf to staunch the bleeding. Talk to me, she had told him. What the hell happened? How could you fuck it up so completely?
The taxi driver had known the nearest pronto soccorso—emergency facility. Rhonda stayed with him as long as she could. Say nothing. Nothing. I’ll deal with this.
But it was her fault, not Larry’s. She had failed. Failed utterly, without recourse. The forged Corelli would be made—no doubt about that now. Leo Zurin would tell everyone that Stuart had tried to cheat him, and
the edifice of their lives would collapse into a charred heap of rubble.
She felt Stuart looking at her. As soon as they left, he would start asking questions. She could hear them already, buzzing around in his mind. What would she say? I asked Larry to kill Tom Fairchild for me. What do you think of that, Stuart?
Her fault. She should never have sent Larry to do it himself. He wasn’t brilliant. He wasn’t strong or vicious. This hadn’t been like the situation with Royce Herron. That had been easy. Rhonda had told Larry to find someone, and he had persuaded Marek Vuksinic to do it. Quick, professional. No charge. Thank you very much.
The nurse came back. “Mi dispiace, ma adesso dovete—” “Yes, we’re leaving,” Rhonda said. “ Grazie.” “Grazie,” said Stuart. “Thank you.”
Rhonda picked up her white fur coat from the chair.
Stuart wouldn’t touch it, would he? Larry’s blood was on the sleeve. Stuart had seen it and said she could probably leave it with the concierge, who would know a good dry cleaner.
They followed the corridor toward the exit, accompanied by the tap of their shoes and low voices from the nurses’ station. Stuart took her elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be better in the morning when we pick him up.” “He’ll need a dentist,” Stuart said. “He should go back to Miami immediately.”
“That’s probably best. Tomorrow I’ll see how he feels.” A nurse walked by, then an orderly with a cart. Rhonda said quietly, “I’m sorry to have left you at the hotel, rushing out that way, but I couldn’t wait. I had to go to him.”
“A mother’s instinct,” he murmured. The lights in the ceiling slowly moved over his face, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “What is he doing in Italy?”
Rhonda leaned on his arm. “I should have talked to you first. Larry has been so pressured lately—you have, too—the developer, the designers, the bank, picking at him like crows. He wanted to talk to you about The Metropolis, away from all of them, so I said yes, come over. We’ll surprise Stuart.”
“Yes, well, you’ve certainly done that. Have we had dinner? I can’t remember.”
“I don’t think so.” Rhonda sighed. “You’re so good to wait with me. Larry will appreciate it.”
“We’ll order room service. I think we have a few things to discuss.”
Taking his arm, she said, “Larry arrived this afternoon. He wanted to talk to Tom about what had happened on the boat—what Marek had done. He wanted to apologize—”
“Not here, Rhonda. Other people—”
“They aren’t listening. They don’t hear us.” She put her head on Stuart’s shoulder as they walked. “I told Larry where they were staying, and he asked Tom to have a drink with him. They met outside Tom’s hotel. They argued. Tom attacked Larry. He hit him in the face with a motorcycle lock.”
“Good God.”
“Tom Fairchild is a violent man. Larry could have died. Thank God he was able to get away. He called me.” Rhonda turned away from the corridor and reached into her bag for a tissue. A sign on the wall informed the staff that the morning rosary had been changed to 8 AM. “When I answered the phone I didn’t know who it was at first. Just this voice crying, ‘Mama, Mama—’ ”
Standing behind her, Stuart put his hands on her shoulders. “Larry will be all right. The doctor said no permanent damage. One of the staff asked me if we wanted to report it to the police. I said no. I don’t think we should involve them at this point. Do you?”
Years ago there would have been anger, outrage... something. Rhonda took his arm again, and they walked toward the lobby. A group of old women in dark clothing sat on a sofa waiting like a chorus of mourners.
Rhonda held her tissue in her fist. “No. We’ll let it go. If Tom is in jail, he can’t finish the map, can he?”
“Calm down, Rhonda. I’ll have a talk with him.”
“Expect to be lied to. He’ll probably blame Larry. God knows what he’ll say to you. He’s a sociopath.”
“Leave it alone, Rhonda.” Stuart’s voice had some bite. “Can we please get out of this place?” His lips barely moved. “You should think about accompanying Larry back to Miami. He might need you.”
The women’s eyes followed them as they crossed the lobby. Through the glass front of the lobby, over the buildings across the small piazza, rose the terra-cotta dome of the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, lady of the flowers. Rhonda slowed her steps. She didn’t want to be outside on the sidewalk alone with him. Not yet. He wouldn’t lose his temper with people looking on.
She stopped and waited until he turned to her. “Stuart, I have to tell you something—a confession? I was so afraid that if Leo Zurin knew the map was a forgery, he would make things so much worse for us than if we just admitted it had been destroyed.”
“You’ve made your position on that very clear. Is there more?”
“Yes. Whatever I’ve done, I did for us, and if I was wrong...I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me. Before Tom Fairchild left Miami, I asked him not to do the map. I offered him money not to do it, and today I asked Larry to go around to his hotel and offer him whatever it took. That may be why Tom attacked him. I feel so guilty, so sorry for everything.”
Stuart’s face sagged with disbelief. “You did that? Why? To deliberately sabotage me—to lie to me—”
“I was trying to help you—to save what we’ve built together. Because I love you. Because I was foolish and afraid.” She pressed her lips to his cheek, his neck, and slid her arms under his coat, holding him tightly. “Please forgive me. I was so wrong, and I know that. I’ve told you everything. Don’t make me leave you. I would die without you. Let’s not talk anymore tonight. Take me back to the hotel. Please. I want to be with you. Tomorrow I’ll come back for Larry, and I’ll send him home, but don’t make me go, too. I need you. I’ve always needed you. I want to go to our room and go to sleep with your arms around me and forget everything except what we are to each other. Say you love me.” A small laugh escaped her. “Say it before I want to kill myself. You do love me. Don’t you?”
“God help me, yes. You drive me to insanity, Rhonda. I’ve wished you dead, and you’ve wished the same for me. Don’t deny it.” His breath was in her ear. “It’s what we have in common.”
“We’ll be home soon.” She felt his beard under her lips. “We’ll be home in a few days. Tom Fairchild will finish the map. We’ll give it to Leo, and we’ll go home.”
Chapter 26
When Oscar Contreras pushed off on his return lap of the pool, he saw the downstairs maid coming out of the house through one of the
stone arches of the portico. She carried a telephone, and Contreras assumed the call was of some importance, since any employee who disturbed him during his morning swim without a good reason would be fired.
As he stroked through the water, he could see her brown feet and splayed toes in their leather sandals keeping up with him. He finished his lap of the pool and stood up. “¿Quién es?”
“Perdóneme, señor. Es el señor Zurin de Italia.” He told her yes, yes, he would take it, go get him his towel. He waded up the steps, water running down his chest, over his belly. Mopping his face, he walked quickly across the hot deck to the umbrella table, where she had put the phone. “Leo, is that you?”
“Ciao, Oscar,” came the voice on the other end. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” Leo must have heard the sounds of the pool. He was being sarcastic, a trait of the Europeans.
“I swim one hundred laps every morning for my health.” Oscar put on his sunglasses.
“How macho.” Leo Zurin said, “You must come to Italy and do some skiing. It’s exhilarating, but one must be careful not to slide off the trail into a crevasse. Forgive me for getting immediately to the point, but where is my money?”
Contreras said, “Where are my goods? Excuse me to get to the point, too, but you haven’t sent me that information.”
Zurin replied, “This is because my company hasn’t received th
e third payment, which is due before the goods are shipped. Those are our terms.”
“How do I know all my items will be in the container?”
There was a pause before Leo Zurin said, “Are you questioning my integrity?”
“No, this is business. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I put the order with your company on word of mouth. Next time, when we establish more of a track record, then we don’t have to go through this shit.”
“There will be no next time, Señor Contreras. Do you want your items or don’t you?”
The maid set a glass of orange juice on the table. Contreras drank some of it and chewed the ice. “I tell you what, Leo. Don’t play games. I can buy the goods somewhere else. I’m not in a hurry. Okay, this is what we’re going to do. I’ll send you a wire transfer when everything’s in order. I know somebody over in Italy right now, in fact. When I have the word that the goods are checked off a list, and so forth, then I’ll tell him to release the money. This is a person we both know, Larry Gerard from Miami. He’s an excellent personal friend of mine. I’ll ask him for this favor. When I say release the money, then you can have it. Not before. Okay, the second thing.”
With the phone under his ear, Contreras toweled under his arms and between his legs before sitting in a cushioned patio chair. “Your prices are high as hell. What if I pay the costs of shipping directly? My company saves money, and you don’t have to worry about getting the stuff all the way over here. Sound good to you?”
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