The Perfect Fake

by Barbara Parker

into the deep creases on his large, callused hands, but a

  little ink on the edges of the paper wouldn’t matter. They

  would be trimmed to the size of the map.

  Tom looked at his watch. “It’s ten after four. What

  day is this?”

  “Tuesday, I think.” Eddie placed the felt blankets over the paper. “What are you going to do when you get

  back home, Tommy?”

  “Finish my sailboat. I paid somebody to work on the

  engine while I was gone. Soon as I buy some sails, I’ll

  take her out for a test run.”

  Allison asked, “Do I get to go?”

  “I’m expecting you to crack the champagne over the

  bow.”

  “Deal.”

  “I’ve got to see that.” Eddie wiped his hands on his

  ink-stained apron, then reached up to grab a spoke. “You

  send me some photos, will you?”

  “We’ll sail to Italy and pick you up,” Tom said. He

  sent a smile across the table, but Eddie was concentrating

  on his work. The old wood creaked, and the gears

  groaned dangerously. Tom expected them to give way

  any second.

  Eddie grunted and ground his teeth together. “Holy

  Mary, mother of God, I hope this is the last one.” When it

  was done, he passed a towel across his forehead. Allison leaned against the table and said, “Eddie,

  what are you going to do when this is over?”

  “Me? Well...” Inch by inch, he lifted the paper from

  the plate. “I’ll have the money to bring Rose and the kids

  for a visit.” He shot a quick glance Tom’s way. “I

  should’ve stayed in touch with her. I did a lot of things

  wrong, that’s for damn sure. But we’ll see each other

  again.”

  “Do you think she would move here?”

  “Oh, no, don’t think so. The girls. You know, they’re

  happy where they are. But they could all come over for a

  few weeks in the summer. They could stay at my place. I

  think that would be fun, don’t you?”

  “They’d love it. You can show Rose the Via Dell’

  Amore.”

  To Tom’s surprise, Eddie blushed. “Might do that. It’s

  going to be hard to see her go back, though. Real hard.”

  Then he laughed. “Listen to me. I haven’t even asked her

  to come over yet.” He held the print so Tom could see it.

  “Okay?”

  Tom examined the second copy and said it would do,

  but the first was better. He would finish that one, then

  start on a backup if they had time. He told Eddie to put

  his feet up for a while, which Eddie did with a groan of

  exhaustion. Tom said, “You, too, Allison. Take a nap.

  There’s nothing you can do now except wait.”

  “You sure?”

  He gave her a kiss. “Get some sleep.”

  After washing her hands again, she folded her apron,

  lay on a rolled carpet in the corner, and closed her eyes.

  The only light in the room came from the lamps aimed at

  the original Corelli and its duplicate in progress. Tom’s

  espresso had gone cold, but he reached for the cup. The age spots had dried quickly, a scattering of pale

  freckles on the old paper. Tom trimmed the map to size

  with an X-Acto knife and a straightedge, then lightly

  curled the edges and rubbed them gently on the dirty

  workbench, leaving smudges that resembled the oil from

  fingers turning the pages of the atlas. When the edges

  looked like those of the original, he folded the map in the

  middle, turned it the other way, then back again. In his pocket, his cell phone vibrated. He had put it

  on mute to not wake the others. Before answering, he

  looked at the numbers on the screen.

  “Hello,” he said quietly. “Fritz?”

  “No names. Did I wake you?”

  “Not at all. I’m working. What’s up?”

  “That question you had. I just got the info for you. It

  wasn’t easy, but the person you inquired about? He is with

  the organization he referred to. He put in for vacation.” Fritz was talking about Manny Suarez. Tom said,

  “Run that by me again?”

  “The man is off his turf. Essentially, he’s freelancing.

  The guys with him? They’re legal. They’re with the outfit

  I used to have contacts with. I think they’re sort of doing

  a favor.”

  “You mean they’re CIA?”

  “Watch it,” Fritz said. “Is this line secure?” “Sorry. So what’s the deal?”

  “The deal is, your man is Peruvian. Born in Miami,

  but you know, they stay close to the folks back home. His

  only brother was a police officer down there working an

  antidrug detail. Word is, the brother couldn’t be bought.

  He had a wife and kids. The bad guys took him out. Same

  outfit as the person who is now purchasing things from

  the Russian. Do you follow?”

  “I follow.”

  “That’s as much as I could get. You need anything

  else?”

  “It’s more than I expected. Thanks.”

  “Take care of yourself over there, kid. I’m signing off

  now.”

  Tom disconnected and looked around at Allison

  curled up on the old rug. Eddie sat in his chair with his

  head against the wall, snoring. Tom decided to let them

  sleep awhile longer. He went back to work on the map. He had made a fold mark down the middle, where the

  map would have been folded into an atlas. He scraped the

  fibers of the paper on the reverse side of the fold until they began to let go, then carefully opened a tear in the paper exactly as long as the tear in the original. With his paints he created a thin, narrow strip of discoloration along the entire fold line, as if the map had been glued to a thicker piece of paper, called a tongue, bound into an atlas. A bookbinder would have used glue made from animal hide or wheat. Not having any animal-hide glue, Tom had made some from wheat paste. He brushed on a thin, broken layer of that and sprinkled on a pinch of dust

  from inside a drawer in the workbench.

  When the glue was dry, Tom turned the map facedown. To simulate a recent restoration, he brushed

  polyvinyl acetate glue onto a thin strip of paper four

  inches long, and affixed that to the tear.

  The security light winked out in the courtyard, leaving the gray light of morning to filter through the grime

  on the window.

  Over the noise of the hair dryer aimed at the repair,

  Tom thought he heard something else and glanced at Allison’s telephone. He clicked the switch off. Chimes signaled a call coming through. Quickly, Tom dropped the

  dryer and grabbed the cell phone. He fumbled for the

  right button. “Hello!”

  But it wasn’t Stuart Barlowe. Tom spun around on the

  chair and mouthed a silent curse.

  Allison scrambled up. “Tom? What is it?”

  Signaling her to be quiet, he pressed another button,

  and a thin voice with a vaguely Southern accent came out

  of the speaker. “. . . chasing you for over a week now, Mr.

  Fairchild. Your sister says you’re visiting friends, but I

  suspect she’s giving me a story. I’m going to ask you

  straight out, and if you lie to me, I’ll get you for perjury.

  Where are you?”

  “At this moment?”

  “That’s the moment
I’m referring to, Mr. Fairchild.

  Right now. As we speak. Where...are...you?” Eddie had come over to listen, and he and Allison

  stared at the cell phone.

  Tom was holding it a foot from his mouth. “I’m with

  a friend. We were in the Keys fishing, and she was followed down there by her ex-boyfriend. He beat her up.

  She had to go to the emergency room. I’ve been taking

  care of her. We’re still in the Keys—at a safe house. I

  can’t divulge the location, not even to you, Mr. Weems,

  because this phone is probably being tapped.”

  “Oh, my God,” Allison whispered, exchanging a

  glance with Eddie.

  A laugh came through the speaker. “That’s good. I

  haven’t heard that one before. Uh-huh. You tell the lady

  you’re with, whomever she may be, to get herself another

  nurse. Listen well, Mr. Fairchild. If you are not in my office before five o’clock this afternoon—today, not tomorrow or next week—I will file a violation of probation

  on you, and I will have a warrant issued for your arrest.

  Do you hear me loud and clear?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Weems. Loud and clear.” Tom disconnected, then looked at his watch again. “Jesus! It’s one

  o’clock in the morning in Miami. Know what he said

  when I answered? ‘Gotcha!’ ”

  “What are you going to do?” Allison asked. “Shoot myself?”

  Eddie said, “Can this guy be bribed?”

  “No way. The Weasel would pay me to have this happen. He’s loving it. I’ve never heard him so happy.” Tom

  slowly took off his lenses and rubbed his forehead. “Suicide is an option, definitely.”

  “Tom, shut up, please,” Allison said. “We’ll figure

  something out.”

  Eddie said, “The map is done. I’ll take you to the airport right now, and you get on a flight out of here. Allison

  and I will take the map to her father. Suarez and his buddies can go screw themselves.”

  Allison calculated on her fingers. “You can make it.

  With the time difference you have twenty-two hours.” He stared from one of them to the other. “Even if I

  did have time, which I don’t, how am I going to get past

  Homeland Security? They’ve got my passport flagged.” Eddie said, “Come on, Tommy. They’ll delay you a

  bit, but they won’t refuse entry. You haven’t done anything. Your probation officer can’t hang you for being a

  few hours late.”

  Tom shook his head.

  Allison spoke. “He won’t leave, Eddie. He’s going to

  Leo Zurin’s house if it kills him, because the government

  said they would bring you back to the United States for

  prosecution, too.”

  “What’d you tell him that for?” Tom demanded. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Jeez.” Eddie leaned against the workbench.

  “You didn’t have to do this for me, Tom. They won’t go

  to the trouble of extraditing me from Italy.”

  “I was thinking more like kidnapped,” Tom said. “No, no, no. That’s how they talk. They mess with

  your mind and get you running scared.” Eddie put an arm

  across his shoulders.

  “Are you positive about that?”

  “Well... reasonably positive.” The smile had left

  Eddie’s face.

  Tom said, “It’s not just for you, okay? I’ve busted my ass for this fucking map, and I’m not giving up now. If I

  violate my probation, so be it.”

  “Don’t say that!” Allison shook him. “I will not let

  you go to prison. Either of you. It won’t happen, I swear

  to God. My father has friends. He knows people in Washington.”

  “Look, would you both calm down?” Tom held up his

  hands. “Everything’s okay. It’s going to be fine.” He

  walked over to the other end of the workbench, where he

  had left the extra copy of the map. He ripped it down the

  middle.

  “What are you doing?” Allison cried.

  “There’s no time to do a backup. We’ll go with the

  one I just finished. It’s good enough. No, screw that. It’s

  perfect.” Tom placed the original Corelli and its newer

  twin between sheets of Mylar and rolled them to fit the

  map tube. “We need to clean this place up and get out of

  here. But first— Allison, I want you to get on your phone.

  Call that hotel out on the autostrada and cancel our reservation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to stay close to Santa Maria

  Novella—as close as we can get.”

  Chapter 30

  The Hotel Mercurio, five stories of Tuscan gold stucco and brown shutters, was directly on the Piazza di Santa Maria Novella. Allison phoned

  ahead and reserved two rooms, immediate occupancy. It was just before nine o’clock in the morning when they arrived at the front entrance. After Tom and Allison quickly unloaded the car, Eddie went in search of a place to park it out of sight.

  After the porter had left with his tip, Tom went to the window and pulled aside the sheer white curtain. Allison stood beside him and looked out.

  The hotel was on an oval of winter-brown grass circled by a sidewalk and a narrow street. To their right, at the north end, the gothic facade of a church dominated the piazza. White marble inlaid with black created intricate patterns of rectangles and arches under a triangular pediment and an immense round window that on a sunnier day might have glowed with color. At ground level a set of massive wooden doors had weathered to gray. A stone path led to a thirty-foot white marble obelisk and some park benches. An old woman in a long brown sweater walked through with her little white terrier on a leash. The distance was close enough that Allison could make out the flowers on the lady’s skirt.

  She swept her gaze round the piazza, from the church to the buildings on the opposite end. Clouds over the sun had dulled the colors. “I don’t see anybody in a black coat.”

  “It’s too early. We still have an hour.” Tom cranked the window open. As the wooden frame swung out, cold air came in. The lady had stopped to chat with a friend. The dog put its paws on her knee, and she picked it up. Tom aimed his camera, clicked the shutter, and checked the screen.

  “Watch this.” As Tom pressed a button, the tiny tableau enlarged until the woman’s face took up half the screen. “I can enlarge it on the computer even more. I turned the date stamp on, and the battery is charged. I’m not sure if Suarez will give me the stuff right there or if he’ll want to go somewhere else. If he does, just keep the shutter going until we walk out of sight. But if he walks away, and I’m still there, keep the camera on me.” Tom held up the strap so she could put it around her neck. “You try it. Take your glasses off and adjust the viewfinder. Got it?”

  Allison put her glasses into her pocket. “What if he sees me?”

  “He won’t. Step back a little. Right there. Can you locate the benches? I’ll be on the one facing the hotel. When I get back to the room, I’ll take some close-ups of the electronics.”

  Allison pressed the shutter. “When are you going to tell Agent Suarez you’ve done this?”

  “I haven’t decided. Probably after I go to Champorcher.”

  She focused on a man riding a bicycle. He went in front of the church and continued around the oval, weaving in and out of the sparse traffic. “Why do you have to go at all? Just show Suarez the photographs. That ought to be enough.”

  “Enough?”

  Allison lowered the camera. “To get you back into the U.S. To make him ask the state attorney to drop your probation violation.”

  “I want more,” Tom said. “I want to be off
probation. I want the Weasel out of my life. I want my record cleared.”

  “That’s asking a lot, Tom.”

  “You said the feds could crush the state prosecutors.”

  “Within limits, but this?”

  “Why not? I’ll have photographs of an employee of a domestic agency working a case on foreign soil. If they don’t want to see them all over the Internet, they’d better help me out.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” Allison said.

  “He pushed me, and I’m pushing back.” Tom stared down at the piazza. His green eyes narrowed. He seemed suddenly older, as though the events of the past two weeks had been working on the inside, and now had come to the surface. A muscle tightened in his jaw, and his words came out hard. “Oscar Contreras is responsible for murdering Suarez’s brother. Suarez wants to stop the weapons shipment from getting to Contreras. Fine. I’ll drop the damned bugs at Zurin’s house. But Suarez has to do something for me. The photos are to make sure he does. Are they enough? We shall see.”

  Allison gave him back the camera. “You need to call my father and tell him the map is done.”

  “I will, soon as I take care of Suarez.” Tom smiled, triumphant. “It came out good, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s very good.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  Allison was aware that somewhere in the past week, she had slid across the line to Tom’s side. The moral boundaries had shifted. She didn’t care about passing a forgery off to an arms dealer. But that wasn’t the only consideration. She had taken on this job for her father.

  She hesitated. “I can’t say if it’s perfect. That’s not up to me, is it?”

  “No, it’s up to the Russian.” Tom set the camera on a table next to the window and cranked the window shut. “I have to get my computer set up.” He crossed to get his messenger bag from the stack of luggage they had left near the door. He opened it on the bed and took out his laptop computer, which he carried to the table.

  “Allison, there’s something else I need you to do for me. Persuade your father to take me with him. I have to get into Leo Zurin’s house. You know that. Our last conversation on the phone, he said he’d think about it. What he’s thinking about is a way to say no.”

  She should not have felt so pulled, but she did. “Are you certain it’s not dangerous? Please be honest. Leo Zurin buys and sells machine guns and grenades.”

  “He’s a businessman.”

  “Right. And what’s Marek Vuksinic? His sales rep?”