by Dale Nelson
“But will these people ever let go of you?”
Jack smiled. “I’m not going to give them a choice.”
“But I don’t—” Megan started and then stopped. She was clearly confused.
Jack said, “If I make it through this, I hope you can see your way to giving me another chance. If you can’t, if it’s all too much, I understand. Just know that every bottle of wine we made together was a love letter to you.”
“I don’t know what to say to that,” Megan said in a small voice, her usual quick, acerbic wit was clearly at a loss. Megan covered most things with sarcasm, particularly difficult emotions. Jack knew her well enough to know that she must truly be struggling to process her emotions if she couldn’t deflect with a quip.
“Listen, I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“If something happens to me, take care of Kingfisher. It’s all written up, Hugh has the papers.”
“It’s what? I can’t—”
“Just promise me you’ll do it. Hugh and I drew this up a long time ago. You’re the only person I would ever trust the winery to and the only one I know will take care of the people the way I would. Please tell me you will.”
“I will.”
It was eight-thirty local time when the cab dropped him off outside Aleksander’s house. Jack didn’t know enough Spanish to have the driver drop him somewhere else. He supposed it didn’t matter, ultimately, but this also felt like a good time for caution. He felt completely blank inside, like a vacuum, but he knew that wasn’t truly the absence of emotion. Rather, it was hurt, anger, and despair being pushed to the fringes so that he could focus. What he wanted was a fight. With anyone.
Jack entered the code Aleksander had given him earlier that week, and the large gate began rolling open. Jack dipped inside. Lights were on in the house and above the garage. Some of Aleksander’s security detail was likely to still there. If any of them saw him, this was over.
The sky had already darkened to a bruised ochre, retaining the streetlights of the city below and a dim fire on the western horizon. A soft wind blew in from the sea, rustling those thick-leafed trees that wrapped around the pool and the palms in the front yard. In the far distance, he heard waves crashing. Aleksander’s mansion, brightly lit inside and out, stood before him like a fortress. Jack steeled himself for what he had to do and walked inside.
When the front door closed behind him, he heard a woman’s voice from the kitchen call out in Serbian. Unfortunately, he had no idea what she was saying. I should really learn to speak that, Jack mused. He stepped into the kitchen. “Sorry to disappoint, Basia, it’s me.”
Basia’s expression was nonplussed. She stood in the kitchen halfway through opening a bottle of wine. She wore a white dress with very little back and not much length. Just standing there, the thing seemed to practically crawl up her long legs of its own volition.
“The thief,” she said dourly.
Now this was interesting. She was expecting someone, just not him. And Aleksander had already left.
“Who are you waiting for?”
Basia poured one of the two glasses set before her.
“What business of it is yours?” People who aren’t skilled at deception usually default to evasion or deflection because they needed time to think of a response.
“Oh, it’s not,” Jack said coyly and walked over to the bottle of wine, pouring himself one into the glass obviously intended for someone else. “But it could become my business. Or maybe it could become someone else’s business.”
“Do whatever you want,” she said curtly, but Jack could see her eyes widen and then flick to the side and then the other. Mentally, she was looking for an escape route. “I don’t care.”
“Listen, Basia,” Jack said, his voice gentler now. “I don’t think you’re cut out for this life. I’m not going to tell you how to live yours, but maybe you want to think about being somewhere else. With whomever this glass was for.” Jack pushed the glass a few inches away from him. He stepped back from the counter. “Where’s Guilia?”
“She’s done with you.”
“We’ll see. I can still get the one thing she wants.”
“Are you going to kill him?” she asked, and Jack could hear the desperation in her voice.
“That depends on the choices he leaves me.”
“How long do I have? Before he comes back?”
“I’d guess you have a three-day head start.”
Jack saw her for what she was now, a scared young woman. Everything she did was to wrap herself up in a cloak to hide her fear. Even the dark makeup she wore around her eyes, seemingly, was to keep people from noticing that she was perpetually looking for the exits. Jack wasn’t going to give her platitudes. If anything, the Pink Panthers in general and Aleksander specifically, were amazingly resilient and crafty and had an ability to dodge consequences that bordered on the preternatural. But Basia was also an accomplice, an unwitting and minor one, perhaps, but she was wrapped up in the game they were playing with him that he felt very little empathy right now for anyone on Aleksander’s side.
Even the ones that seemingly wanted to defect.
However, he realized, that Basia leaving would really get into Aleksander’s head, and that, in and of itself, was useful.
She chewed on her lower lip and looked to the side. “Will you help me?”
“Did you help me?” he said. His voice sounded bitter to his own ears. Then, in a softer tone, he said, “You should clear out. Take your things and go, disappear.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
Jack’s mind ran down some dark alleys, trying to think of a way that they could potentially help each other. An idea sparked in his mind and lit the way. “Ok, I can help, but you need to do something for me first.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to translate.”
Jack beckoned her to follow him, and he walked to Aleksander’s office. He opened the locks with his picks and flicked the light on. He went to the notebook that Aleksander kept locked in his desk. The translate app hadn’t been as effective as he’d hoped. Jack pulled the notebook out and tossed it to her, which she’d fumbled upon catching and then dropped. Jack closed his eyes and shook his head while she bent over to pick it up.
“Open that up, if you would. Anything in there look like a password to you?”
She flipped through several pages. “This one,” she said. “This page. This is passwords.”
“How do you know?”
“He uses an app on his computer to store the important ones but changes the password every few months. He keeps it written down here in case he forgets.”
Jack woke up the computer. Surprisingly, it wasn’t locked. Aleksander probably figured he didn’t need to if the office was. Jack scrolled over the home bar at the bottom of the computer and found an app called LockSafe. He used the password that Basia explained was a modified spelling of Aleksander’s hometown in Serbia. He was in.
Jack spent a few seconds scanning through the list of saved passwords until he found what he was looking for. The name of a bank in Switzerland that Jack knew offered anonymous, numbered accounts.
Perfect.
Jack logged on using the account information stored in LockSafe.
The account balance showed just over five million dollars.
Jack first changed all of the passphrases and verification data to information that he could confirm and updated the phone number on the account to his own, so when the bank called to verify what was happening, they would speak to him instead of Aleksander. He then set up an electronic funds transfer to another Swiss bank where he still maintained an account. The transfer wouldn’t be strictly anonymous. The bank would have to call to verify it, but they would call the number that Jack just entered.
If Aleksander was ever able to regain access to this account, he’d be able to see the name of the account owner where the money was sent. But that ac
count was created using a forged passport, and by the time Aleksander would be able to touch it, Jack would move the money again, this time outside Switzerland. From there, he’d split it up and send it to two or three different accounts he maintained in Belize, Vanuatu, and the Maldives.
There were two other banks listed in the notebook as well, but he didn’t have time for that now.
“What did we just do?” Basia asked.
“Aleksander is now broke, or nearly so. I’m going to set up an account for you and put a million dollars in it. That should give you and whomever you’re running with enough money to run for a long time. I’d strongly consider leaving Europe, at least for a year or two.”
“Is that enough for two people to hide?” she asked, suddenly seeming like a little girl. Jack thought back to the second glass of wine and whomever she was waiting for.
“Yeah. It’ll be enough for two if you’re smart. Hopefully, Aleksander won’t be in any position to come looking.”
“What are you going to do with the rest?”
“Light it on fire in front of him,” Jack said. “Now, where is Guilia?”
Jack knocked twice and entered.
Guilia was standing in front of a full-length mirror wearing only her black bra and the thinnest sliver of panties. She held a dress in each hand, one blue and one gold and was alternating holding each up to see which one she preferred. Guilia turned her head when the door opened. If she was surprised to see Jack standing there instead of Basia, she didn’t show it. Instead, she wore the same expression that hinted at vague annoyance or bored disinterest.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice expressionless.
“We need to talk.”
“So, talk,” she said and turned back to the mirror, giving Jack a full view of her body. “I think I like the blue,” she said, discarding the gold dress on her bed. The bed, like all of the furniture in the room, was blond wood and of a sharp, modern design. There was very little decoration in the room. A gilded prison cell.
“Guilia,” Jack said. “This is important.”
“It’s important now,” she said. “Whatever it is, it’s important to you now. When I was throwing myself on you before, it wasn’t.” Her tone was sullen, bitter. She sounded scorned.
“That was different,” Jack said.
“Right, something happened. Either you got jealous or you finally learned to be scared of Aleksander Andelić.” She set the blue dress on the bed and unzipped it but did not move to put it on. Instead, she stood back up and put her hands on her hips. “It’s about the diamonds, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jack said.
“I should have known. That’s all Aleksander ever wanted with me. I never should have told him about them.” The tone wasn’t quite recrimination. Aleksander got her out of a political scandal and possible jail time in Rome. Aleksander told her that kind of help didn’t come free, and she traded the one thing she had to offer.
“I’m not surprised he’s using you for this. He doesn’t have the balls to go after them himself.”
“Why not?”
“He’s afraid of who runs the bank, for starters. For good reason.” She let out a short, humorless laugh. “I am. And he didn’t want to make an enemy of Bartolo unless he was really ready. Also for good reason.”
“I find it hard to believe that Aleksander would be afraid of Nico.”
“Thieves are about the only thing he does fear. He knows they are the only ones who can take away what he has. Nico is a psychopath.” Guilia shrugged with arms still folded across her chest; the movement pushed her breasts up against the bra making them look even fuller. Jack knew immediately that the move was intended to distract him. “And hitting a bank is no small thing.”
Focus, damnit, Jack admonished himself.
Guilia closed the distance between them in an almost exaggerated, catwalk prowl designed to use every bit of her leg. “The question is, what are you prepared to give me that he is not?” She walked two fingers playfully up his chest as she spoke, tapping him to punctuate the point.
She was very close now. Jack could feel the warmth of her body next to his.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I want to leave. I want out here, out of this life—for good.” She took a step forward and slid her thigh between his legs, then wrapped her arms around his neck. Reflexively, Jack put his arms around her, resting at the small of her back. “Run away with me,” she whispered. “Take me out of here, and you can have his diamonds.”
“Okay,” Jack said softly.
Twenty-One
Jack stole Aleksander’s Ferrari, again.
He parked it at the airport, but this time he kept the keys. He also made sure that the Beretta was still safely hidden under the seat. He was on the first flight out of Alicante and landed at Fiumicino mid-morning. Jack walked out of the arrivals area, through the door that was part of an unbroken glass panel extending from one end of the airport to the other, and into the warm Italian sunlight. The air was thick and wet, with the Tyrrhenian Sea being just a short distance away. The sea air felt fresh and invigorating, different than Alicante, which was perpetually arid.
Jack checked his watch. It was just after two in the morning in Sonoma.
Even the movement to check the time sent dull waves of pain crashing up the left side of his body. He’d stopped pissing blood, but he was still injured and probably needed to be checked out by a doctor.
That would have to wait.
Right now, what he needed was a lawyer.
Hugh Coughlin was a widower and lived alone. He was a business lawyer, not a criminal one. There wouldn’t be any calls that he took in the middle of the night. He’d also abandoned the landline several years ago, so his mobile phone was the only shot that Jack had.
And Hugh was the only shot he had.
Jack called three times before he picked up.
“Hugh, I’m sorry to wake you, but—”
“If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have done it,” he barked.
Jack smiled. Even rolling out of a dead sleep, Coughlin was crusty.
“I’m in Rome, that’s why I’m calling you at this hour. I need a lawyer.”
“I don’t speak Italian, and I don’t care.” Hugh paused a moment, which Jack knew was probably him just winding up. “Goddamn it, I thought I was pretty clear that I was through with this shit. I don’t want anything to do with—”
“Hugh, will you shut up and listen to me for once? When we last spoke, I told you that someone was forcing me to steal something for them. Well, I didn’t do it. So, they threatened the come after the winery. And Megan. They told me they’d burn Kingfisher down and that Megan would be inside when they did.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.
When Jack spoke again, his voice was raw. “I’ve got a plan. I’m going to take them to the fucking ground, and I’ll need your help to do it. After that, I’m done. For good.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Be awake when I call … and be ready to deal.”
Jack told Hugh what to expect and when to expect it so that he could prepare. They spent a few minutes strategizing and then hung up.
Jack’s phone dinged, letting him know he had an incoming text.
It read:
Black Alfa 159, 3 men, identify yourself as “Mr. Bennett”
Jack spotted the black Alfa Romeo 159 parked in the arrivals lane, just outside the baggage claim. The arrivals area was utter chaos, Italian-style. It was loud, hot, smelled of jet fumes mixed with car exhaust, and police whistles and people shouting in a dozen languages. Jack approached the Alfa. The car was running, the driver and a man in the back seat were busy with their phones. The front passenger door was open and its occupant standing outside the car, leaning against it. Instead of staring at a phone, his eyes were on the crowd. He saw Jack, and there was a flicker of recognition when their eyes locked. Jack approached and said, “I’m Mr. Bennet
t.”
“Get in,” the man said brusquely in Italian-accented English.
As they drove off, the driver said that the man behind him was going to check Jack for weapons. Jack told him fine but asked him to be careful of his sides, because he’d been beaten. He was about as courteous as one would expect.
Jack opened the car door and got in. He texted the number back:
I’m in.
Then he texted Enzo saying:
Go time.
Enzo replied immediately:
On my way.
No one spoke. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Jack just stared blankly out the window, watching Rome pass by. They traveled to the east side of Rome, using one of the roads that looped around the outside of the city, finally turning inward when they’d reached the eastern edge. The car then maneuvered through the clustered streets until they came to a pair of massive, government buildings that seemed to occupy an entire neighborhood.
The car pulled into the second of the two buildings, one that followed the sharp contours of the surrounding streets so that it looked like a triangle that had been dropped too hard on one side and bent. They pulled through a car tunnel to an open-air parking lot in a courtyard and parked. Doors opened, and they led him through a maze of corridors. He lost count of the turns. They came to a door in an interior hallway, knocked once, and entered when the voice on the other side bid them to.
They frisked him again in the room and this time took everything—his identification, passports, and phone.
It was a small, windowless conference room. There was nothing on the walls and no communication equipment or computers, just a small table and six chairs. Only one of those chairs was occupied.
Giovanni Castro stood as Jack entered the room. “It’s nice to see you again, my old friend,” Castro said in English.
This Jack had not expected.
Jack hadn’t exactly kept tabs on his old friend after Jack escaped Turin and returned to the States. He’d always assumed that Castro would stay in law enforcement, but Jack’s recollection was that he was state police. Jack wasn’t exactly sure where he was, but his instructions were that he was going to be picked up by the Italian financial police.
