The detective’s evidence was utterly clear. Valerie Lawry had departed the previous morning at seven-twelve local time from Aeroporto Roma-Fiumicino, a half hour after Wynn’s Cairo flight. She had traveled via private jet leased to Bank Royale, Liechtenstein. The file contained a photocopy of the flight plan. Nonstop trans-Atlantic, destination Orlando. There Lawry had checked into the airport Hyatt. She had placed one call. A copy of the hotel bill showed the call had been to the Hayek Group’s organization.
The data on Hayek himself had been interesting, informative, and old hat. Preston had regaled her with these details and many more. Everyone who had ever worked for the group knew the stories. The prince, the King. The menace.
Jackie raised her eyes to the rooftops. There was no longer any choice. With weary resignation she accepted the inevitable. She would contact the man she had vowed never to see again.
She traced her way back along the cobblestones with a deliberate tread. Spacing out her steps in time to her plotting. It made the future more endurable. First she would see if the hotel operator had managed to connect with Cairo. Then she would book her flight home. Then try Esther Hutchings again. Then check the internet site to ensure that the notoriously fickle federal prison system still held Shane. Wishing there were some way around the move, knowing she had no alternative.
In the moment of dread and indecision, they struck.
Two faceless moped drivers. They appeared in noisy comedy, the most innocuous of Roman sights. Their vehicles were a parody of transport, with narrow wheels and motors that produced more smoke and noise than power. Jackie noticed them only because they came at her together, one from each of streets fronting her café.
She stopped in midstride. Part of her brain realized they were aimed straight for her. Yet she was unable to move. Making the perfect target.
A blow sliced her left shoulder, then a third moped raced by from behind. She spotted the batons held by the other two just as she felt the pain. The third moped driver’s baton came up red and dripping over his head. She knew it was her own blood, knew also in an instant of impacted time that razors were imbedded in the wood. She heard a scream just as she fell to the stones, and heard the whizzing swoop of blows aimed too high, and the roar of motors passing to either side. Jackie could not tell if the scream was her own. But the noise unlocked her fully. That and the pain.
By the time the mopeds slowed and turned, Jackie was up and moving. She took one step toward the hotel, then halted. The plaza seemed freeze-framed as one moped spun around to block the hotel entrance. The driver swiped the air with his baton, the threat enough to throw every person in the plaza up against the closest wall, or into the nearest doorway. All but Jackie.
She raced for the café. Two old men with gaping eyes and toothless mouths bounded like adolescents for the doorway. Her hyperactive senses formed an auditory radar, warning her of another attack racing up from behind. She took a flying leap for the doorway.
The blow meant for her head caught her calf instead, and sent her spinning into the outside tables. Which was not altogether bad, because she slammed one of the metal-topped tables around in front of her, shielding herself from the other moped’s oncoming assault. The baton whanged and the razor zinged across the table’s battered surface. Jackie crouched tightly behind the metal barrier and took a breath. Another. Breathing in not air but fury.
When she heard the mopeds whine through a tight circle, she leaped to her feet and offered them a scream of her own. Knowing it was her voice, yet hearing the cry of some more primitive woman. She hefted the nearest metal chair and took a hard two-fisted aim.
The nearest moped was already committed and racing toward her. The driver was much burlier than the normal teenage moped driver, which granted her a larger, more solid target. Jackie met the baton head on, heard it snap before her chair connected with a padded elbow. It was not her best strike, but she intended to improve on the second go.
Still shrieking one continuous note, she ignored the second baton entirely. She took furious aim straight for the man’s helmet and struck with a crack heard on all seven of Rome’s hills, or so it seemed at the time. Jackie felt the clout in the soles of her feet. The man went careening off the back of the bike. A solid triple. Jackie wheeled about, searching for the third man, wanting to try for a home run.
The square was empty save for two red-soaked batons, one groaning man, an idling moped, and a host of gaping onlookers. Then she heard the racing engine. Not a moped. A car. And knew it was not over yet.
As usual, the hotel limo was parked just around the bend, between the hotel entrance and the church. The same young man who had driven her and Wynn gawked from behind the wheel. Only when Jackie raced across the piazza did she feel the slice in her leg. It slowed her down, but not overmuch. She flung open the back door and vaulted inside. “Drive!”
“Signora, your leg, the blood—”
Through the open door Jackie heard the squeal of rubber and the roar of a hyperstressed engine. “They’re coming! Drive!”
Now the young man heard it as well. He put the car into gear and gingerly pulled away. Habit kept him in gentle tourist mode.
That lasted only until the car entered the cobblestone square. It slowed long enough to fling open a door and gather up the moped driver, who was already shouting and pointing toward Jackie and the car.
She reached over, slammed her door shut, and screamed, “DRIVE!”
The limo driver floored it just as the approaching car took aim. Jackie flung herself against the opposite side as they were hammered by a silver-gray blur.
The limo driver fishtailed about and took off down the nearest lane. The attackers followed so close Jackie could make out their mustaches bouncing around inside.
Perhaps the young driver had always lived for this moment. Or perhaps it was a latent Italian gene, waiting for the chance to break loose. Whatever the reason, the polite chauffeur was gone. In his place sat Mario Andretti. “Dové?”
Jackie bounced around the back seat like a lone pea in a tightly padded can. Leaving bloody stains wherever she hit. “What?”
“Dové! Where?”
Only one place came to mind. “Sant’Egidio!”
Having a destination only added fuel to the flame. The driver met an oncoming split in the road by feinting left then flying right. He took the corner too tightly and met the stone angle with an abrasive whine and a shouted curse. He oversteered and whacked the opposing wall. He then avoided by a hair a car that appeared from an invisible intersection. He dove down the increasingly steep incline with a shout of his own.
People shrieked on all sides, jumping with lightning reflexes into doorways and windowsills. Shopping bags flashed across the windshield. Horns blared. Sidewalk tables and chairs leaped into the air at their passage. Barrages of fruit from an overturned stand spilled across the windshield. Sirens. Searing flashes of sheer terror.
They entered the Via Tritoni in a four-wheel skid, slipped under the nose of an incoming bus and threaded through a red light, following a narrow track that was not there. Jackie risked a backward glance. “They’re gone.”
Instantly the driver slowed, pulled into a sudden alcove, and drove sedately around a cobblestone bend. There he halted behind a tinkling fountain, lowered his window, and listened. Nodding once, he rose from the car, and searched in all directions. Nodding a second time, he walked to the fountain and dipped his handkerchief in the water. He returned to the car and handed it over the seat to Jackie. Only then did she realize the backseat was smeared with her blood. As were both side windows, floorboards, roof, door handles, and the rear shelf. Jackie touched her shoulder with one hand, her calf with the other. Suddenly both burned with sticky fire.
“The hospital, miss?”
“Sant’Egidio,” she weakly repeated. “Hurry.”
THE GYPSY SELLING roses in the church doorway would not give up her position, not even when Jackie left a bloody handprint where she leaned aga
inst the wall. But the Gypsy’s cries brought Anna from within. The young woman’s every movement showed that Jackie was not the first to arrive wounded. She led Jackie around to the side entrance to avoid tracking blood inside the sanctuary, then settled soiled towels about Jackie’s chair and called to others for hot water, hand rags, scissors, and a bottle.
“Here, drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Grappa. So you don’t faint.”
Anna watched as Jackie tasted the fiery liquid and coughed, then winced at how the cough pulled at her wound. “Don’t sip. Drink like medicine. Big swallow. Good.”
“That’s strong.”
“Yes. But now you are not so pale like the linen. Can you move up your arms, up like this, over your head?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No matter. We will cut off your T-shirt. Lean forward.” Anna helped Jackie do so. As she snipped she asked, “Who did this?”
Before Jackie could respond, the hall rang with other voices. Two other women rushed in, one carrying a black bag. There was a swift torrent of Italian, then Anna asked, “Was it a gang?”
“I don’t . . . Ow!” The doctor’s probing fingers retreated. She held a bloody finger up in front of Jackie’s face. The message was clear. Don’t move. Jackie gasped as the fingers resumed their probing of her shoulder, and said, “Three men on mopeds.”
This was also translated. Anna said, “They used clubs with knives, yes?”
“Or razors. Something sharp.”
“Yes, this is the gang’s favorite new toy. Every night the hospitals greet their victims.”
Jackie held the T-shirt to her front, aware of how many legs and shoes were crowding about her. Strangers all. “You think we could cram a few more people in here?”
Anna strung together a verbal push, and the room quickly emptied. Jackie lifted a blood-stained shoe and told the doctor, “They also hit my leg.” Sounds of protest lifted her head in time to see the driver being shoved towards the door. “Let him stay a moment, please.”
When calm was restored and the door closed, Jackie said to the driver, “I can’t thank you enough.”
“It is no problem, signora.” He grinned broadly. “We make a good chase, yes? Like the movies.”
She watched the doctor begin to cut away her trouser leg. “My things are all at the hotel. I’d really rather not go back there.”
Anna understood immediately. “They may still be after you?”
“I think so.”
There followed a swift exchange between the driver and Anna. Then she said, “Someone will return with the driver and check you out. We will keep you here. How long do you stay?”
“I’d like to leave tomorrow for America, if I can.”
Another discussion, this one including the doctor. The driver pulled a cellphone from his pocket and dialed. Anna told her, “Your cuts are not too deep. The driver thinks the hotel will not give out your name. The Hassler would not like to say a guest was attacked on their doorstep, you understand?”
“Yes.” She felt two pinpricks, local anesthetics for her leg and shoulder. Then the queasy tugging of thread being sewn.
The driver pocketed his phone and reported, “Is no problem.”
Jackie said to the driver, “I’m so sorry about your car.”
The driver’s smile was tainted by the sight of the doctor’s work. “Was not my car, signora. And the hotel is very rich.”
Anna said, “I fear our chambers will be not so nice.”
Jackie leaned forward and shut her eyes to the pile of bloody gauze. “If they’re safe, it will be just fine.”
29
Thursday
THE NEXT MORNING the traders presented Colin with a bottle of champagne and a tiny bejeweled tree. Eric gave a little speech that started, “On behalf of King Elvis and all his loyal subjects—”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Colin warned. “You’ll meet the street long before your time.”
“You going to let me do this or not?” Up and down the aisles, traders moved in to be a part of the fun. “Okay. In recognition of your part in ridding us of the menace, we hereby bestow upon you these tokens of our undying gratitude.”
Colin made no move to accept. The tree was as high as his hand, gold plated, and had tiny crystal leaves at the end of each branch. “Who is rid of what?”
This only made the traders grin harder. Eric replied, “Take a look upstairs.”
Colin was anything but pleased to see the balcony absolutely empty. “That’s not possible.”
“All thanks to you and the bugs you found.” Eric shoved the tree and bottle into Colin’s hands. “Enjoy.”
Colin was still giving the balcony his bleakest inspection when Alex moved up beside him. “You’re not fooled by this either.”
“Hayek wouldn’t fire them all just because one guy stepped over the line,” Colin agreed.
“Which means they’ve been buried somewhere.” Alex surveyed the traders prepping themselves for the battle ahead. “There are days,” he said softly, “so intense, I walk out and can’t believe it’s the same sun shining as when I went in. Ice ages should have passed. Civilizations risen and fallen. Eons melt and flow and still I’m in here, fighting the market.”
Colin studied the spots market chief. At this proximity it was easier to see the permanent stains of commercial war, the wounds to face and gaze and spirit. “This thing really has you worried.”
“If he’s planning to feed the new group data we can’t access, we might as well hang up our guns and go farm sheep.” Alex circled one finger overhead, gathering up his troops. “Let’s go see if we can discover the battle plan.”
THEY CROWDED INTO the elevator together, the five senior traders who could be pulled off the floor, and Colin. He was squashed up next to the hard barrel belly of the derivatives chief, a red-cheeked man who stank of some prehistoric aftershave. The ride was silent. But when the doors opened, the trader planted a meaty paw on Colin’s shoulder and told him, “Nice work finding those listening devices, kiddo. Definitely one for the late night tales.”
Hayek himself was out in the front office to greet them. A first. As was the solicitous apology for disturbing their week. “Such a nuisance to discover a new member of the team has proven so unreliable. Please, gentlemen, ladies, accept my sincerest regrets for such a disastrous intrusion.”
Hayek gave them an open-armed escort, leading and guiding both. Colin spotted the attractive Washington lobbyist in the waiting room and wondered if she had somehow been involved.
The senior traders entered Hayek’s office like infidels passing through cathedral doors. They shuffled a bit and they craned and searched and cleared their throats, and wished themselves back down in the fray. Most came up only when there was a major offering, their presentation carefully orchestrated. There was no script here. No precedent, no deal. Only the sullen rage of people who knew they had been wronged.
Hayek directed them through his office and into the conference area. To their amazement, the table was decked out with gourmet fast food. Spode china. Crystal goblets for the soft drinks. Blinis. Silver palavers for the smoked salmon and the French air-dried saucisson. A cheese board on a traditional reed mat, six different selections. Iced caviar. Baskets of fresh-baked bread. Two waiters in solemn white livery. Hayek showed eager concern as they made their selections, taking nothing for himself until all were served. Gradually he eased them away from the purpose of their meeting with kingly grace, until all but Alex were chatting and eating heartily. The more they talked, the quieter Hayek grew. He ate almost nothing.
Without preamble, Hayek launched into his spiel. “I made a grave error, bringing the new group in as I did. The fact is, we are in the process of receiving new investment capital. A significant portion comes from a source who insists their funds be kept separate. I have done my best to explain that this makes no sense, that we all trade using the same information. It may actuall
y hurt them in the long run not to have access to the full power of our floor. But they have insisted. And quite frankly, the size of their investment is such that we cannot refuse. So I attempted to move this new group in first, intending to explain things once we had sorted out the situation. I now recognize this to have been a grave error. I apologize. I have therefore moved the entire team into the Capital Markets section of First Florida Bank.”
It was the longest speech Colin had ever heard the man make. The accent was clearer now, the tone barrel-rich and commanding. “As for the insertion of the electronic monitoring devices, I am utterly baffled. It was a grave error. The person responsible has been punished.”
Only when Hayek fell silent did they realize this was all they were going to get. Alex searched the faces of his compatriots and realized no one else was going to ask the obvious. “How much new money?”
“Four billion is to be directed into the First Florida Fund.”
There was a low whistle, an intake of breath. Four billion would not bring the new fund anywhere near the top ranks, but it was enough to carry weight. Four billion would establish First Florida as a player. But before the dismay could take hold, Hayek added, by way of an aside, “And an additional eleven billion into the Hayek ordinary fund.”
The traders turned jubilant. Eleven billion was enough to make waves on Wall Street. Many of these senior guys had followed Hayek south against their own better judgment, hoping for a coup such as this. Eleven billion in new ready cash would have them talking as far away as Tokyo. It was a clean hit for the home team. Eleven billion meant a huge upsurge in fresh trades. And increased bonuses all around.
Only Alex remained unfazed by the news. He cast the others a furious glance for forcing him into the limelight alone. “Any particular reason why we get all this money now?”
“We have been courting these funds for almost a year. The timing is theirs. We can only be glad the sources have chosen us above all the competition, and must do our best to offer them a solid return.” To their surprise, Hayek actually smiled. “I like a man who thinks of the downside even when things look positive. I have been forced to send Mr. Burke over to manage the new fund. I need a new top man, my personal link to the markets. Are you interested?”
Drummer In the Dark Page 23
