by mike Evans
“We got enough people?” Winters asked Smith.
“Oakland PD has the area cordoned off, four blocks in every direction. SWAT is ready to join our guys at the front door. An ATF team is waiting for you in back. And the sheriff’s office has men patrolling the perimeter just in case.”
“Might not be enough,” Winters said.
A grin tightened Smith’s moustache, but only briefly. “You don’t really think we need more.”
“I think if we get in there and find out we’re shorthanded, it’ll be too late to matter.”
Smith adjusted the bill of his ball cap. “You want me to get some more guys up here? FBI would be all too glad to dive in on this case. They’ve been lobbying for it for two months.”
“Never mind,” Winters said. “I’d rather close this one by myself than ask them for help.”
“You sure?”
Winters had almost forgotten Donleavy was there. His previous bravado had faded, and the skin around his mouth had gone pale.
“We’re okay,” Winters said.
He let his eyes dart to the five Secret Service agents gathered near the curb. Donleavy nodded, although he didn’t look at all relieved.
“You carrying?” Winters asked.
Donleavy patted his right hip, and Winters smothered a groan. He could be a little more conspicuous—maybe.
“Okay,” Winters said. “Make sure you stay behind us when we go in.”
“Right.”
“And have that pistol handy.”
“Okay.”
Winters mentally checked the magazine of his pistol, which he’d already done five times since he’d loaded it. “Let’s do it,” he said.
Winters and Donleavy led the way up the driveway of the house next door. They paused at the back corner, then darted through the backyard into an alley that ran parallel to Patterson Avenue. Eyes alert, Winters moved cautiously with Donleavy close behind him, and came to a stop behind the house occupied by the Russians.
“This is it,” Winters whispered to him.
Donleavy nodded. All color had left his face but his eyes seemed alert and focused. He’d be okay.
Winters started across the backyard. Concrete steps led up to the back door. All he had to do was make his way up and kick in the door.
But his legs were paralyzed. “I can’t move!” he shouted to a world gone cold and dark. “Help me! I can’t move!”
This time Winters woke to find himself on the floor beside the couch in the living room, clutching at his legs like the crazy person he was now convinced he was becoming. He used the coffee table to pull himself up and knocked his laptop over. The screen lit up.
It was a dream, he told himself. A dream and nothing but a dream.
Winters used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face and looked at the time on the computer screen. Two o’clock. No sense trying to go back to sleep. Not that he wanted to.
After a moment, Winters pushed himself up from the couch, stumbled to the kitchen, and poured a ginger ale. Glass in hand, he returned to the living room and propped up on a pillow with the laptop resting on his knees. He’d read everything his mom had found, and his research into Christopher Columbus had been interesting but not helpful, genealogically speaking. When he’d fallen asleep he’d been trying to contact a Spanish genealogist he’d found online. College professor. Specialized in connecting people to their Spanish ancestors. Probably a dead end.
Not that he was desperate. This thing had taken hold of him in Mom’s attic and hadn’t let go since he’d been home. But maybe it was just another thing like the sailing, the flying. Banned from those pursuits until he was cleared by Archer, this filled in the gap. Could just be a matter of time before he let this go too.
And then what?
The old anxiety sizzled under his skin. It was a feeling he couldn’t stand. Winters took a long drink from his glass and forced himself to check his e-mail.
One message. From Sophia Conte. The genealogist.
Dear Mr. Winters,
I found your e-mail interesting, if somewhat misinformed. Christopher Columbus made four voyages, not three. And he did not make a fortune as you have supposed. Ferdinand and Isabella promised him 10 percent of everything he found, but once they realized he had discovered something of immense value, they worked to take it from him. He, and his family after him, litigated their claims for several hundred years.
And no, he was not Italian. He was born in Genoa but he lived in Portugal first and then Spain. We lay claim to him.
But don’t let your enthusiasm be dampened.
Winters stopped reading to snort out a laugh. “Dampened”?
The problem with studying Columbus is that he left a great deal of false information, probably so no one else would find out about his discoveries. For example, most of the directions in the voyage logs are skewed so his route couldn’t be followed.
And she knew that how?
There is much more I could tell you. Do you Skype?
Winters blinked. She wasn’t shy, that was for sure. Probably a middle-aged spinster starved for company.
It sounded familiar.
He’d think about it.
You realize, of course, that I’m having to run twice a day to stay ahead of my caloric intake.” Maria looked at Elena over the plate of caracoles they were sharing. “But it’s so worth it.”
They were sitting across from each other at Los Caracoles, so named because it was famous for its snails. Elena pushed the plate toward her and tapped its edge. “The last one is for you.”
“Let me think about it . . . yes.” Maria popped the morsel into her mouth and closed her eyes.
“I have never seen anyone enjoy food as much as you do,” Elena said.
“I don’t really have time to at home.”
Elena’s eyes widened. “You work harder there than you’re doing here? I can’t see how you could. You are a workaholic.”
Maria refrained from spattering a laugh. Elena’s English was flawless, and rightfully so. She’d been educated in England before attending the University of Pennsylvania. Which made Maria wonder why she was working as a freelance assistant to an attorney who was little more than an assistant herself.
That wasn’t quite true, though. For some reason, Snowden had given Maria more responsibility here. In fact, he was seldom around except to give her more files pertaining to the acquisition, and even at that, most of the time he sent them through Elena. At one point he’d even flown back to the States for a couple of days.
“Where have you gone?”
Maria blinked her way back to Elena. “Rabbit trail,” she said. “Sorry. Did I miss something?”
“I was saying that I want to take you to Sagrada Família, since you are so into architecture.”
“I do like buildings. Well-built ones.”
“Then I definitely want to show you this one. It’s controversial here, and it’s still under construction so . . .”
“So . . . what? I’ll need a hard hat?”
Elena didn’t answer. Maria started to turn her head to follow Elena’s gaze, but Elena stopped her with a hand to Maria’s wrist.
“What?” Maria said.
Red blotches appeared on Elena’s face and neck. “Señor Tejada,” she said.
Maria hadn’t seen him for more than a week. Not since the day she’d barged into his office. Snowden had given her the What were you thinking? lecture, but Louis had been removed from bodyguard duty so she didn’t see an issue with running into the man. Elena, on the other hand, looked as if she’d been caught in a crime.
“This is a delightful surprise,” Tejada said in his Mediterranean accent.
Maria suspected he didn’t actually have a trace of one—that the elongated e’s were part of his natural charm.
“I see you are enjoying one of our best restaurants. You saw the stone rotisserie outside?”
“It was hard to miss.” Maria smiled at Elena, who was now a study in shad
es of red. “Señorita Soler is seeing to it that I get a taste of the best of everything.”
Tejada nodded as if they were having a deep conversation about the meaning of life. “Then she has surely taken you to Botafumeiro.”
“Actually not,” Maria said. “I understand that’s a bit out of my price range.”
“Then you must allow me to take you there.”
It flowed so naturally from his lips, Maria almost burst out, Let’s do it! But wait. Was he asking her out? On a date?
She looked at Elena, who was no longer making eye contact. No help there. Not that Maria needed any. She shook her hair back. First of all, she made it her policy not to date people she worked with. And second of all, no. Smooth, wealthy, powerful Spaniard with enough charm to attract any woman he wanted? Not happening.
“Have I offended you, Señorita Winters?” His eyes looked genuinely concerned.
“Not at all,” she said. “I appreciate the offer. But no worries. Elena is taking good care of me.”
If that offended him, he showed no sign of it. He looked as if he’d expected that answer to begin with. She’d never encountered a man so unflappable.
All the more reason to turn him down.
Tejada nodded to each of them, wished them a good day, and departed. Maria watched him until he reached the door where Molina was waiting. “Did they have lunch here?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” Elena said. “I didn’t see him when we came in.”
“He’s so . . . mysterious.”
Elena gave a soft grunt. “There was no mystery about that conversation. He wants to take you out.”
“I think he was just being polite.”
“No, I think he came in here specifically to ask you to dinner.”
Maria pulled in her chin. “You’re not serious. Are you saying he followed us?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Not necessarily?”
The blotches were beginning to bloom on Elena’s face again. “All I’m saying is that Señor Tejada doesn’t waste his time. He might seem polite—he is—but everything he does has a motive.”
Maria felt her eyes narrow. “You mean he wants to use me for something?”
“I mean he didn’t just stumble in here and ask you to dinner. That’s all.”
“That’s kind of creepy,” Maria said.
Elena tilted her head. “‘Creepy’ is not a word I would use to describe him.”
“So . . . if he had asked you to dinner, you would have accepted?”
“Completely moot point,” Elena said. “I am not in his class. Shall we order our next course?”
“Let’s have that wonderful thing with all the mussels in it,” Maria said. “And by the way, you have more class than just about any woman I know.”
Maria was packing her briefcase when Snowden stopped by her office. Elena had offered to take her out to a few clubs, but Maria declined, preferring to continue working in her hotel room. The details of the Belgian acquisition were mind-boggling.
Tell me you don’t have another file for me, she wanted to say to him. Instead she pushed her hair back over her shoulder and smiled. “More work?”
“No. Just thought I’d check in.” He lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk in her temporary office, which was twice as large as her permanent one in DC. He sat back and folded his hands as if they were about to have a father-daughter chat.
Maria’s antennae went up. Snowden didn’t “just check in” and the closest thing he came to paternal was when he handed out the holiday bonus checks.
“I understand you ran into Señor Tejada this afternoon,” he said.
The antennae rose further. “Word travels fast. He told you I was having the snails?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. Molina did.”
Maria zipped her briefcase and tried not to look startled. She had never exchanged a word with Tejada’s security guy, but now he was passing on information about her as if she were somehow his concern?
“Don’t get all worked up about it,” Snowden said.
“I’m not getting worked up.”
“He only mentioned that he saw you—”
“And?”
“And he said you declined a dinner invitation from Mr. Tejada.”
“What is this, middle school?” Maria raked a hand through her hair. “Ooh, did Tejada ask Molina to ask you to find out if I like him?”
Snowden’s eyebrows ran together. “You have to be careful here, Maria. We can’t afford to make a social faux pas.”
“‘We,’ sir?” Maria said. “Don’t you mean me?”
Snowden rearranged himself in the chair. “I don’t think it would hurt our relationship with Catalonia for you to let Señor Tejada show you his favorite restaurant.”
Maria had to bite down on her lip to keep from saying, What am I, a call girl now? She took in a long breath and stared at the El Greco print on the wall before she said, “If Señor Tejada wants to take all of us out to his favorite dining destination, I’m all for that. But the two of us sharing suckling pig by candlelight—I don’t think so. Not unless you have something specific related to the acquisition you want me to discuss with him, in which case Elena and I can meet with him in his office.”
Snowden looked a little stunned, which irritated her more than anything. She’d worked with him for nine months and he still knew virtually nothing about her as a person.
He sat for a moment longer. She wondered if he was trying to decide what message to give Molina for Tejada. Pass him a note in the locker room, she wanted to say.
He left before she was tempted to actually say it.
Winters was concentrating on an article Sophia Conte had e-mailed when his doorbell rang. He peered through the peephole.
Donleavy.
He hesitated. They’d talked on the phone a few times after the raid. Gone for coffee once. They hadn’t clicked like they used to, and he toyed now with the idea of not answering.
“Winters? Hey, buddy, I was in the neighborhood—”
Oh, for Pete’s sake.
Winters pulled the door open. “Don’t quit your day job, Donleavy,” he said to his startled face. “That’s the worst line since ‘Come here often?’”
“What?” Donleavy said.
Winters let him in. “How could you possibly just be in the neighborhood? You live at the other end of town.”
Donleavy’s shaved head turned red. “Okay, you found me out.” He shrugged. “I just miss you, man.”
Winters nodded. “You want coffee?”
“Is it made?”
“It’s always made. Come on in.”
Winters went to the kitchen and turned on the Keurig. Donleavy followed him and parked himself at the table where Winters had been working with his laptop. “What’s all this?”
“Just some work I’m doing to pass the time.”
Donleavy turned a book on its side to check the cover. “You taking a course or something?”
“Something like that. You still take half cream, half coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know why you even bother.”
Winters opened the refrigerator and pulled out the half-and-half. When he closed it, Donleavy was looking at him, eyes drooping at the corners.
“What?” Winters said.
“I don’t know. We used to talk, that’s all.” Donleavy spread a long-fingered hand over the piles of papers and books on the table. “You’re obviously heavy into something here.”
Winters sighed and put a full mug in front of him. “It’s some genealogical stuff I’m doing. Laugh and I’ll slug you.”
“What am I going to laugh at?”
Winters put his own lukewarm cup in the microwave and, leaning on the chair opposite Donleavy, told him what he knew so far. As he should have expected, Donleavy was far from incredulous. He was a portrait of fascination. Once a geek, always a geek.
“So, no link to your family yet,
” he said.
Winters shook his head. “But the stuff I’m learning about Columbus is pretty interesting. Not at all what they taught us in school.”
“Nothing they taught us in school was interesting.”
“Or necessarily true. You know the whole thing about the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria?”
“The three ships the king and queen gave him.”
“They only gave him two. He had to provide the third one himself. Established shippers didn’t want him to take the trip and made it as hard for him as possible. They were actually afraid he’d find a quicker route to Asia.”
“I thought they wanted a quicker route. That doesn’t make sense.” Donleavy wiggled his eyebrows. He loved things that didn’t make sense.
“They controlled the known routes,” Winters said, “which gave them a monopoly on Eastern trade. Since they refused to help, Columbus turned to another group of guys.” He stood and reached for the microwave. “You really interested in this?”
“Do I look bored to you?”
Winters knew what bored looked like on Donleavy. And this wasn’t it. He sat down and continued, glancing at the legal pad on the table. “Luis de Santángel, Gabriel Sanchez, and Don Isaac Abrabanel gave him an interest-free loan of seventeen thousand ducats. Close to two million dollars in today’s money.”
“Impressive.” Donleavy leafed through one of the books. “You get all that info out of here?”
“No. I’ve been e-mailing a professor. Genealogist type in Barcelona.”
“He an expert?”
“She.”
“Ahhhhh.”
Winters shook his head at the grin in Donleavy’s eyes. “There’s no ‘ahhh.’ She’s a resource. I’m Skyping with her tonight.”
“Good to see you getting out.”
“Shut up, Donleavy.”
Winters let him take a few more sips before he leaned across the table. “Okay, so now you want to tell me what you’re really doing here?”
The bald head went crimson again. “What makes you think—”
“I haven’t totally lost my touch,” Winters said. “You never leave your lab in the middle of a workday. You never come over here unless I invite you. And you might be a geek, but nobody cares this much about Christopher Columbus except me and the professor. So what’s going on?”
