The Colossus

by Ranjini Iyer

  Max watched him wince in obvious pain and started to laugh.

  “You think this is funny! Look at my feet? They’re bleeding!”

  Before Max could answer, the beef arrived. The waiter fussed about their plates and served them with great care.

  “Bon appétit,” he said, and left.

  Max took a bite. The meat melted in her mouth. The sauce was divine—velvety, peppery. Mmm. This almost made up for the bank fiasco.

  Julian said, “One of the best-kept secrets in London—this bistro. The wine I brought over the other day? It’s from here.”

  Max gave him a grateful smile. Thank you, she mouthed.

  Julian ate slowly, savoring every mouthful. He sipped his wine and sent her a smile now and again.

  But the magic couldn’t last forever. She put down her fork. “What do we do now? Maybe you should go back. I’ll just sit here and wallow in my shame.”

  Julian shook his head. “You give up too easily. We’ll figure something out. Maybe Lars told someone else about all this. We just have to find out who that might be.”

  Max didn’t think Lars would have told anyone. But it was adorable how optimistic Julian was being.

  Max began to take another bite when Julian held her hand, not allowing her to bring the fork to her mouth. “Not so fast. Every morsel must be carefully considered. Do you Americans even taste what goes down your throat? Now we shall talk only about this beef for a while, and maybe dessert.”

  Max laughed and shook her head no.

  “You have to have dessert.” Julian winked at her. Max looked at him. He had a small dimple in his chin. She wanted to reach out and touch it.

  “What is it?” He took out a handkerchief and began dabbing his face.

  Max smiled. “You have a dimple in your chin, too. I didn’t notice that one before.”

  “Ah dinnae hae any dimples,” he said, putting a forkful of beef into his mouth.

  “You do,” she said with a giggle. “There, there, and there.” she pointed to his cheeks and chin.

  “Here?” he asked, pointing to the wrong part of his chin.

  No, she kept saying and laughing. But he couldn’t seem to find them. Finally she touched the three places.

  “See, I got you to caress me.” Julian raised and lowered his eyebrows like a clown. Max shook her head and laughed.

  The waiter arrived and whisked their plates away. Julian asked him if they had the Clafoutis aux Cerises.

  “Cherry custard cake,” Julian said. “A trip to heaven.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” Julian said, “and when the bill comes, it’s a quick trip back to earth.”

  Max giggled once more.

  Dessert arrived and was polished off. The bill was paid. It was time to go.

  “I want this moment to last forever,” Max said wistfully. “Julian…” She pushed her chair back and stood up. So did he. She moved close to him.

  Julian inhaled deeply. “You smell of strawberries,” he said. “And some perspiration.” Max giggled and punched him lightly. He was making her giggle like an idiot. It was too sweetly cruel. “And garlic and cherries,” he whispered.

  Max pursed her lips. “I’m sorry about yelling at you.” She fidgeted with her hair. “I should never have even called you.”

  Julian put an arm around her shoulder and gave a little squeeze.

  They held hands all the way back to the hotel.

  Max wanted to ask Julian if he had a girlfriend. But he surely wouldn’t hide that from her, would he? Would he be holding her hand this way if there was someone? Max felt an urge to strangle this mystery girlfriend. An image of a svelte female began to form in her mind. Part of her was afraid to find out if someone like that existed in his life.

  Bet I could snap her like a twig, she thought.

  *

  * *

  Julian was wondering if he should call his girlfriend. Raquel had told him she was going to Mongolia to broker a deal with small village banks. Leveraged buyouts, mergers maybe—they all sounded the same to him. She was going to be “offline”—her words—for a week. “We can talk when I’m in Beijing,” she had said. Still, perhaps he should call anyway, or she’d be mad that he didn’t even try. Women. They tell you something. They expect something else.

  He hadn’t even mentioned Raquel to Max yet. And here he was, getting way too attached to Max. He shouldn’t have come to London, but now that he was here, he really ought to tell her.

  But first, he had to call Raquel.

  “Might you know what time it is in Mongolia?” he asked Max.

  “Mongolia!” she exclaimed. “You’re crazy.” Max burst out laughing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Back at the hotel, they were at Max’s door. It had been a long day. The weight of the day’s events was thick in the air.

  “Thanks for dinner,” Max said. She opened the door and stepped inside her room. Julian almost followed, but she started to close the door.

  “Good night,” she said, turning away.

  “Good night,” he replied. And left for his room.

  Max held on to the door, watching him go down the stairs, wondering if playing hard to get had been a good thing to do. She was exhausted. Still, it would have been nice to cuddle with someone who seemed to care. So much. With a sigh, she closed her door and bolted it.

  The next morning, Julian knocked on Max’s door. Max let him in just when the phone started ringing. Max answered it.

  “Max?” A German-sounding voice said.

  “Uncle Ernst?” she said eagerly.

  “My name isn’t important. But what I have to say is. Forget this whole thing. You know what happened to Lars, to your father. We have the papers now. From the bank, remember? Leave now, and we will forget you exist.”

  “And if I don’t?” Max’s voice rose.

  “Oh Maxine,” the voice said almost gently. He pronounced her name Mah-xine like Opa used to do. It was altogether frightening to hear it said that way by this stranger. “I’m sure you don’t want to find out.” The line clicked dead.

  “Who was it?” Julian asked.

  Max let the phone fall from her hands. She covered her face with her hands for a while until she found her voice. “Enough,” she said. “We’re going back to Chicago. I’m not getting us both killed over some stupid papers we don’t even have now.” She started throwing her things into her suitcase.

  Julian followed her around the room as she gathered her stuff. “What did this person say? For God’s sake, Max, who was it?”

  Max continued to mutter, “I hate Lars for putting me through this. I had a good life! A lonely, sometimes pathetic life, but a safe one. Until Lars came into it.” She picked up a skirt and flung it across the room at her suitcase. “And now I’m left with some ancient curse and the mystery of my father’s death. I’m not Sherlock Holmes. No sir.” She collected her toothbrush and toilet bag, “Coming here was a horrible idea.” Holding up the toothbrush in her hand, she began to laugh hysterically.

  “When you came along, I thought, ‘Oh, with his help we can do this.’ What an idiot I am.” She gave Julian a harassed look. “We’re ordinary people, you and I. We have no business being here. And so we leave tomorrow.” She tried to close her suitcase, but it was too full. She slammed her fist against it.

  Julian began to pace the room.

  When the tiny suitcase sprang open for the fifth time, Max began to cry.

  Julian watched her for a while. “What did he say exactly? Don’t shut me out now, Max.”

  Max’s tone softened. “He said he has the papers. Which means that our thief from yesterday must have been Berliner’s man, too. ‘Go home,’ he said, just like someone told Lars. Yesterday, wasn’t it? Feels like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was the same fellow, same gang of fellows. Who knows, Julian? My father is dead. Lars is dead. Let’s leave before it’s our turn.”

  Julian continued to pace.

  Max felt like a vo
lcano about to erupt. Her chest grew warm with rage at the man on the phone. How dare this stranger threaten her when they had managed to come this far? The gall of the man. She kicked her suitcase and tried to hide the searing pain that began running through her toes.

  She stormed outside the hotel and looked around.

  “Hey!” she shouted, “You…you fuh…fuckkking German…” She hesitated. “Arschloch!” she cried, “You Deutsch asshole. Where the hell are you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hans was in his car. He had relayed his threat to Max not long before and now here she was outside the hotel, making a commotion. He rolled down his window. She stumbled on a step. Hans smirked.

  “I know you’re watching us!” she screamed.

  People avoided her as they walked past the hotel.

  “I’m not frightened. Not anymore. I thought I’d hide under my sheets until you went away, but I know you won’t go anywhere.”

  Maxine’s friend and an older man in uniform tried to bring her in, politely at first, then by force. But she was resisting them.

  “How much time do you have for this, huh?” Maxine shouted. “I have my whole life. So kill me now if you like. Do it. Go ahead.” She put her hands on her hips and growled. “Make my day.”

  The two men whisked her in right then.

  Hans wondered what he should do. Had Herr Schultz known he might hesitate to kill in cold blood and therefore used someone else—a contract killer perhaps—to finish off Hiram Rosen? Had he thought Hans didn’t have it in him? Was he testing him this time around? But he had also told him to exercise caution. For the sake of the company, he had said. Was he serious, or was it merely a roundabout way to get him riled up enough to kill? Herr Schultz could be very cryptic at times.

  If Maxine Rosen died now, the problem was gone forever, wasn’t it? But there were those phone calls she had made. And this boyfriend. Killing her might make him even more determined to retrieve the papers. The old Jew Ernst Frank had known the family forever. He would be sure to name Berliner if Maxine was killed. And if that happened, Hans might be made the scapegoat.

  It was apparent that she had no access to another set of papers, not at the moment anyway. And what she said made sense. He could not tail her forever. There was no need to stick around anymore.

  After all, the job was done. Lars was dead. Hiram’s last set of papers was safe with him. He had bugs on everyone’s phones. He could travel at a moment’s notice.

  Hans started his car and drove away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Julian led Max back to her room.

  “I’m not sorry,” Max said. “It felt good. Maybe the German even heard it.”

  Julian didn’t respond. He closed Max’s door.

  “I’m so ashamed that we’re going home empty-handed,” Max said, fingering her bags.

  “Don’t be.” Julian put her suitcase by the door.

  Max grabbed his arm. “Julian, tell me, why are you here? Why do you make love to me with your eyes, your chocolate-covered Scottish words, your expressions, and your tantalizing little squeezes and touches? Huh? Why did you kiss me that night in Chicago?”

  Julian turned away and ran his hands through his large brown curls. “I don’t know. I don’t know!”

  Max touched his face. “Am I just a summer flirtation?”

  Julian took her in his arms. “Would I risk my life for a summer flirtation?”

  Max closed her eyes. In a few hours, they would be back in Chicago. She may not see Julian again. And he would have no reason to see her now that her quest had come to a whimper of an end. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered.

  He brought his face close to hers. His breath felt warm and fragrant against her lips.

  And then…it couldn’t be helped. She leaned forward and kissed him. He hesitated at first, but slowly gave in to her lips. Reluctantly, they eased away from each other. Max ran her tongue over her mouth, savoring the sweet, salty taste of Julian.

  Max took a deep breath. “James Dean said, ‘live as if you will die today.’” She started to unbutton her blouse. “Since that almost became a reality for me this week, one thing I don’t want to regret is not doing this.”

  Julian put his hand on hers, his eyes wide and mortified. “No!” he cried. He kissed her on her mouth, her eyes, her lips, and her forehead. “Not like this. I can resist anything but temptation. You are that, Maxine Rosen. And yet, no, not like this.”

  Max closed her eyes. He had quoted Oscar Wilde. She loved Oscar Wilde. It wasn’t fair.

  She let out a long, melancholic sigh. He was right. This was no way to start something with this lovely man. A man so darling that setting eyes on him caused an ache in her chest. Saying his name started a lump in her throat. Hearing him speak made her feel like she was sitting on a lush green hill listening to the lilting notes of a flock of bagpipes. Gosh, he had turned her into a total sap!

  Julian pulled her close and wrapped his arms tight around her. Max nuzzled her face in his neck and tried to commit to memory the contours of his lean, sinewy body against hers.

  “What happens when we go back?” she asked.

  Julian pulled away from her.

  Max felt a tightening in her chest. “I am the unluckiest girl in the world. I have failed my father and I’m going to lose you the minute we set foot in Chicago.” Not that she ever had him, to be fair.

  “You should be proud that you even came this far,” Julian said. “We lost what we came here for, yes, but you took on some rather big guns. Your father would have been proud to know how hard you tried. Don’t forget, he didn’t even want you to be involved in the first place.”

  Julian hadn’t said she wouldn’t lose him.

  And so, none of his words made her feel better.

  The fact that she had failed her father, perhaps even her grandfather, was the bitter pill she was going to have to swallow and live with every single day.

  That was the only truth she was leaving with.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Aaron’s flight was indefinitely delayed. He was flying stand-by, thanks to Blondie.

  This was the pathetic result of this sojourn. No papers. No pay. He would have to go back to working the rush hour.

  This thing, whatever it was, was important enough to attract the German muscle in addition to bumbling Maxine Rosen and her boyfriend. That meant big stakes. Why should he not get a small part of it?

  He sat in a nondescript coffee shop with a black coffee and a slice of cake for company. He had tried calling Geoff, but Maggie said he wasn’t available. He had called the number he had been given in case of an emergency and left a message. No one had called back yet. He looked at his cell phone for the millionth time. Nothing. He played with some cake crumbs.

  His phone began to ring.

  “Aaron here,” he said.

  “You have a problem?” a metallic voice responded.

  Aaron collected his thoughts. His initial plan had been to inform his unknown employer about his failure. But now that he had had time to reconsider…

  Truth was, Blondie or not, the brass ring was too close to let go of so easily. After all, he had been kept alive. That meant he was small potatoes to these people.

  Aaron hardened his voice. “I just spent the night in the airport after being held at gunpoint by a German psychopath. That wasn’t part of the deal—”

  The voice interrupted, “Do you have the papers?”

  “I did, until Mr. Psycho took them.”

  “Explain,” the voice said.

  “He wanted to know who I was working for.”

  The voice chuckled. “I bet he did.”

  Aaron was glad the mood was light. “Of course I didn’t tell him, since, well, I have no idea. But I want my promised wages for all my pain and suffering.”

  There was silence at the other end. “Where are the papers now?”

  “I have no idea.”<
br />
  “What about the marks?”

  “They’re still here, so I’m thinking—”

  “Don’t think. They’re going back to Chicago. You go back, too. And listen carefully—if you lost the papers, so did they, right? They won’t give up without a fight. If you want to get paid, we want whatever they get their hands on. Wherever they get it from.”

  “Understood. And since the danger factor has gone up several points, I want double.” Aaron bit his tongue. Had he gone too far?

  There was a long pause. The man had hung up. Damn.

  But the voice said, “Fine. But only if you get us what we’re looking for.”

  Aaron put his phone away, got up, and stretched.

  He walked around the terminal, unable to decide whether even double the money was worth taking on Blondie once more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Max’s apartment

  Chicago

  Max sat at her dining table, pen and pad in front of her. Usually the week’s menus flowed out of her head like water from a tap, but today, every idea was frozen solid.

  Pasta, she wrote, and promptly thought about the pasta primavera she had made for Julian not long ago. She wondered how he was.

  They had landed in Chicago the night before and Julian had left her with a long, lingering kiss on her lips. A goodbye kiss, Max thought with a growing sense of doom.

  Max took a cab home, burdened by the weight of exhaustion, defeat, and loss.

  She had slept for twelve straight hours and was up now and trying to work. She ought to call Kim and tell her she was back. She found herself dialing Julian’s number instead. “Please leave a message for Dr. Julian McIntosh,” the message said.

  Max hung up.

  Julian had said he would be busy catching up on work since he had left some important things half done when she had summoned him to London.

  Max called Kim.

  “Welcome back!” Kim said. “Did you have a good trip?”