Younger

by Suzanne Munshower

  “I’m sure it was. I think Marina was very much the power behind Pierre. Not a woman to take lightly.” She checked her watch. “My room number’s on the card I gave you. Just walk back the way you came but keep going through Piazza di Spagna and turn into Via della Vite. Knock on my door about seven-thirty. And, please, don’t reach for your wallet. The least I can do is buy you a drink.”

  “For old times’ sake?”

  “And for coming all the way to Rome on a moment’s notice to save my imposter ass. I just hope I haven’t gotten you into something you should have stayed well out of.”

  “Anna, I’m here because it’s you.” David’s clear blue eyes held her own. “Once I knew it was really you, I couldn’t say no. You don’t owe me anything. Except that explanation.”

  She nodded. “You go ahead, then, and I’ll see you later. I’m going to pick up some wine and water, and I’d like to order in pizzas for dinner. I want to stay put tonight so nothing might prevent me from turning myself in tomorrow.”

  “Turning yourself in? Here? Now?”

  “Not the Italians, no, but I can’t keep running. And I’m tired. It’s time to ask for help—from my government or yours.”

  He shook his head and exhaled sharply. “I fly from England and you tell me you’re turning yourself in the next morning? That’s not quite what I was expecting.” He stopped, shaking his head again. “Well, I’ll say more when I know more. Thanks for the drink, kid.” He got up, lifting his duffel bag. “By the way, you look terrific.”

  She watched him until he was out of sight, then paid for the drinks. On the way back to the hotel, she bought a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino, bottled water, and clementines. The hotel could order pizza.

  She hoped David wouldn’t be uncomfortable dining in her room. Then she wondered if she would be. Just an hour or so ago, she’d told that kid on the Spanish Steps this was for love. It had been simplest to say that, but what was it that she felt? First things first, she decided, which meant the life or death part. She could think about the future after any possible murderers had been put out of commission.

  Better them than her.

  “Let me get this straight. The wife’s Russian and warm as Siberia, the chauffeur’s Russian and chummy as Putin, and the enigmatic MI6 chap is friendly but a total phony. Meanwhile, Pierre and Marina had fake UK passports calling themselves Mr. and Mrs. Kelm, which just happens to be said nonexistent MI6 agent’s assumed name? You need a bloody scorecard to keep track of these clowns.”

  David leaned forward from the desk chair to slide another slice of pizza out of one of the boxes on the bed, where Anna sat cross-legged eating a clementine. “And who do you think has been murdered?”

  “Olga for one. I haven’t a clue who she really was, though I think we can confidently assume she was the actress previously appearing in my role. And Pierre—well, my money’s on murder. My friend Jan? Awfully coincidental that she recognizes me and makes a scene, then gets run down. And that Barton’s car had a smashed fender. Don’t forget the mysterious Mr. and Mrs. Rusakov. It may have been chalked up as a murder-suicide, but I’ll bet they were whacked.”

  “Whacked?” He looked momentarily horrified. “Must you Americans talk as if you all just walked out of a Martin Scorsese film?”

  “Uh-uh. Just me. So, we’ll say Olga, the Rusakovs, and Pierre. Probably four people”—she paused—“bumped off. Then Jan: that’s one possible. Plus two potentials: that’s us.”

  He grimaced. “So what do we potentials do?”

  “The reason I’m leery of going back to London to go to the police is that, even if I made it there alive, I might be suspect number one. If Kelm’s the bad guy he’s shaping up to be, we have no idea what the police actually think. So I think the diplomatic route is best. Since you had me call your home phone, some thug will soon be on your trail, too, so I think you need to take that route with me. Tomorrow. The fact that I was tracked to Holland and Germany shows that no place is safe. The question is: Who gets us?”

  “Us? I’m not sure how I feel about turning myself in like a criminal. Let me think a minute.”

  “Bad word choice on my part. You won’t really be turning yourself in the way I will be. You’ll just be making sure you’ll be safe in London. And whomever we see might just tell us to get lost. But I do think you’re at risk and we should both go and see what they say. It’s not like they’re going to hold you responsible for anything. They’ll probably arrange police protection for you in the UK and you can fly home safer.”

  He turned his head to stare out the window. Finally, turning back, he said, “I see your point. The sooner this is resolved, the sooner I can rest easy about my son. That’s reason enough for me. By who gets us, you mean the US or the UK embassy, right? I’d say UK, since Barton was a British citizen. And since Kelm is, or is supposed to be, MI6, they wouldn’t like us going to the Americans first.”

  “Good point. And I was thinking the same thing because of Pierre.” She stood up from the bed, closing the pizza boxes and setting them on the dresser. “Why don’t we meet at eight-thirty and walk down to the square for a taxi? I’d prefer to get to the embassy as early as possible.”

  “Good. Good. Yes. And I’ll leave that flash drive in the hotel safe for the time being, shall I?” He got up, then reached down and finished his glass of wine. “This was a nice red, by the way.”

  He stood but didn’t move, and she realized that both she and, perhaps more awkwardly, the beds were between him and the door, so she moved in the direction of the latter. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming here. I might not actually be in less danger, but I feel safer.”

  “As you can guess, I, on the other hand, feel a bit less safe than I did, oh, say, yesterday.” His smile was rueful. “I think we’ll both feel better tomorrow.”

  “Well . . .” She stood frozen like a teen on her first date.

  He walked over, and she tensed, wondering if he’d reach for her. But he just patted her shoulder in an avuncular way. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the lobby at half past eight.” As the door closed behind him, she reached to double-lock it, hoping she’d done the right thing.

  “Might I ask why you’ve come to us rather than the Americans, Ms. Wallingham?” The assistant consul peered across his desk, looking put out by the intrusion of these two troublemakers.

  “It was Mr. Wainwright’s suggestion.”

  His eyes pivoted to David, who diplomatically explained, “My opinion was that since I’m a British citizen and now at risk, and since Mr. Barton was a British citizen, and since some man who said his name was Martin Kelm seems to have been passing himself off as an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service, you would want to be in charge.”

  “And the passports.” Anna withdrew them from her bag and handed them to the man, whose name, according to the sign on his desk, was Rupert Hyde-Bingham. Rupert Hyde-and-Mighty, she thought. “Sorry, I forgot to mention these. The photos are of Pierre and Marina Barton, so they’re clearly forgeries.”

  “Hmmm.” Hyde-Bingham studied them, then placed them on the little pile he was accumulating: David’s passport, Anna’s, and the faked Tanya one. “And you got these where?”

  “They were in Mr. Barton’s attaché case. When he collapsed at my house.” She hesitated. “I’ve used the Maria Kelm passport. In Milan and here in Rome. I’m registered at my hotel as Maria Kelm.”

  “You knowingly used not one but two false passports, Ms. Wallingham? Not such a good idea, is that?”

  “I was assured the Tanya Avery one was legitimate, and I met the MI6 agent supposedly in charge. As for the Maria Kelm passport, using it seemed a much better idea than getting killed,” she said tartly. “Have someone call us a taxi and we’ll go to the Americans, if you prefer.”

  David looked from Hyde-Bingham to Anna and back again, as if unwilling to take side
s.

  Hyde-Bingham blinked first under Anna’s chilly gaze. He shook his head. “No need for that.” He pushed a button on his desk, and the young assistant who’d escorted Anna and David into the British embassy popped his head in the door.

  “Sir?”

  “Malcolm, please escort Ms. Wallingham and Mr. Wainwright to waiting room 22.” To all three, he said, “This will take a few minutes.”

  Waiting room 22 was clearly code, because there was no number on the door of the room to which they were led. “Coffee? No? Tea?” Malcolm offered brightly. “I’ll have it brought up. And the loo will be through the door there on the right. I’ll come for you as soon as Mr. Hyde-Bingham is ready.”

  They were in a small conference room, the main features of which were a long, polished wood table and a framed photograph of some members of the royal family with the British ambassador. “Cozy, what?” David joked bleakly, flinging himself onto one of the steel-and-leather chairs. “Maybe we should have gone to the Yanks. That fool will have you locked up for using fake IDs before all’s said and done.”

  Anna shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone would have greeted us with open arms, two idiots arriving unannounced out of the blue, bearing forged passports along with a far-fetched tale of magic potions and murder, spies and lies, and sinister stalkers.”

  “Well, now that you mention it . . .” He shook his head as if to clear it, then patted the chair next to his. “Have a seat. We might be here awhile.”

  “What if no one believes me? Or what if I got it all wrong?” Her voice rose in panic.

  “There’s some hard proof there. And not just the faked passports. I mean, Barton’s dead, Olga’s dead, your friend Jan’s dead, the Rusakovs are dead. That’s not nothing. Let’s see what happens next.”

  What happened next was the arrival of a stout, plainly dressed Italian woman bearing a tray holding tea things and a plate of shortbread, which she deposited wordlessly on the table. The door, Anna noticed, was opened from the hallway by a man who seemed to be stationed there as a guard now.

  What happened after that was a great deal of waiting. Silent waiting. She and David had been ignoring the elephant in the room with them, no matter what room they were in: her lying to him and asking questions about his relationship with Anna while letting him think she was Tanya. But now, Anna knew, wasn’t the time to broach the subject.

  David was just muttering, “Would it be rude to ask for a deck of cards?” when there was a tap at the door and Malcolm appeared.

  “Come with me, please. Sorry you had to wait so long.”

  He led them into another office, larger and plusher. “We’re moving up the ladder,” David whispered.

  The man seated behind the desk stood and held out his hand. “Ms. Wallingham, Mr. Wainwright. Charles Dexter, British consul’s office.” He indicated the two other men seated next to the desk. “Elliot Lewis from the American embassy.” A short, dark-haired man shook both their hands. “And Sir Charles Etherington, SIS.” A man who looked like the “aristocratic, white-haired head of intelligence” character in a movie gave both their hands a muscular shake. “Please sit down.”

  Dexter nodded to Etherington, who said, “As you surmised, no one named Martin Kelm is, or ever has been, a member of SIS. Someone will be arriving here shortly with photos in the hopes you can identify him. By chance, you’ve shown up on the embassy’s doorstep the day after I arrived to meet with the ambassador on totally unrelated business. And tomorrow our agent on the case in London will be here. On this business, I might add. I’ve asked him to fly in.”

  “Your agent? On the case? You mean there’s already a British investigation going on?”

  “Oh, yes, Ms. Wallingham, for quite some time. Since before Pierre Barton’s death.” He tilted his head in a very small shrug. “We knew about you, and we probably should have approached you ourselves or through your own people”—he gave a nod to Mr. Lewis—“but to be perfectly honest, no one was quite sure what your role at BarPharm was, or why you were there. And then you flew the coop.”

  “And now?” David interjected. “What happens now?”

  “Several things,” said Dexter. “First, we make sure we correctly ID the mysterious Mr. Kelm. Then we get both of you out of your hotel and into more secure lodgings. You’re correct in thinking you’re not safe. You mentioned your son in talks with Mr. Hyde-Bingham, Mr. Wainwright? We can begin immediately to have him and his mother’s house watched discreetly to make sure he’s not in danger. Tomorrow, we’ll meet with the agent in charge and decide how we should proceed. SIS will be in charge after that point.”

  “And when can we leave?”

  “Leave, Ms. Wallingham?”

  “Leave Rome.”

  It was Etherington who answered her. “That’s up to us,” he said mildly. “The fact is, you both have little choice in the matter at this point. You can walk out that door right now and know that, if a murderer on the loose doesn’t kill you, you will be picked up very quickly by Interpol and handed over to the Metropolitan Police in London for interfering in a murder investigation. You have stolen passports from a dead body, in addition to having withheld information. You, Mr. Wainwright, have aided and abetted her. We would like your assistance and your secrecy. As a United States citizen, you can’t be required to swear to anything for the UK, Ms. Wallingham. However, you will be very ill-advised indeed to make public any of the information we will need to share with you. We won’t keep you here longer than we need to, but we certainly won’t release you before it’s safe for you to be on your own. But I’ll leave that up to Barnes when he gets here.”

  “Anything else?” Dexter murmured, breaking the long silence that followed. “Lewis, you had something, did you not?”

  The American spoke directly to Anna. “We’ll be looking into the death of your friend, Mrs. Berger. It could be what it seems like, a random hit-and-run—but rest assured we’re checking it out.”

  The phone rang and Dexter spoke briefly into it. “Photos are here, Chips. Shall we look at them someplace with better lighting?” They all filed down the hall to another conference room, this one brightly lit. A man carrying a dispatch box arrived at the same time, handed the box to Etherington, then left.

  “You sit here, Ms. Wallingham. Please go through these carefully and pull out any you think might be Mr. Kelm.”

  There appeared to be about forty photos in the box. The first ones were easy to reject, as they were posed identification photos or mug shots of plainly visible subjects, some of whom were blond or pointy nosed but none of whom was Martin Kelm. The candids were harder to judge, as they weren’t always clear, but when she came to a snapshot of a man in a bathing suit standing and smiling on a stretch of rocky beach, she handed it to Etherington. “This one, I think. His hair’s darker here, but it looks like Kelm.”

  He nodded. “Please continue.”

  She found two others: one, a passport shot in a suit and tie, and the other of poorer quality, perhaps a long-lens shot, showing him much as she’d seen him that day on the Ku’damm, dressed like a construction worker in a jacket and jeans.

  Etherington beamed at her. “Excellent, my dear! Very well done. As anticipated,” he announced, “it’s SVR. Meet Russian Foreign Intelligence Service’s man of many faces, Grigoriy Komarov. Fittingly enough, Grigoriy means ‘vigilant.’”

  “You’re saying Martin Kelm’s a Russian spy? But he’s as British as—”

  “As I am?” Etherington beamed more brightly. “Yes, isn’t he just? Excellent actor, the esteemed Komarov. A bit embarrassing we weren’t onto him sooner.”

  “But I thought Aleksei—”

  “You thought the butler did it, did you? But, no, the butler would be the man called Mikal, wouldn’t it? In any event, tomorrow is another day.” He put the three photos down and stood. “It will have to wait until then. Mr. Dexter
, could you keep these three photos handy for the meeting tomorrow? I’ll have a car downstairs in fifteen minutes to take Ms. Wallingham and Mr. Wainwright to pick up their bags.”

  “We have no say in this at all?” Anna protested weakly.

  While Etherington continued to beam, a steeliness came into his expression that assured her good old Sir Chips was nobody’s fool.

  “You came to us for safekeeping. This is how we keep you safe.” He nodded and left.

  Then Lewis was handing her a card, saying, “I think I’ll leave you in the excellent hands of Mr. Dexter” and, as though he’d been poised at the door waiting, Malcolm was back, asking Anna and David to please come with him to waiting room 22.

  “I’ll return to fetch you in a few minutes when the car arrives,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll check out of your hotel, then come back here.” His giggle was incongruous. “Free night’s stay in luxury surroundings. Food, too.”

  “I didn’t realize our embassy took captives,” David said stiffly.

  “Hardly captives,” Malcolm reassured him breezily. “Just our guests. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  “It’s just for a night or two,” Anna said after he’d gone. “I’m not thrilled, either, but at least we’re safe here. And they’ll make sure your son is, as well.”

  “And at least they’re taking your fears seriously.”

  “Did you think they wouldn’t?” she asked sharply. “That they’d tell you I was just being a hysterical woman?”

  “Of course not, Anna. I told you I believed you. I’m trying to help you, remember? Not making sexist judgments.”

  “Sorry. I was just being a hysterical woman for a moment there, wasn’t I?”

  “We’re stuck here. No sense in fighting it. Mutual sarcasm interrupted by a spot of whining should help the time fly by.”