“He wants to kill me. And maybe he will—eventually. But not until he gets his money. I’m okay until he either gets it or knows once and for all that he can’t get it.”
A murmur of voices wafted in from the balcony, a man’s laughter, a shout, and then they subsided and were gone. He could almost feel her thinking. And he could feel the impulse to speak rising from her abdomen against his hip, rising until it emerged on her breath, almost apologetically.
“Why don’t you just give him the money, Harry?”
He had anticipated that question since the moment in her bedroom in Rome when he had told her what he had done. She had waited far longer to ask it than he had guessed.
“I can’t,” he said.
Pause. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not possible.”
“You’ve spent it?”
“No. I haven’t spent any of it.”
She was silent, but again he could sense the turmoil of her disquiet. She didn’t move. There was no caressing hand, no tucking into him to be closer than close. She didn’t ask him what he meant, and she didn’t press him further on his questionable assessment of the danger they were in. It was an unexpected and unusual display of restraint, and Strand found himself as curious about the reasons for her reticence as about her ability to deal with her fear in a manner that seemed extraordinarily controlled. The extremity of their circumstances was becoming a foil for revealing the complexity of Mara’s personality. It was yet another shifting, unstable element in a kaleidoscope of shadows.
Then her hand, which had been resting on his chest, moved around to his side, and she drew herself closer. They lay that way for a long time, floating away in their own thoughts as the afternoon grew balmy. After a while he stopped trying to feel her thinking, concentrating instead on the hum of the cicadas in the cypresses. Her breathing grew steady and shallow as she slipped into sleep. Against his intentions, he too grew light-headed and drifted away.
CHAPTER 28
CÔTE d’AZUR, NEAR ST. RAPHAËL
The little village had no name, which was even better, but not something he had planned. It was not really a village, either, but some houses clustered in the hills above the Mediterranean. The only reason anyone knew about it at all, and many did, the reason the narrow little road was paved rather than dusty gravel like most of the others in the area, was because of the old villa that had been turned into a wonderful restaurant. The restaurant was open only in the evenings, and even though the prices were high—the haute monde expected it—the place was a losing proposition if one looked strictly at the bookkeeping aspect of it. Yet it flourished, in an understated, very elegant sort of way.
The large, bearish figure of Charles Rousset was easily recognizable on the terrace. He was dressed in a linen suit that was designed and tailored with the Cap d’Antibes in mind, and he was here because he knew the owner of the villa. The owner was very wealthy—of vague resources—and a longtime friend of Rousset’s, who therefore enjoyed special privileges, such as having the shady terrace all to himself, overlooking the beryl waters of the Corniche de l’Estérel, for this special meeting. He and his companion were not disturbed. They came and went unobserved.
Mr. Skerlic was uneasy. The elegant surroundings did not impress him as much as they pissed him off. Rousset knew the little Serb thought him irritating and a poser, but he didn’t care. He knew also, however, that Skerlic appreciated Rousset’s discretion and was beginning to be comfortable with that, which was important. Rousset doubted that Skerlic would ever be able to find his way here again because the countryman who drove him here from St. Raphaël, and whom Skerlic considered the village idiot, had never stopped talking so that Skerlic could concentrate on where he was being taken.
“So, how are we doing?” Rousset asked when they were finally settled on the terrace. “Progress, I hope.” They sat alone at a sturdy wrought-iron table with a granite top, enjoying a view that normally cost handsomely to appreciate. Skerlic was not dressed for the Côte d’Azur. He was perspiring a little.
“Everything I need is in London,” he said, and he tried the wine, which, Rousset noted, he seemed to dislike. It was expensive and superb, but it might as well have been a local beer as far as Skerlic was concerned.
“Oh, very good.”
“You said you had some ideas about ‘how,’” the Serb said. “Before I go any further I want to hear what you have to say along those lines.”
“Yes.” Rousset grew serious and sat forward in his chair. He took off his straw hat and set it on the table and looked at Skerlic. He stroked his mustache and goatee. “I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he added, prefacing his presentation with an expression of calculation. “Wolfram Schrade is a passionate collector of certain kinds of art,” he began. “Passionate. He pursues it. He is a collector of the first order and readily spends a great deal of money for what he wants. And he wants an awful lot. It happens that I know his habits in this regard, in an intimate way. I know his desires. I know his unfulfilled desires, things he wants but cannot have, for one reason or another. I know the honey to which this bee will come.”
Rousset liked the metaphor. Skerlic didn’t even seem to notice. Talking to this wicked little beast was like talking to a cultural tabula rasa. It was astonishing the things of which Skerlic was unaware. Like the wild boy of Avignon, raised by wolves, he knew nothing but the tricks of survival.
“An art dealer in London sells work to Schrade very often, more often than any other dealer with whom Schrade trades,” Rousset continued. “He happens to specialize in the kinds of things that appeal to Schrade, and he is deeply knowledgeable about them. Schrade trusts him. Schrade will listen to him if he comes up with something unusual, just because this man has found it.”
Warming to his subject, he leaned forward and took a pear from the bowl of fruit beside the wine bottle. He took a small knife from the bowl and began cutting the pear into thick slices.
“I propose to offer this particular dealer—he has one of those names that is all surnames, Carrington Hartwell Knight, and that’s the name of his business: Carrington, Hartwell, and Knight.” Rousset smiled. “Clever, really. Anyway, I’m going to offer Carrington a piece of art that I know Schrade wants very much. Now, Carrington is . . . well, a peculiar fellow in his own right. He deals in only the very best, even the best of the best. He’s odd and has been doing business the same way for thirty-five years. This man has an office in Mayfair. The same address for twenty-two years. He dresses very modern, but his business is carried on in a very traditional way. Electric locks, but no videocameras. A security guard who acts as doorman and decoration. But his wealthy clients can come and go quietly, without attracting attention, unobserved.”
Rousset had cut the pear into a dozen slices, which now lay on the table fanned out in a semicircle. He took one and put it in his mouth and chewed it, savoring its ripe freshness. Then he ate another, and as he chewed he looked at Skerlic and nodded at the slices. “Please, have one. They’re delicious.” The Serb didn’t respond at all. Rousset swallowed the bite he was chewing and went on.
“He lives above, in the same building, and he keeps a fortune in fine art there. This is known, but it is not well known. Those who need to know, do know. This man is a rather flamboyant personality, but he is a very subtle dealer.
“Most important, among his numerous personal peculiarities is his attachment to this residence of twenty-two years. He will do business nowhere else. If you want to sell him something, you go there. If you want to buy something from him, you go there. That is all there is to it. There are no exceptions. The delivery boy goes. The art-loving mogul goes. The wealthiest men in the world go to this address in Mayfair.”
Rousset paused, then smiled softly again.
“Well, as it happens, this is an interesting analogy,” he said. “This odd man, this good fellow, is very much like death itself. To him, all men are the same, and he treats them all the same. Eventually a
ll men come to him, prince and pauper alike. He is indiscriminate.”
Skerlic did not appreciate the comparison. He pushed away the wine. He had no idea why rich people came here so they could sweat on this hot fucking coast. He took off his sport coat, which was so pedestrian as to be almost indescribable. In fact, Skerlic himself was so unremarkable as to be almost indescribable.
Rousset reached for another slice of pear.
“That’s the best place to kill Wolf Schrade.”
“Can you get to the point?”
Rousset took a small bite of the slice of pear and chewed it a moment, thinking. Then he went on.
“Schrade will go to Carrington’s to inspect the art.” He paused to emphasize the self-evident point. “We ourselves can prescribe the exact place,” he said, “and the exact time and thereby minimize the chance of any missteps.”
Skerlic studied Rousset. “What about this art dealer?”
“What about him?”
“You have a plan to avoid blowing up his ass in the process?”
“I have a plan, yes. It will require some very precise timing.” He looked at Skerlic’s scorned wine. “Would you like something else?”
“What’s the plan?”
“The plan? That is the plan, my part of it. I can make sure of the delivery. You have to make sure of the execution . . . so to speak.”
Skerlic used the side of his thumb to wipe the perspiration that had gathered on his brow like beads of warm dew. Then he reached for the bowl of fruit and broke off the long stem of an apple, stripped off the leaf, and rolled the stem between his fingers to remove the rough spots. Then he put the twig into his ear and began probing, tilting his head slightly.
“This is a sure thing?” Skerlic asked. “I can count on this, as of this moment?”
“Oh, most assuredly. I’ve only to negotiate the time. It might take as long as five days, however. I’ll try to hurry it up.”
“I see.”
“Does it suit you? This plan?”
Skerlic pulled something from his ear, looked at it, then flicked it toward the Mediterranean.
“I don’t mind it,” he said. “It could work.”
“It’s ingenious. Very precise.”
“If we do this, there’s no going back. I have to concentrate on the delivery mechanism, and once I get started on it I don’t want you to come to me and tell me you have changed your mind or that it can’t be done. What we settle here, we settle for good. The decision is final.”
“Well, that is good with me,” Rousset observed cautiously, “but, well, this is a bit rigid, isn’t it? I thought one had to be flexible . . . you know, the value of resilience.”
“You are not so sure, then, after all.”
“You need to be certain that your ‘delivery mechanism’ is realistic, given the context of the situation. You understand? I mean, for instance, what if you’ve thought of a brilliant way to work the explosive into, say, a pat of butter . . . but butter has no place in an art dealer’s shop. Do you see?”
Skerlic looked as if the comment were so stupid that he didn’t know how to respond to it. But he summoned his patience. The money was so extraordinarily good.
“We will have to meet again, Mr. Rousset, to work out the logistics of the situation. Then you can see for yourself.”
“One more thing,” Rousset added. “About the explosive device. I want to stress that Mr. Schrade is the target. I don’t want . . . there mustn’t be . . . a conflagration, an apocalyptic event. You understand?”
Skerlic regarded him with a blank expression. Rousset suspected him of playing dumb.
“The term required is ‘surgical,’ Mr. Skerlic. I don’t want anyone to die except Mr. Schrade. That’s a firm stipulation. I am making the opportunity very accommodating to you. You have to make sure the explosion is precise. Do you understand?” Rousset asked.
“I understand what you want,” Skerlic said.
“That’s good, wonderful.” Pause. “Can you do it?”
“Yes, I can do it. Okay?”
“Very good. That’s important to me. Precision. One can’t just throw a stick of dynamite into the room.”
CHAPTER 29
Strand and Mara drove out of Bellagio at dusk and headed along the east side of the western leg of the lake, driving nearly halfway to Como on one of the most torturous stretches of mountainside roadway in Europe before Strand turned off the pavement outside a small unnamed village perched above the lake. He maneuvered the rental car down a long drive shrouded by the heavy canopies of ancient trees, to the front of a large, gloomy villa resting on the breast of the shore.
Just as Strand cut the headlights and the motor, a figure appeared at the edge of the cinder courtyard, walking toward them. They followed the figure through a portico into an inner courtyard and out again to a curving path that took them in a slow decline to a boathouse on the water.
Inside the boathouse a thirty-foot Abbate speedboat sat in its slip, black, low against the water, glistening in the dim light. Its nose faced out to the lake.
Within moments the boat’s powerful engines came to life, and they eased slowly out of the boathouse, away from the tree-draped shore and into the open lake. It was a clear night, the darkness crazed by the blue light of the stars and the amber lights of the villas along the dark swells of the hilly shoreline.
The Abbate made the ride down the lake an easy endeavor. Soon its engine cut back to a mutter, and the boat slipped toward the Villa d’Este’s boat docks and its floating swimming pool that jutted out into the lake, ringed with lights. Other boats were arriving and departing along the docks, and they had to wait a moment before the long Abbate was able to pull up to the dock and let them off onto the cork-covered landing.
The brightly lighted sixteenth-century Villa d’Este loomed up into the trees above them. They made their way through the formal gardens, passing the hotel’s guests coming and going through the lamp-lighted evening, some in swimsuits and some in formal dress. There were also lakeside residents who, in the summer evenings, boated in from their villas up and down Como’s shores to dine at the hotel’s famous restaurant, a gathering place for those who had acquired a large measure of international wealth and fame.
Strand left Mara in the center of the elegant main hall surrounded by white marble columns and grained ceilings and announced at the reception desk that he was here to meet Lu Kee. Then he turned and watched Mara, who wore a simple black dress. No jewelry—the flight from Rome had not allowed time for that.
“Mr. H.S.?”
Strand turned to see a slim young Chinese whom he guessed to be in his late twenties, dressed in a fine white linen summer suit, looking at him.
“Yes,” Strand said.
“Mr. Lu is waiting.”
• • •
Lu’s suite was lavish, with a stunning view of the shores of Como. The old man appeared immediately, dressed nattily in ecru linen trousers, a black linen shirt open at the neck, and a mocha silk jacket with a black kerchief in its breast pocket. He wore light beige espadrilles. His hair was white and very thick. His manner was relaxed and gracious.
Strand introduced himself and then introduced Mara Song. The old man made no pretense of taking her beauty for granted. He bowed to her first and then reached out and took her hand. He did not shake it but simply held it a moment, smiling at her appreciatively. Then he said:
“Very lovely.” He turned to Strand. “Well, it seems that I have a lot to learn from you, Mr. Strand. So why don’t we begin.”
Lu’s English was fluent and was spoken with a soft British accent. They walked to a sitting area of several sofas and armchairs, and Lu gestured for them to sit down.
“I was rather startled to receive your message,” Lu smiled, sitting down after them. “My people became very excited.” He raised both opened hands, wagging them lazily in imitation of his flustered subordinates. Without further niceties, he held out his hands to Strand, palms up in a gestu
re of invitation. “Please proceed.”
“For many years I was an American intelligence officer living and operating out of Europe,” Strand began. He quickly moved into a detailed but concise recounting of what he knew about Lu’s international criminal involvements and then focused on the spectacular series of failures that he had mentioned earlier to Mara. Lu listened closely, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, the fingers of his hands interlaced, the tips of his thumbs touching and resting against his chest.
“In short,” Strand concluded, “this betrayal set back your European operations by about three years.”
Lu dropped his head forward slightly and looked at Strand as though over the top of a pair of glasses.
“All of this was brought about by one man,” Strand added, “with whom you are still working. He no longer works for the Americans, but I’m reasonably sure he’s now informing for the German Bundeskriminalamt and the French Sous-Direction des Affaires Criminelles.”
“You are going to tell me his name?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And give me documented proof of this betrayal?”
“Yes.”
Lu nodded pensively. He thought a moment, looking at a place on the floor in front of him. Then he looked at Strand.
“Mr. Strand, I find it difficult to believe that someone who works for me could cause me that much damage and I would not yet have found him out. This is very disturbing.”
“He doesn’t work for you, Mr. Lu. He works with you.”
Lu’s head came up. “I see,” he said, and his eyes regarded Strand differently now, as though he was reexamining everything Strand had said in a different light. Strand watched as the old man reordered his thoughts, recalibrated his mental instruments to adjust for a new kind of measurement and calculation.
“This will be interesting,” Lu said finally. “But first, before we hear this name”—he cut his eyes at Mara and allowed a polite, almost timid, smile—“which you have so cleverly withheld up to now”—he came back to Strand, his smile fading—“what wicked thing do you want done in return for this . . . kindness?”
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