by Greg Rucka
"You think it's a he?"
"Almost positive," Alena said. "Most of them are."
"I should be back in a week."
"I shall be here," she said sourly.
***
Early in the afternoon, Dan drove me into Manhattan in the Kompressor and waited while I handled the money at the Credit Suisse branch off Madison Avenue. I presented myself as Paul Lieberg with the papers to prove it, and the woman behind the desk went from pleasant to solicitous when she ran my name through the computer. Of the two hundred thousand Alena had transferred, I put a hundred thousand in a cashier's check made out to a name Dan had given me in the car, another fifty in a check made out to Jessica Bethier. I took the remaining fifty thousand in cash. As instructed, I withdrew ten of it in Swiss francs, then another ten in pounds.
Back at the car I handed Dan the two checks, telling him that the smaller one was to go to Natasha. We parted company, me carrying my bag and he pulling back into traffic.
My watch said it was eight minutes to two, and that meant I had over five hours until I needed to catch the plane, more than enough time to do the thing I'd been considering doing since I'd returned to New York three days earlier. It was a risky, if not an outright stupid, thing, and if I'd told Alena or Natalie where I wanted to go and who I wanted to see, both would have gone through the roof.
I did it anyway, though, catching one of the Lexington line trains down to Astor Place. I came back aboveground beside the giant Starbucks and walked over to Broadway, heading south a couple blocks and then west, until I was on the campus of NYU. I found the dormitory I wanted, debated about using the intercom to call up, and was spared the trouble when a knot of girls emerged. I went through as the door swung shut behind them, and took the elevator up to the sixth floor.
The door to her room was decorated with all sorts of paper, postcard reprints of classic movie posters and a bumper sticker ordering me to question authority. At the center was an eight-by-five piece of paper that had been run through a printer. It read K.C. ERIKA and THIS HAD BETTER BE good!
The door was open, so I didn't need to knock. I stuck my head in, and saw her seated at a desk, typing furiously on a laptop. She had a cigarette going, too.
"Can I come in?" I asked.
Erika turned in the chair before I'd finished speaking, yelped, yanked the cigarette from her mouth, and jumped up and ran to me, into a hug that nearly put me back into the hall. She also nearly put the cigarette out in my neck.
"What the hell kept you?" she demanded, her face in my chest. Then she let me go and stepped back and asked it again.
"Let's go somewhere and talk."
"K.C.'s not here, she's at her playwriting class, you can come in."
"Let me buy you coffee."
Erika opened her mouth to invite me in again, and in the process introduced me to the fact that she'd gotten her tongue pierced at some point in the past few months. Without another word she turned back to her desk, saved the document she'd been working on, and set the computer to shut down. Then she grabbed her black leather biker's jacket, the one Bridgett and I had bought her over the holidays the previous year, and joined me out in the hall.
We were silent in the elevator and out of the building, and when we hit the street, she zipped up her jacket and asked, "Now?"
"Not yet," I said.
"There's a place on Christopher with good Java, big fucking cups. You need a crane to lift them."
"Lead on."
She did, with me walking beside her, and after another block and a half, she asked again. "Now?"
"Now," I said, and she threw her arms around my chest and squeezed me tight, and I returned the hug just as fiercely.
"I am so fucking angry at you," she told my chest.
"So am I," I said. "You started smoking."
Erika pulled back and punched me lightly in the chest. "Not the same! Not the same at all!"
"And you got your tongue pierced."
"And you got rid of the glasses and grew a dead animal on your face. Oh, excuse me, that's a beard, my mistake."
"I'm in disguise."
"As what, a pimp?"
"That's cold. I don't look like a pimp."
"I don't know what you look like." She moved her head back, as if trying to adjust the focus on me. "Well, shit. Bridgett said you'd gone…"
"Diesel," I said.
"No, not diesel – crazy. You don't look crazy."
"Us lunatics seldom do."
"You gonna tell me where you've been?"
"I'm going to tell you everything," I said.
***
Erika listened to me holding her cup of coffee, which, though big, did not require a crane. She held the cup in front of her the way Tibetan monks hold their prayer bowls, her blue eyes intent on my face as I spoke. Her hair had been its natural dirty blond the last time I'd seen her, but she'd since dyed it a matte black that matched her jacket. As ever, her hair hung long on the left side of her face, concealing the ear that had been mutilated by a man with a knife four years earlier.
She looked different to me, no longer the teenager who'd come into my home years ago, pulling chaos in her wake. She was nineteen now, a young woman and, to my eyes, coming of age very nicely. I was so glad to be with her I didn't even give her grief when she set the cup down and lit herself another cigarette.
After I'd finished she started giggling, and then she started laughing, and then she choked on the smoke she'd inhaled and coughed. Then she laughed some more.
"Only you," she said. "Only you would go away as someone's prisoner and come back as that same person's knight in shining armor."
"It's a unique gift," I admitted.
"Bridgett's right, you are totally mad."
"When'd she talk to you?"
"Yesterday, we had lunch at Anglers and Writers. She says she doesn't want anything to do with you. I asked if she meant until this was over or forever or what, and she said she didn't know."
"Bridgett's got her reasons, and they're good ones. I understand why she's angry."
"I think she's overreacting."
That surprised me. "Really?"
"Yeah, really. Last year she pulled the vanishing act on all of us, remember? And when you found her – you- she was strung out on smack and sitting in her own shit. You took her home, you cleaned her up, you watched her back when she got into the heavy stuff. I think she owes you the same courtesy here."
"It's not the same situation," I pointed out.
"You've always given her more slack than she's given you." She took another drag from the cigarette, then blew a jet of smoke up at the ceiling. When she'd finished the display, she indicated my bag, which I'd set on the floor by my chair. "Either you're going somewhere, or you've got something in there for me."
"I'm going somewhere."
"I'm disappointed. I was hoping something like a shirt, you know, one that said, 'My Legal Guardian Went To A Caribbean Island With A Professional Assassin And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.' "
"Tell you what, I'll have one made especially for you."
"Make sure it's black with white lettering if you do. Can you tell me where you're going?"
"No."
"So you just came by to say hi-and-goodbye?"
"That and something else. This thing with Alena could get dangerous. I want you to be careful."
"I am always careful, big brother."
"I'm not talking about condoms in your purse, Erika. Don't take any stupid risks. If you go out, go out with friends. Don't get drunk, don't smoke pot, any of that wacky college stuff."
"I've never smoked grass," she said, indignant.
"I'm speaking generally. You want specifics, here's a list. Don't go by the apartment, not for any reason at all, it's probably under surveillance. Lock your door whenever you're in your dorm room, don't leave it open like it was just now. I want you on your guard until I tell you otherwise, and when I do that, I'll do it in person. If someone tells you
that I sent them and you don't know who they are, you raise an alarm and run like hell. If I want you I'll get you in person or it'll be someone you know very well, and I mean someone like Natalie or Scott or Bridgett. And if you see anything – anything at all – that makes you just the tiniest bit suspicious, I want you to call one of them ASAP. Don't worry about overreacting, don't worry about looking foolish. We're talking about your life."
"You're totally serious, aren't you?"
"If anything happened to you, Erika, I would go crazy," I said. "Please be careful."
"I will."
"Your word?"
"You know you have it."
"Good." I checked my watch, saw that I had just over two and a half hours to make the flight. From one of my pockets I took a bundle of bills, counted out five thousand dollars beneath the cover of the table, then folded the money and handed it over. "Emergency funds. Don't blow it on fast boys and loose cars."
She pocketed the money without bothering to see how much I'd given her. She'd already put the cigarette out, and she could tell I was getting ready to leave, because she was up before I was, and she gave me another hug.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," I told the top of her head.
"I know," she said. "You always come back for me."
***
At seven fifty-three that evening, I was a man named Dennis Murphy, in seat 29B on a British Airways 747, making my way to London.
Chapter 5
It took looking in the first copy of The Sun that I could find to confirm that Lady Antonia Ainsley-Hunter was in London, and I caught a cab from Heathrow into the city, got dropped off in front of the Burns Hotel in Kensington. It was just past seven in the morning when I checked into my room, a double with an almost queen and a passable bathroom, and I fiddled with the alarm clock until I got it to work, then crashed on the bed until a quarter past ten. When I woke I did some yoga and some sit-ups, showered, then headed out in search of a pay phone. When I found one I liked, I called Robert Moore on his cellular phone.
"Moore."
"This is Mr. Klein," I said. "You're holding a letter for me."
He didn't miss a beat. "Yes, it arrived several days ago. Do you need it delivered?"
"If that's possible, and the sooner the better."
"Where can I meet you?"
"There's a tube stop at Earl's Court."
"I can be there in fifty minutes."
"That would be fine."
"I'll come in on the train." Then he added, "Mind the gap."
I was laughing as I hung up the phone.
London subway stations, even at their worst, make New York's look like they were constructed by giant rats, and that the giant rats still reside in them. Those in London are also, for the most part, far less crowded, and as a result I spotted Moore as he came off the train. He was wearing a Burberry coat and holding a black plastic shopping bag, and he waited by the tracks until the train had pulled away again before moving forward.
I let him pass me before saying, "Hey."
He stopped and said, "I thought it was you, but the hair threw me. You've been in the sun."
"Lots of sun," I admitted, and I took his offered hand and shook it warmly.
"Christ Almighty, but I'm glad you're okay."
"I figured you might be pissed."
"You daft? You got her back, and that was the most important thing." Moore looked around the station, then handed me the shopping bag. "Is this what you were after, then?"
"Actually, no," I said. "I need a little help."
"You always do. Buy me a pint and we'll chat about it."
***
We had a late lunch at a well-hidden pub in Chelsea called The Surprise, on a crooked street called Christchurch Street, about a block from Oscar Wilde's townhouse. It was comfortable and quiet inside, with bare oak floors and wood on the walls. A small dining area was at the rear and we got a table and some food. Moore tried to get me to try one of the ales, saying that it was a good, living brew and that I owed it to myself to try some. I drank a ginger beer instead.
"How's Her Ladyship?"
"Running great guns, as you might expect," he said. "She'll be disappointed that she didn't get to see you."
"I don't want anyone to know I'm here."
"That much I'd already gathered." He nudged the plastic bag with the toe of his shoe, pushing it farther against the legs of my chair. "I opened it when it arrived, of course. It's well done."
"It is."
"Made me curious, you might imagine. Wondered what you were doing sending me paper like that, after everything that had happened. You care to explain it?"
"Not right now."
"All business, then?"
"What I need, I need as quickly as possible."
"And what you need is.?.."
"A name and an address. And I can't get them through my sources."
He opened his pack of Dunhills, lit one. "Think you perhaps better tell me a little more."
"There is an individual, could be female, most likely male. This individual is an accountant or a banker or possibly a lawyer. Most likely working in Europe, in one of the major financial centers."
"This a hypothetical person?"
"No, this person exists. And aside from his normal job crunching numbers or selling loans, he handles accounts and investments for one very specific, very particular client. He does this with absolute discretion and more than a little fear, and in exchange for this work, he makes at least a million dollars a year himself."
"Powerful client."
"Oxford," I said.
Moore leaked smoke from his nose studying me. His eyes were thoughtful, but I couldn't tell if the thoughts were pleasant or not.
"You're looking for Oxford's banker?" he asked. "You sure he's got one?"
"I have it on reliable authority."
"And this authority would be who?"
"Someone who knows."
He took another drag, looking sidelong towards the bar and the door. Then he brought his eyes back to me, and it was clear he knew who I meant. He asked, "Why come to me? You've got contacts on your side of the ocean, why not use them?"
"If they make inquiries, the wrong people will notice."
"Wrong how?"
"Wrong as in the people who've hired Oxford in the first place are also the people one would normally ask about this sort of thing. You've got to understand, Robert – he's not just after my principal, he's after me, too. I'm part of the contract, and he already got too close once."
"So you're appealing to me on the basis of… what? Our history?"
"If that's what it takes."
He shook his head. "No, that won't wash. This is a business transaction between us, all right? We keep it on that level, it won't arse up the friendship."
"Business."
That actually had a visible effect on him, and he relaxed in his seat. "I'll need two thousand pounds and a way to reach you."
"How long will it take?"
"I'll talk to the blokes I know tonight, all goes well, I'll have something for you by morning."
"Then I'll call you tomorrow morning." I dug out my wallet, counted ten of the hundred-pound notes I'd acquired earlier, and handed them over. "You get the rest when I get your report."
He counted the money, then folded it away in his pocket. "Your business sense has improved."
"I need this information, and I need it fast, Robert," I said. "Every day that passes, this guy gets closer to me, to my principal, to the people I love."
"Supposing I bring you what you want tomorrow, what're you doing then? Sharing that with your – ahem – principal?"
"You don't have to worry about that."
"Actually, I do, and if I don't get an answer I can work with, you can take your damn money back."
I shook my head. "You're the one who made this business."
"That I did." He finished his cigarette, ground it out with a grin, then drained the last of his living
ale from its glass and got to his feet. "Call me after nine."
He was already on his cell phone before he had left the pub.
***
I spent the rest of the day wandering through the bookstores on Charing Cross Road, not buying anything. I found another pub around seven and got myself a very limp salad and some very bland fish, and I walked all the way back to the Burns Hotel fighting the craving for some deep-fried food. At the desk I got directions to a twenty-four-hour gym nearby, and spent three hours in it working myself into a lather. When I was done I didn't want fried food, just sleep, so I returned to the hotel and went to bed.
At nine the next morning I called Moore from a different pay phone.
"I'll have something by the end of the day," he said. "But the price is going up."
"How much?"
"There's a rental fee, I'll explain when I see you. Call me at five."
When I contacted him again at five, he told me that Mr. Klein should get a room at the Hilton before nine that evening, and hung up. I went to the Hilton and did as ordered, found that I had most of four hours before anyone would come calling, and used the pool at the hotel for a long swim. Then I went for a run in the rain. Then I went back to the hotel, took a shower, and tried not to think about how slow Alena was on the stairs, about the four men and one woman who were standing guard over her, about the fact that Oxford would go through them like they were made of tissue.
At one past nine Moore knocked on the door and I let him inside, then checked the hall.
"I came clean," he said. "No one's following me."
He was wearing the same raincoat from the day before, and beneath it a well-tailored navy suit. He was also carrying a burgundy leather briefcase, and he set it on the floor between his legs after I'd shut and double locked the door.
"Four thousand," Moore said.
