The Guardian Angel

by George Lazăr

  George Lazăr

  The Guardian Angel

  Translated by Theodora Popescu

  Revised by Dan Conover

  Editura EAGLE PUBLISHING HOUSE

  2011

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.

  Copyright © 2009-2011 George Lazăr

  www.theguardianangel.info

  www.facebook.com/theguardianangel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published by Eagle Publishing House (by arrangement with Bestseller Agency, office@bestselleragency.com)

  www.bestselleragency.com

  Publisher: Mugur Petronius Cornilă

  Translated from romanian language by Theodora Popescu

  Revised by Dan Conover

  Cover design by Cristian Homeucă and Mugur Cornilă

  Illustration: Dreamstime

  Prepared for publication by Mihaela Sipoş

  ISBN ePub: 978-606-8315-35-5

  ISBN Print: 978-606-8315-20-1

  Lectura digitală protejează mediul

  Versiune digitală realizată de elefant.ro

  To my sons,

  Toma, Luca and George

  Chapter 1

  The black envelope was addressed to him. No doubt about it. There was his name, Ian Bolden, properly spelled in golden letters, and under it, in smaller characters, the following dates: 11.09.1992 – 24.06.2033. The third row contained his address, 204 Boulevard La Fayette, 815031 Paris, France.

  To casual acquaintances, Ian seemed a lucky man. He had entered the world with a $10-million inheritance from the woman had just died while giving him birth – who had, in fact, nobly sacrificed herself for him, to the everlasting despair of her husband, his father. Ian’s inheritance, held in trust throughout his youth, had increased considerably by the time he came of age, and when his much-older father died of natural causes, the old man’s fortune only added to the one Ian has already amassed.

  In his adult life, Ian kept only a formal link with the elder Bolden, whom he saw rarely and then only on business matters. Their distance was mutual. His father always resented that his wife chose Ian’s life over her own, and he never bothered to hide that opinion from his son.

  With $150 million at his disposal, much of it safely invested at first in a continuously growing company called Green Clean, Bolden lived with the easy conviction that no harm could come to him. He had everything he ever needed or wanted, and even the potentially sticky matter of his illegitimate son, Norton, had been solved long ago by his lawyers. The boy’s short life was a jumble, and he remembered his biological father only vaguely.

  Bolden’s net worth had enjoyed a sudden boom six months before, after wrangling a license from the Administration of the Space Elevator to lift three hundred tons of waste a day and release it into geosynchronous orbit 36.000 kilometers above the Earth. This made him the Administration’s main civil contractor, placing his influence almost on par with the military and some select government institutions.

  Still, there was something bothersome about that envelope. He frowned at it, then tossed it atop of the taller of the two stacks he used to organize his mail. Advertising fliers, junk mail he seldom bothered to open before throwing away. A moment later he changed his mind, placing the black envelope on the more manageable pile of bills and business letters.

  He unconsciously realized that there was something strange about the black envelope and stopped sorting his mail in order to look at it more carefully. The address made him frown. Few people knew about his Paris apartment, purchased discreetly two years before, and that was by design. He’d been hiding his ownership from the IRS ever since, calling it a company accommodation, but in truth he’d bought the apartment to meet freely with Danielle. At the moment such discretion was no longer needed, given the recent finalization of his divorce from Felice. Bolden smiled at the thought, then blessed the day five years ago when his lawyer, J. Ron Mansfield, convinced him to demand a prenuptial agreement. It took a bite out of the romance, but without it the divorce would have left him with practically nothing.

  Again the envelope drew his attention. No sender’s name or address appeared on it, and there were no postal stamps or bar codes to indicate it had ever been processed. Someone had taken the trouble to hand-deliver this message to his mailbox in the building’s hallway.

  Bolden picked up the envelope to toss it in the trash again, but the two groups of numbers struck him. The first represented his birth date. Did that mean the second group denoted his date of death? The 24th of June. Just three days away.

  “A bad joke,” he mumbled, annoyed.

  Instead of throwing it away, though, he ripped the envelope at one end. A shiny black business card dropped out. It was embossed with three words in golden letters: The Guardian Angel. The letters glimmered in the light of his desk lamp, but there was nothing apart from those words on the little rectangular piece of plasticized stiff paper. The back was completely black.

  Bolden instinctively slipped both the envelope and the black rectangle into one of his pockets. He left its questions (Was it a joke? A threat? And who was behind it?) for later.

  He threw a swift glance at the gold Rolex on his left wrist. He was already late. Danielle had made reservations for a traditional French dinner at the Procope in Saint-Germain des Prés. He would have chosen The Ritz or Crillon because he enjoyed the luxury and opulence of Parisian culinary landmarks, but Danielle wanted to celebrate something. Possibly a promotion at the magazine where she worked.

  Bolden lapsed into memories of the two of them, then noticed his absent smile in the mirror as he tightened the knot around the soft collar of his casual shirt. It had been almost three years, but he recalled with ease the moment they met, along with every detail of how she looked: a short-haired bottle-blonde with enormous eyes, tall and slender in a dark-red-and-white two-piece suit that was at least one season ahead of most American designers.

  It was a reception at The Met. She was working a magazine assignment to cover the opening of a new exhibition on Christianity and the fashionable debates about Jesus’ divine or earthly origins. He had been invited as one of the museum’s wealthy patrons, but his mind was elsewhere that evening. Negotiations over Space Elevator contracts had reached a tense crossroads – the administrators were still bucking his $200,000-per-ton price, and the quantity he required gave them fits. At the last moment, Bolden decided to take a stroll on Fifth Avenue to clear his thoughts first, and asked his driver to drop him off in Central Park, a few hundred meters from the museum.

  He had plenty to process. Beyond his business problems, his marriage to Felice had soured, and Bolden didn’t feel like making additional efforts toward reconciliation. Previous attempts met early success, only to deteriorate rapidly. He was almost certain she had a lover, or even more than one. But as he walked toward the museum from the park that night, he realized that he didn’t really care. It was a chilly September evening in New York, and he was happy to be walking alone instead of picking a new round of fights with his wife in their expensive Chelsea home.

  His brief mood boost faded as he neared the museum. A crowd blocked the entrance, jamming traffic up both Fifth Avenue and 82nd Street. Bolden picked out the cause: demonstrators, waving placards and demanding that the exhibition be closed immediately for questioning the divine origin of their Redeemer. A cordon of law enforcement struggled to maintain an undulating alley
towards Fifth Avenue, connecting the curb to the entrance to the museum. Reinforcements poured out of patrol cars, falling in alongside Special Forces recently disgorged from black vans, all of them equipped with Plexiglas shields, cudgels and helmets. The deafening swell of dozens of angry car horns seemed to drown their efforts at unsnarling the mess.

  Bolden made his way with difficulty through the fragile path and flashed his invitation. A staff member checked it hastily and let him pass. The real checking would take place inside the museum, where he would pass through scanners, metal and explosive detectors, not to mention behavioral analyzers handled by invisible experts. The risk of attack was high, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art took few chances.

  He was climbing the stairs toward the entrance, beginning to regret his last-minute decision to attend the opening, when the crowd of protesters behind him suddenly surged like a rogue wave at sea. The cordoned path he had just traversed dissolved in an instant, melting into an angry mix of police and true believers, with a few elite guests carried along in bewilderment and terror. Bolden watched it in helpless fascination in the moments before the wave swept him away, too. His balance faltered in the scrum, but fortunately he fell only as far as his right knee, heart racing as he fought to regain his feet in the claustrophobic, swaying press of human chaos. Bolden realized that if he fell all the way to the ground in this furious mob, he might never again stand up.

  That’s when she first touched him. He felt a firm hand slipping under his arm, pulling him up, and Danielle’s hand remained attached to his bicep as they emerged together from the surreal, receding disaster and made their way unsteadily up the remaining steps. They entered the Metropolitan together and, after reaching the wide hallway of the museum, began to get acquainted.

  The beginning of their improbable relationship was one of his favorite memories. Danielle left after a few days, but in the weeks that followed they talked almost daily on the Internet – small talk, like two teenagers – until, in an impulse he never regretted, he bought the apartment. This apartment, where he lived with his girlfriend during his trips to Europe. Danielle wouldn’t move in with him for keeps, telling him how bored she would be in those moments when he was gone, but Ian suspected it was simply an affirmation of her independence.

  The intercom interrupted his thoughts.

  “The taxi you called for 7 p.m. is here, Monsieur Bolden,” the doorman said, his voice distorted by the rusty device, a relic from a pre-video age.

  “I’ll be right down,” Ian said, in hesitant but correct French, spoken with the American accent Danielle enjoyed teasing.

  “Tres bien, monsieur,” the doorman said. A final click signaled the end of their conversation.

  Bolden walked from the spacious bedroom to the living room, donning the simple, short sportcoat Danielle had requested before collecting an overcoat from the hall stand. He locked the door behind him and called the ancient elevator; it was out of order again, so he descended the two floors via the stairs. He absent-mindedly answered the doorman’s greeting, spotted the taxi through the glass front door, framed by its complicated wrought-iron ornaments – then remembered something and turned back.

  “Listen, have you seen someone bring an envelope for me?” he asked the doorman. “A black envelope. Not the postman, someone else.”

  The doorman’s eyebrows rose in curiosity. Bolden reached for the envelope in his pocket, but the taxi driver outside was anxiously leaning on the horn.

  “Non, monsieur. But I will ask Paul. He worked the morning shift and received the mail.”

  Bolden climbed in the cab and reached his destination via half an hour of busy Paris traffic. He left a fat tip for the driver, who silently forgave his fifteen-minute wait and even opened the door for Bolden with a ceremonious flourish. Bolden emerged in front of the restaurant, ignoring the honking horns and the “No stopping” traffic sign. He found Danielle in a good mood at the bar, where she brushed aside his apology and leaned toward him to deliver a perfect European air kiss.

  “Hello, my darling!” she said in perfectly accented French. “Did you have a good day?”

  She didn’t wait for the answer and beckoned to a waiter who smoothly ushered them to their table and seated her with graceful elan. His swift look summoned a colleague, who emerged with the food and wine menus.

  “I recommend the coq au vin, it is the specialty of the house,” Danielle said without looking at the menu. “It goes wonderfully with a white, one-year-old, Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

  She went on talking with the waiter in French, agreeing on the appetizer and the dessert, debating whether they should have kir digestif or not, all with the seriousness of two scientists discussing potential advances in nuclear fusion. Ian admired them, relishing the scene like a spectator, although it wasn’t the first time he had seen his girlfriend ordering for him in a restaurant.

  “It doesn’t look like anything you have been used to in New York, Ian,” she said after the waiter gave a short, respectful bow and departed.

  She pronounced his name with a French accent that made it sound more melodious that he was ready to admit. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s true, it doesn’t.”

  Of course there were French restaurants in New York, run by French people, with French waiters, menus and cooks. But even the best adapted to America and its customs. Unfortunately.

  He stifled a yawn. Since he still cared about discretion, he had arrived that afternoon on his private jet, but no amount of coffee could hold back the jet lag starting to engulf him. He should have left New York in the morning to reach Paris in the evening, but he had been too anxious to sleep, and after tossing and turning until after midnight, he gave up and called his pilot. After giving orders to prepare the jet, he telephoned Danielle, who answered with some difficulty, after the seventh or eighth ring. She was certainly not a morning person, but her voice brightened when he told her he would be arriving earlier than planned.

  He held no illusions about the night to come, but he intended to stay in Paris for a week at least, longer if his business would allow it. He shook his head lightly and blinked repeatedly. Ian had lost track of the conversation, although he followed the lilt of her voice as if listening to music. The waiter came with two assistants and laid the table. The main course, chicken stewed in wine, arrived in a brass dish, slightly blackened here and there, and placed on a hot tray from which they could serve themselves. It seemed Danielle had something to say after each bite, which allowed Bolden to pick up details about her friends, whose names and faces he had never been able to keep straight.

  Eventually Danielle shifted into a more serious tone and told him she had been forced to postpone her visit to London, where she was scheduled to interview a member of the Royal Family. The metropolis had become unsafe since the reawakening of the IRA after decades of slumber, and its collaboration with Islamic extremists had resulted in a string of attacks that caught Scotland Yard off-guard and left the city on edge. Bolden remembered hearing something vague about terrorists, but hadn’t paid attention before.

  He sampled everything the waiters brought, but he did it more out of politeness than hunger. After a few sips of wine he cleared his throat and got ready to change the subject, but wound up dozing off in his chair. Only his sudden head-bob brought him back to consciousness. He would have liked to tell her about the Space Elevator and about what he carried on the low orbit where the terminal was found; it was his favorite subject. But Bolden realized in the end that the industrial waste he transported wasn’t exactly fit for dinner conversation. Garbage is garbage. He reached for a handkerchief in his pocket, to wipe his forehead with, and felt the black envelope rustle. If nothing else, it seemed a way to change the subject.

  “Today I learned the date of my death.”

  Danielle fell instantly silent. She spontaneously covered her mouth with the palm of her hand, then regained her composure and relaxed, giving him a smile. A waiter appeared di
screetly, half-filling their wine glasses.

  “What kind of joke is this, Ian? I’ve never known you to be macabre.”

  He told her about the black envelope and the dates written on it, satisfied that he had won her complete attention.

  “Have you ever heard of The Guardian Angel?” he asked, showing her the envelope and the card.

  She took the business card in her fingers, delicately turning and flexing it in the soft light of the restaurant. Next she examined the envelope, dwelling on the two dates beneath his name. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a serious tone.

  “Ian, you have to take this to the police.”

  Chapter 2

  Danielle had work to do at the magazine office, which gave Bolden several hours to kill before her schedule cleared in the afternoon. She had said good-bye quietly in the morning, leaving behind a soft hint of perfume and the shadow of a fleeting kiss. With nothing better to do, he set out to wander the streets of Paris.

  The palm-reader’s shop nestled on a street in the Latin Quarter. He didn’t remember giving the taxi driver the address, so it was as if he had simply ended up there. Like most men, Bolden was slightly superstitious and extremely hesitant to admit it. Once, during one of those long, romantic Parisian walks at the beginning of their relationship, Danielle had showed him the place, pointing to it as if it were an oddity. He certainly wouldn’t have noticed the faded sign above the wooden door that opened directly upon the street, pressed between a café and a souvenir boutique. Danielle told him she had known about it ever since she had visited it in high school with some classmates. She didn’t remember any of the predictions, or say whether the palm reader had been a man or a woman, but she and her friends had been amused by the story for years.

  Bolden followed the instructions written on the enameled door plate and pulled the brass handle of the old-fashioned doorbell. He heard a bell chime, followed by the slight buzz of a magnetic bolt, and the door opened before him. He pushed it aside and entered a hallway, dimly lit by three candle-shaped lamps, attached to walls covered with elaborately framed old paintings. The closed behind him with a soft whir and snap, and suddenly it was quiet, as if the noise of the street were now miles away. The air hung dense with the vague smell of incense and old things.