As I was working my way around to the back of the house, lights began going off on the first floor. I stopped and listened, and my heart began to race. Perhaps twenty seconds passed before I heard the service door open, and I ducked low. The man in the black suit had emerged, was now turning in the doorway and calling out "good night" in German. I heard the electronic sound of an alarm arming, and that was what spurred me, finally, told me that there would be no better time than the present.
I was on him before he'd closed the door, pressing the barrel to the back of his head with one hand, grabbing him by the throat with the other. With my index finger and my thumb I squeezed either side of his larynx, keeping him silent, and before he had begun to respond I had him back through the door, pulling him up at the threshold, and I was inside the villa.
The sounds of running water stopped as I left the kitchen. I emerged in a room with an elaborate sideboard and a crystal chandelier suspended over the polished rectangle of the table. Light filtered in from the main hall, and I could see the edge of a flight of stairs running to the floor above. I moved quietly and quickly, the sound of my feet disappearing into the layers of carpet, halting at the foot of the stairs to see Junot passing above me. He was in silk pajamas, a book in his hand, and he didn't break stride and he didn't see me. Forty seconds later I heard a switch being thrown, and another light went off, dropping darkness down the steps.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour. I started up, hearing the stairs squeak beneath me, and I shifted my weight and tried to stay light on my toes, and the noise continued, but wasn't as loud. Coming around the landing at the top, I saw another spill of light, this flowing from beneath a closed door, probably the bedroom. I waited and didn't move. The last chime of the clock striking ten echoed and faded.
I heard the sound of paper brushing paper, pages turning in a binding. The ticking of the clock below seemed to grow louder.
I kept waiting.
The grandfather clock marked a quarter past, and then half past. The light stayed on. When the clock chimed a quarter to, as the last tone vanished from the air, the light beneath the door went out.
The grip of the Browning had grown warm in my hand. An ache crawled across my shoulders, tracing a line from the trapezius on down. I began marking the time in my head, counting the ticks of the clock. There was no noise coming from the bedroom.
The thought struck me that I could well be wrong, that Junot wasn't who I wanted at all, that I should be in the house of some man in South Africa instead. I didn't like that thought, but it persisted, and I wondered if I had missed something, wondered what else I should have done.
When the clock chimed eleven, I moved to the bedroom door and put my hand on the knob, and again settled my weight.
I spent the next six minutes opening the door, moving the handle from its position parallel to the floor to perpendicular to it, applying constant pressure until I felt the latch slip from its housing. The door opened silently, from a fraction to a sliver to an inch. My eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and through the gap I could see a portion of the bed, the shape of a form in it. Just from the sound of him I knew he was asleep, I knew he had no idea I was there.
The sensation of power in that instant was acute and absolute, the feeling of control so complete it seemed to radiate from my body outward, to everything I could see, everything I could touch. In my chest I felt something else, something that reminded me of grief.
It was easy to reach the bed, to stand beside him and look down on him sleeping, and just as easy to raise the gun in my hand. The lamp beside the bed was an orb seated on a pyramid base, with a digital clock glowing at its center. A push-button at its side brought it to life, the bulb increasing in strength like a rapidly rising sun. As color began to bleed into the room I brought the barrel down across his nose, not swinging hard, not needing to.
M. Laurent Junot awoke bleeding, crying out and starting up, then crying again in horror at the slick of blood running over his lips, and the sight of me, in his home, with the Browning pointed at his face. His mouth worked, then shut, and another noise escaped him like distant tires squealing around a turn. His eyes, blue and wet, searched me first for recognition, and failing that, for understanding.
"I'm not him," I said in English. "But you know that already."
There was comprehension in his face, and then he tried to conceal it, backing up beneath his sheets until his pillows parted behind him, one of them thumping to the floor. His tongue stabbed out over his lips, then retreated.
When he began to open his mouth again I pounded my left hand into the softness of his stomach, once. The pain and the pressure sent him lurching forward, mouth gaping, breath coming free in a rushing gasp. With my left I grabbed him by the collar of his pajamas, feeling silk threads pop as I yanked him out of bed, pushing him onto the floor. He sprawled, hands scrabbling at yet another Oriental rug, and when he got his middle off the ground, I kicked him in the ribs, putting him on his back, then immediately bending over him and pulling him to his feet once more. He couldn't support his weight, and I shoved the Browning into his stomach and with it pushed him against the wall, my left hand going to his forehead, forcing his face back and level, forcing him to look at me.
"I'm not him," I said again. "Do you understand?"
Junot tried to nod, realized he couldn't. He coughed, and it was painful for him, because the spasm of his muscles made him need to move, and I wouldn't let him. He forced out enough air to say, "Yes, yes. I understand."
"You're going to give me all of his money," I said, and I took the gun from where it was pressed against his belly and rested it instead against the lower orbit of his left eye. "You're going to do it now, or we'll repaint your fucking bedroom in an interesting new shade called Hint of Banker's Brain."
He sagged and I put more pressure on the bone beneath his eye, and he scrabbled and found his footing and straightened again. The blood from his nose was staining his pajama top to the hem.
"Say you understand," I told him.
"Yes, yes, I understand," he said.
I shoved both the gun and my hand against him, then pushed off, and he slid down the wall partway before he could catch himself, his legs working on the rug to find traction. He got upright once more, nodding at me, raising his hands.
"I have a computer in the study," he said. "My computer – I can access accounts from there."
Again using my left, I grabbed the pajama collar and twisted it so he would turn. The collar was wet with his blood. With the Browning against his skull I marched him to the door.
"Lead," I said. "And nothing for nothing, asshole, but you're not quick enough to get any ideas."
"No, no ideas," he echoed, his voice meek.
We crossed the hall at the head of the stairs, leaving the light of the bedroom behind us. Another door was ahead, and he reached for the knob, opened it, moving slowly. The caution wasn't simply for my benefit, I knew; he was trying to think of an advantage, a plan, any way out of this that would keep him from doing what I was forcing him to do.
"Turn on the light," I said.
The switch was to the left of the door, and he fumbled for a moment before finding it. A lamp in the corner came on suddenly bright, and I tightened my grip and reapplied pressure with the gun to keep him from moving. He tensed when I did, but didn't try anything.
The study was less ornate than I'd have thought, but just as perfectly appointed as every other room I had seen. Bookshelves covered three walls, floor to ceiling, like wallpaper, broken only at one point by a large display case of wristwatches by Patek Philippe. The case was ornate, as detailed as the timepieces inside, and turned slowly, keeping each watch wound. The desk was modular and black, and it should have been out of place, but wasn't. The computer on it was black, too, the monitor thin and sleek.