Chang reached for the gift-wrapped box and seemed slightly ill at ease. “This part’s personal,” he said.
“Christmas shopping?” she asked, looking at the gift box. “Do they have Christmas in China?”
“In the cities, among the ruling class,” he said. “I can’t speak for what goes on in the countryside. Like it?” he asked.
He handed the box to her. It weighed less than a pound and it turned over easily in her hand. She examined the box. The wrapping was from one of Zurich’s finest jewelers.
“Well, it’s nicely wrapped,” Alex said. “What’s in it?”
“I picked it up for a lady friend,” he said.
“Special occasion?” she asked.
“You might say so.”
“Mother? Wife? Sister?”
“No, no, and no,” he answered. Suddenly into personal relationships, the steely reserve faded for a moment. He had a gorgeous smile and even laughed.
“But a special lady friend?” Alex pressed.
“Definitely.”
“I didn’t know you had a special lady friend.”
“How would you?” he asked. “You hardly know anything about me, and all you know is what I want you to know, anyway. And the truth is I have several.”
“Several what?”
“Lady friends,” he said.
“Ah. You get around the world. So you have a ‘stable’?”
“Don’t be vulgar,” he insisted.
She looked at the box, hefting it in her hand again.
“Engagement? Wedding?” she asked. “Too heavy to be a ring or a bracelet. Too light for crystal. Wrong size box for a necklace.”
She smiled and reexamined the package. Intrigued, she said, “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to ask what it is? To ask what’s in the box?”
“Ask me,” he said.
“What’s in the box?”
“It’s a secret,” he said. “I refuse to tell. But thanks for falling for my offer.”
He grinned and took it back from her.
She stared at the box, then looked at him. “Peter, how stupid do you think I am?” she asked.
He glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“That’s the pietà. You recovered it in Switzerland.”
He said nothing.
“I don’t care if we stash it here, but my job is to get it returned to the museum, so if that’s it, I want it.”
“That’s not the pietà,” he said.
“Let me open it,” she said.
“No,” he said. He stepped back and for one horrifying moment, she thought his right hand was going for his weapon. It was like that with Peter. Little movements, little innocent quirks, she was starting to interpret as keys to much larger things.
“Then I’ll draw my own conclusions, Peter,” she said. “And this is going to impact our working together because you’re holding back something important from me.”
He looked angry. “If I walked in here soaking wet and shaking out an umbrella and told you it was raining, you’d still go look out the window.”
“Can you blame me?”
“All right,” he finally said. “Go ahead. Just open it carefully,” he said, “because I need to reseal it, and I don’t want it arriving looking like I found it under a bench in Hong Kong.”
He put the package in her hands. She hefted it again, convinced that he had outfoxed her. She undid the ribbon with care. There was no tape on the wrapping paper. As she unfolded the paper, she saw his hands move slowly. One hand again was near his gun. He was looking her in the eye, hands on his hips.
The paper fell away. She paused. The box was sturdy cardboard, about five inches by five inches, bearing the mark of one of Zurich’s finest jewelers. Under his intense gaze, she opened it.
There was a blue velvet bag within. His hand drifted a little closer to his weapon. She stopped, then persisted. She opened the bag and slid the contents out into her hand.
The bag had contained a sturdy étoile bangle in eighteen-karat gold, sprinkled with modest diamonds. The piece was modern and streamlined, yet timeless. The diamonds were round and set in platinum. There was nothing else in the box. She had guessed one hundred percent wrong. It probably had a price tag of five grand but it wasn’t any lamentation.
“It’s really quite beautiful. Some girl is lucky.”
“Try it on,” he said. “Let me see how it looks on a woman’s wrist.”
“Really?”
“Why not, at this point?”
She slipped it on her wrist. It had a fabulous look, a magnificent feel. She had never owned a piece like this. Her first car had cost less. Her parent’s home where she grew up probably had a lower tag in dollars. Before she got too used to it, she took it off and handed it back.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. And sorry.”
“Aaaaah, in a way I can’t blame you,” he said. “At least we cleared the air.”
“Right,” she said.
Carefully she rewrapped it, taking great effort to get the paper and ribbon back perfectly in place. She handed it back to him and he put it into the box.
“Now let’s get out of here,” he said. “And will you sign the forms that give you permission to access the box? It would be a good idea.”
“I have nothing to lose by doing that,” she said.
They left the bank and went to his car, where they had both stashed their weapons under the front seat. Within a half hour they were at the city limits to the northwest of Madrid, and shortly after that they were driving on a new autoroute leading from the city into wealthy estates and farmlands to the northwest of the capital.
“You wouldn’t mind some American jazz, would you?”
“Not at all. I rather like it.”
“Louis Armstrong. Duke Ellington. Miles Davis. Absolutely the best.”
“If you say so,” she teased.
“You have better candidates?”
“In jazz?”
“Yes.”
“John Coltrane and Dave Brubeck. They were at least equals.”
“Anyone currently you like?” he asked.
“I like a jazz singer named Sarah Montes,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “Am I allowed to name a woman? You only named men.”
“Sure. I don’t know Sarah Montes.”
“Then you should buy a CD next chance you get. Picture a sexy blond woman in a sexy slinky red gown standing in front of a black grand piano wailing her heart out for you.”
“Very good answer. Do you know sports too?”
“Pretty well.”
“I used to go see the Yankees when I lived in New York,” he said. “I liked the Yankees. Still follow them when I can. I like Wang, their pitcher from Taiwan.”
“The Los Angeles Angels are my baseball club,” she said, “and I’ve always liked the Giants in football.”
“English football?” he quizzed. “I follow that. Manchester United.”
“Arsenal rules,” she said. “I loved Thierry Henri. And that Pirès. He’s hot.”
He laughed heartily this time. “What don’t you know about?” he asked.
“Chinese,” she said. “Of the six languages I speak, that’s not one of them.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks,” he said. “You just reminded me. I need to make a call.”
He pulled out his cell phone, snapped it open with a deft flick of the wrist, and made a call. He spoke in Mandarin, or at least she assumed it was Mandarin. And for a moment a strange feeling came over her.
He could have been talking about her, plotting her death, saying anything, and she wouldn’t have known. She tried to read his expression but couldn’t. The dark side to him wouldn’t go away.
He clicked the phone shut and returned it to his inside jacket pocket. She gazed at the Spanish highway that unfurled ahead. They rode for the next several dozen kilometers in silence, except for the cool jazz.
She took the occasion to glance through his collection. Ellington, Coltrane, Davis, Johnny Hartman. Everyone in his collection was dead. It set just the wrong tone.
FORTY-THREE
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 11, 12:15 P.M.