In the dim light, she could see the look of dismay on his face. As usual, he wanted to shortcut everything. “Stop,” she said.
He stopped. They stood on the tracks. She cocked her head. There were all the usual noises in the distance. Her hearing was so acute that she could tell that the nearest train was in the tunnel behind them, about five blocks away on the other side of Rubén Dario.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “Let’s keep moving.”
“I hear something I shouldn’t. Like a hammering or a digging. Or both.”
“Hammering and digging don’t sound anything alike,” he said.
“Keep quiet!” she said again.
José Luis stopped and folded his arms. He too began to look around but not to locate the source of the noise.
She cocked her head again.
“The American Embassy is only one block from here,” she said.
“Well, that explains what you hear,” he said. “The Americans are probably torturing prisoners in the basement.”
“Not funny!” she snapped again. “Would you rather be speaking Russian today?”
“Anyone can do anything they want to the Americans as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “Why should we care? They don’t care about us. And in any case I don’t hear anything.”
He paused. She walked to the northern wall of the tunnel, not far from a locked door that led to some of the old wartime passageways. She listened and could hear the offending tap-tap-tap-scrape-scrape-scrape noises better.
He launched into a tirade. “Vosotras las mujeres siempre estan imaginando las cosas! Es como con mi mujer no sé quantas veces me ha despertado porque ha oído un supuesto sonido raro!” You women are always imagining things. It’s like it is with my wife: I don’t know how many times she’s woken me up because she’s heard a ‘strange noise’!
“No soy ninguna mujer histérica. Yo-si quieres creerme o no-he de veras oído algo raro que no son los ratones que suelen espantar a tu esposa y hacerla interromper tu descanso!” I’m not a hysterical woman and-whether you want to believe me or not-I’ve really heard something other than those mice that wake up your wife and make her interrupt your sleep.
He gave her a mocking laugh.
“Oh, the devil take you!” he said. “I’ve got a weak bladder from lunch. I’m going to disappear for a minute, okay?”
He gestured to the direction in which they had come. Plenty of dark dirty walls back there. Now she understood what he was getting antsy about.
“Fine. Take your time,” she said.
She waited a moment and watched him disappear.
Then she explored along the wall until she came to the decrepit service door that led to the old tunnels and passages. She shined a light on the lock. It was a simple padlock but it was one of the newer locks that had been installed along this stretch within the last year.
She rattled it. The noises she heard stopped.
She reached to her belt and found the master key.
She unlocked the padlock, pushed the door open, and stepped through.
Maria Elena found herself in a dark, stinky place. There was little light, uneven space to walk, and the stench of rats and fetid water. She ran her light around the chamber and then nearly jumped out of her skin.
There was a man kneeling there, staring at her. He had been working on something, and she had interrupted him. He had been making the noises she had heard.
He was a slight dark man with closely cropped black hair. His skin was mocha colored, and his eyes were dark. There was a scar across his forehead, and there was little doubt in her mind that this was the man she had heard.
There was a pile of dirt near him and he had a collection of tools. Chisels. Shovels. Hammers.
For a moment, he seemed frozen in the beam of her light.
“¿Quien es usted?” she demanded. “¿Qué hace?” Who are you? What are you doing?
The man in front of her said nothing. Nor did he give her any time to react or save herself. Rising from a crouch, he pulled a pistol from under his black sweatshirt. He swung it in a smooth motion at her, and he fired. There was a flash but no noise, followed instantly by a feeling of tearing and ripping at the midpoint of her gut.
The pain radiated, and the man fired a second shot. The second bullet hit her in the chest, also, not too far from the first.
She dropped everything she was carrying.
The pain was intense, then it was gone. The next thing she knew was that the filthy ground had come up and smacked her in the face. She was on the ground, her chest torn open, her whole being in shock.
Then a blackness descended quickly, one unlike anything she had ever experienced.
Maria Elena thought of her father and her daughter again for the final time. She imagined herself safe at home again, in the warm embrace of people she loved, both living and dead.
And then she died.
FIFTY-THREE
GENEVA, SEPTEMBER 16, 9:00 A.M.
Sunday morning in Geneva. Quiet streets. Quiet city.
Alex rose well before 9:00 a.m., re-ensconced at the Hotel de Roubaix. After coffee, she found her way to the Holy Trinity Anglican Church, known locally in Geneva as the Église Anglaise, for a morning service in English. She had been there twice before on visits to Europe. The church, a gray stone edifice that would have fit in easily in England or in the United States, was situated near the center of Geneva on the Rue du Mont Blanc, between the bridge and the railway station. It was a short, pleasant walk from the hotel on clean streets past closed shops.
Attending a service in English reminded her of home. It felt right. The congregation came from many different nationalities and backgrounds, which she liked. The pastor was an Englishman who had just returned from Africa. He discussed poverty around the world. His words made her think again of Barranco Lajoya in Venezuela, and the pendant that still hung around her neck.
She took communion. In the final moments of prayer, she prayed for the souls of her parents and for her late fiancé, Robert. She hoped God was listening. When she departed, she felt refreshed. She told herself she should attend services more often when people aren’t shooting at her in various places around the world. Or, she continued wryly, maybe she should attend more when they were shooting at her.
She found a café open a block from the hotel and bought a Swiss weekend newspaper. She read an amusing account in French on the new American president’s current battles with Congress. She had a light brunch. An hour later she was back at the hotel. She sat in a corner of the lobby, waiting, this time working on her laptop in a wi-fi zone. The two people whom she needed to have find her in Geneva were Peter and Federov. They both knew where to look for her. So she kept herself visible.
She accessed more of Pendraza’s files and continued her long march through them. An hour passed. She cross-referenced names and places from his files against what Interpol had sent her and what she had received in small batches from the French and Italian police and from Washington.
But her mind increasingly evoked unfavorable scenarios involving Peter. What if Interpol had picked him up? What if he had been detained when reentering Switzerland? There was a good chance that Interpol knew exactly who they were looking for, and, just as she had not completely shared information with Interpol, they probably had not shared everything with her.
Back to the laptop screen she went, one eye on the lobby, the other on the screen, glancing up and down, not completely locked in on anything. Cross-referencing, looking for links, there were overlapping references that triggered each other, but nothing definite-nothing that made sense. When, she wondered, would it?
Black bird, black fog, or black hole? Toward 2:15 p.m. she looked up from where she worked, Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a man entering the lobby, walking slowly, looking around.