As he was about to whip around a corner, he came upon a homeless man, so drunk he had passed out. Bending over, Marks held his breath as he dragged the drunk up the stairs, placing him across the tread just around the corner. Retreating into shadow on the stairs above, Marks waited, breathing deeply and easily.
The sounds of pounding footsteps came closer, and Marks tensed himself into a half crouch. His tail raced around the corner and, as Marks had planned, didn’t see the drunk until it was too late. As he stumbled, pitching forward, Marks leapt down the stairs, driving his knee into the top of the man’s head. The tail lurched backward, stumbling again over the drunk and sprawling onto his back.
Marks saw him pulling a Browning M1900 from beneath his jacket. Marks kicked it upward just before he fired a shot. The noise held and echoed so deafeningly in the confined space, the drunk opened his eyes and sat bolt upright. The man with the Browning grabbed the drunk by the collar and pressed the gun’s muzzle into the side of his head.
“You’ll come with me now.” He had a heavy accent, Middle Eastern perhaps. “Or I shoot his brains out.” He jerked the drunk so hard, spittle flew from his slack lips.
“Oi, yer wanker!” the drunk shouted, completely confused. “Piss off!”
The gunman, as contemptuous as he was incensed, slammed the side of the drunk’s head with the barrel of the Browning. Marks launched himself across the gap. The heel of his hand made contact with the gunman’s chin, shoved it hard upward, exposing his neck. While he wrestled with the gun hand, he drove his fist into the gunman’s throat. The cartilage gave way and the gunman collapsed, gasping without getting oxygen into his system. His eyes were wide and rolling. He could only make animal gruntings, but soon enough even that ceased.
The drunk whirled with astonishing agility and kicked the gunman in the crotch. “ ’Ow ’bout that now, yer bleedin’ pisspot!” Then, muttering to himself, he stumbled down the stairs without a backward glance.
Quickly now Marks went through the gunman’s pockets, but all he found was keys to the white Ford and a wad of money. No passport, no identification of any kind. He had dark skin, black curling hair, and a full beard. One thing for sure, Marks thought, he’s not CI. So who was he working for and why the hell was he following me? He wondered who could know he was here except for Willard and Oliver Liss.
Then he heard the whistle raised by foot police and knew he had to get out of there. Once more, he studied the dead man, wishing there was some identifier, like a tattoo or…
That’s when he saw the gold ring on the third finger of his right hand and, stooping, worked it off. He hoped there might be a commemorative engraving on the inside.
There wasn’t. There was something far more interesting.
Soraya saw Leonid Arkadin again in the lone marina restaurant. Or, rather, he must have been searching for her, because engrossed in her fiery shrimp and yellow rice she didn’t see him enter. Her waiter brought her a drink-a tequini, he said-from the man at the bar. Soraya glanced up, and of course it was Arkadin. She looked into his eyes as she picked up the martini glass. She smiled. That was all the encouragement he needed.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” she said when he’d sauntered over.
“If I were your lover, I wouldn’t let you eat dinner alone.”
“My ex pool boy? I sent him packing.”
He laughed and gestured to the booth in which she sat. “May I?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
He sat down anyway and put his drink on the table, as if marking out his territory. “If you let me order, I’ll pay for your dinner.”
“I don’t need you to pay for my dinner,” she said flatly.
“Need has nothing to do with it.” He lifted his hand and the waiter glided over. “I’ll have steak, bloody, and an order of tomatillos.” The waiter nodded and left.
Arkadin smiled, and Soraya was astonished at how genuine it seemed. There was a deep warmth to it that frightened her.
“My name is Leonardo,” he said.
She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one in Puerto Peñasco is named Leonardo.”
He seemed crestfallen, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and now she was beginning to make sense of his approach to women. She could see how magnetic he was, how compelling an impression he made, exuding the security of a powerful man with a softer core of vulnerability. What woman could resist that? She laughed silently to herself and felt better, as if at last she was standing on solid ground, in a place where she could confidently move forward with her assignment.
“You’re right, of course,” Arkadin said. “It’s actually Leonard, just plain Leonard.”
“Penny.” She held out a hand, which he held briefly. “What are you doing in Puerto Peñasco, Leonard?”
“Fishing, sport racing.”
“In your cigarette.”
“Yes.”
Soraya finished up her shrimp just as his steak and tomatillos arrived. The steak, bloody as ordered, was smothered in chilies. Arkadin dug in. He must have a cast-iron stomach, she thought.
“And you?” he said around bites.
“I came for the weather.” She pushed the tequini away from her.
“You don’t like it?”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Alcoholic?”
She laughed. “Muslim. I’m Egyptian.”
“I apologize for sending you an inappropriate gift.”
“No need.” She waved away his words. “You couldn’t have known.” Then she smiled. “But you’re sweet.”
“Ha! Sweet is one thing I’m not.”
“No?” She cocked her head. “What are you, then?”
He wiped the blood off his lips and sat back for a moment. “Well, to tell you the truth I’m something of a hard-ass. My partners thought so, especially when I bought them out. So did my wife, for that matter.”
“She’s also in the past?”
He nodded as he dug into his food again. “Nearly a year now.”
“Children?”
“Are you kidding?”
Arkadin certainly had a gift for spinning yarns, she thought appreciatively. “I’m not much of a nurturer, either,” she said, somewhat truthfully. “I’m entirely focused on my business.”
He asked her what that might be without looking up from his steak.
“Import-export,” she said. “To and from North Africa.”
His head came up slowly, but very deliberately. She felt her heart beating against her rib cage. It was, she thought, like coaxing a shark onto the hook. She didn’t want to make the slightest mistake now, and felt a little thrill pass through her. She was very close to the precipice, to the moment when her fictional self would fuse with her real self. This moment was why she chose to do what she did. It was why she hadn’t walked away from Peter when he’d recruited her for the assignment, why she had set aside the demeaning aspect of what she was expected to do. None of that mattered. What mattered was standing a hairbreadth from the precipice. This precise moment was what she lived for, and Peter had known this long before she did.
Arkadin wiped his mouth again. “North Africa. Interesting. My former partners did a fair amount of business in North Africa. I didn’t like their methods-or, to be honest, the people they were dealing with. That was one of the reasons I decided to buy them out.”
He was quick on his feet, Soraya thought, improvising like crazy. She was liking this conversation more and more.