As Middleton registered all this, the one with the briefcase turned toward him. You have no time, Middleton realized, as a scowl of recognition crossed the other man’s face. Tugging the Beretta from his pocket, Middleton charged forward as the man dropped the cell phone and plunged his hand inside his sport coat. Middleton aimed and placed two quick shots into the fleshy center of the tall man’s face, trusting the bullets would pierce the cartilage around the nose and lodge deep inside the brain.
The man tottered, his head jerking but his ugly expression strangely unchanged. Then he buckled and dropped.
Stunned by the gunshots, the thick man shoved the bartender aside and crouched, reaching for his own weapon. Middleton swung around, took a quick step forward, aimed and fired two more shots, close range, the soft center of the face again. The man wavered, visage threaded with blood, before dropping to one knee, grabbing at the edge of the bar, then sliding down in fitful spasms.
The bartender recoiled, horrified. Middleton heard steps coming from the lobby, the gasps of unseen onlookers, as he reached out his hand.
“Give that to me.” He gestured for the manuscript. When the bartender merely stared, Middleton turned the gun toward him. “I don’t have time.”
The bartender hesitated, then dropped the mangled folio onto the bar, his face half terror, half desolation. Middleton snatched his briefcase from the floor, stuffed his cell phone then the manuscript inside, then headed toward the scattering crowd in the lobby, the Beretta still in his hand.
The well-dressed woman who’d been near the elevators earlier slipped up behind, tucked her hand inside his arm and clutched his damp sleeve. She guided him across the lobby. “Don’t stop, Harry,” she whispered. “Not if you want to see Charlotte.”
Chapter Eight
John Gilstrap
Felicia Kaminski had always loved the idea of airports. As a child in a family that never went anywhere, she used to envy the friends who would take their holidays in places that were far enough away to be flown to. Trains were a thrill in their own right, but only at airports did you find people who are going far enough away to actually change their lives. Having dreamed of the moment for so long, she was finally about to climb on her very first airplane — to fly to the United States. In first class, no less.
Fiumicino International Airport teemed with people as travelers mingled in their common mission to check in and navigate their way to their departure gates. Felicia Kaminski — no, Joanna Phelps; she might have to remember that — found herself distracted by one family in particular as a mother and father did their best to herd six children toward the security lines. It looked a lot like pushing water up hill. She found herself smiling.
Then she forced herself to concentrate. After this morning’s events, she needed to be vigilant. Clearly, she was a target, and if another attacker wanted to hurt her, she would most certainly be hurt. It helped that every 10th person in the airport was a carabinieri with a machine gun slung over his shoulder. It seemed to her like a very bad place to attempt murder.
The afternoon’s events were unfolding exactly as Faust had predicted. Freshly cleaned and redressed, he’d led her downstairs through the lobby of the hotel, where two Mercedes sedans stood waiting with their engines running. He ushered her to the first vehicle while he climbed into the back seat of the other. They’d pulled away from the curb together, but then split into different directions, her car going right while his went left, and she hadn’t seen any sign of him since.
“I understand that you haven’t traveled much,” her driver said in passable Polish. She couldn’t quite place the accent. “Do you know how the check-in process works?”
Kaminski hated the patronizing tone, but had to confess her ignorance. The driver — Peter, if he’d told her the truth — took her through the process step by step, from check-in at the ticket counter, to the passage through security, and on the boarding process itself. The only real surprise came from the requirement to take her shoes off to go through the metal detectors. She was well aware of the detectors themselves, of course, but it just hadn’t occurred to her that she would have to strip off articles of clothing.
“Are you going to walk through the process with me?” she’d asked when Peter had finished.
“No, Miss Phelps, I’m afraid that will not be possible. Security at the airport is very tight these days. I must stay with the car and drive away as soon as I drop you off. You will be on your own.”
“Where is Faust?”
Peter’s eyes found hers in the rearview mirror. For a long moment, he said nothing. “He will be where he needs to be at the correct time. What is most important is that you remember to show no sign of recognition if you see him again. Let him make that move.”
“I remember,” she said. I’m in no hurry to know him anyway.
Having arrived at the airport with nearly three hours to spare, Felicia moved quickly to get through the check-in process at the ticket counter, but then took her time heading for security. Befitting her first-class status, Faust had given her 300 U.S. dollars to fill her wallet, and she decided to put some of the windfall to good use at an airport coffee shop. She found a table at the edge of the concourse, one that offered a broad view of the security lines. It was a sea of people, shoulder to shoulder in a human corral.
On the far side of the crowd, she could see the first-class security area, where the crowds were much thinner and better organized, and that was where she concentrated her attention. It was there that she predicted that things were about to get exciting.
It took long enough that she had to order a second espresso — surrendering herself to the inevitability of being wide-eyed all night — but after 45 minutes, she saw what she’d been waiting for. Faust finally entered the line. In his business attire, he looked completely at home among the other wealthy travelers.
From 15 meters away, she watched as the man who’d saved her life shrugged out of his suit jacket and stepped out of his shoes. He placed his briefcase on the belt for the x-ray machine, then stepped through the narrow archway of the metal detector.
Kaminski’s heart hammered against her ribs as she began to wonder if something had gone wrong. There should be a reaction by now. There should—
Suddenly, an alarm erupted and a red light strobed urgently over the security checkpoint. It was the kind of noise and light that guaranteed attention and made people instinctively want to run away. All except for the carabinieri, that is, who swarmed from all over the concourse to respond to the threat.
Biting the inside of her cheek to stifle any sign of the satisfied smile that might draw attention to her, Kaminski pushed away from the table and started walking toward the taxi stands at the front of the airport. Before that, she needed to find a cambio, where she could convert her windfall of U.S. dollars into more readily spent euros. She knew she had time — Faust would be busy with the carabinieri for at least a couple of hours, she imagined — and she hoped that even a short delay would provide enough time for her to do what she needed to do and then disappear.
Meanwhile, the officials at the airport would be turning Faust’s luggage inside out as they looked for the pistol that showed up so clearly in the x-ray. Ultimately, probably in fairly short order, they’d find the source of their alarm.
She wondered if any of them would even smile when they realized that they’d mobilized dozens of policia because a businessman had covered a water pistol with a foil wrapper and stuffed it in one of the file pockets of his brief case.