“Any results?”
“Nothing. Have you considered the possibility they haven’t left the country?” one of the agents asked.
“They’ve left. I’m sure.” He looked at the spot that had caught his attention. “Where’s Staughton?”
“He left with Thompson.”
“With Thompson? Where’d they go?”
“They didn’t say.”
Barnes was returning to his office when his secretary intercepted him.
“Sir-”
“Have they brought my lunch yet?”
“It’s on its way.”
“They’re taking longer than usual.”
“Twenty minutes, as always, sir.”
Barnes shoved his office door. He was really on edge. “This is going to end badly for me,” he repeated obsessively.
SEATED ON THE STAIRS and concentrating on the PlayStation game, the little girl paid no attention to the two men going past her, headed for another floor. If not for her concentration on the game, the girl would have heard the man walking behind, scolding the first one that this was not acceptable and that this was not what he was supposed to do. There was nobody else around.
The girl was absorbed in the meteorite shower that she had to avoid with her spaceship. The earphones kept her from hearing the tremendous racket caused by a door being kicked in on the third floor. The tenant woke up, startled by the noise. He tried to flee through the window, but the gun held by the first man stopped him cold.
“Hans, my dear Hans,” Thompson greeted him gaily, closing in, with Staughton close behind, also holding a gun.
“How’s business?”
42
Though it had been barely two hours since landing in the Portuguese capital, Sarah was already in the shower in a room at the Altis Hotel on Castilho Street, where the two of them managed to get something to eat as well.
Sarah still felt weird to be sharing a room with a stranger. Because he was a stranger, even after all she’d been through with him, events that she would never manage to erase from her memory, and that bonded her with Rafael in a way she hadn’t ever experienced with any other man. She went around the room wrapped in a white towel, and he sat there indifferently, which did not make her any less uncomfortable.
Suddenly the television offered the latest news report. Sarah heard her name.
“We have late-breaking news, just in. The Portuguese journalist Sarah Monteiro, who was being sought by English authorities as an eyewitness to the murder that took place in her home, has been taken into custody here in London this morning.”
The accompanying video showed a woman getting out of a car, her head covered with a jacket, and entering the famous Scotland Yard Building.
“That’s a surprise!” Sarah exclaimed, flabbergasted.
“We’re doubly clean,” Rafael commented.
“Why are they making up that story?”
“To keep outside forces from interfering. They’re absolutely convinced that we’ve left the country.”
“Is that what it means?”
“Yes,” Rafael answered, getting up. “I’m going to have a shower and then we’ll leave.”
When Rafael came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he didn’t find Sarah in the room. The young woman came in just as he was starting to put on his pants.
“Where were you?”
“The reception desk.”
“Why?”
“Do I need to explain my every movement?”
“No. But if I don’t know where you are, I can’t protect you.”
“I only went to the reception desk. Now I’m back, safe and sound,” Sarah said sarcastically. “And now, are we leaving?” she asked, changing the subject.
“As soon as I finish getting dressed.”
Sarah saw the strange tattoo on his arm, and the bullet wound he’d bandaged. “That doesn’t look good.”
“It’s getting better.”
“Let me at least clean it.” Without waiting for a reply, Sarah headed for the bathroom, grabbed the soap, moistened a towel with hot water, and took another dry one. Returning to the room, she put everything on the bed.
“Sit here.”
“Leave it alone. It’s already better.”
“Sit down.”
Not wanting to argue, Rafael obeyed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Without alcohol, the best available disinfectant was the soap. Sarah began by cleaning the wound with the wet towel. Next she used the dry one to wipe it off, and then tore the fine hand towel into strips and bandaged it. After finishing, she stood up and looked at him. Rafael’s gaze had been fixed on her since the beginning of her work, so gently accomplished. Neither of them looked away for a few seconds. The situation was growing uncomfortable, at least for Sarah, but she kept her eyes steady.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah finally asked.
“Nothing,” Rafael answered, shifting his eyes off her as he finished putting on his shirt. “Thank you.”
“Always happy to be of service,” Sarah replied, standing up. “Hey, that’s quite a tattoo,” she commented, trying to ease the emotional tension.
“When you see one like it on somebody else, start running and don’t look back.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the Guard’s insignia.”
“The guard’s? What guard?”
“The P2’s Advance Guard. It’s a kind of small army, trained as an overland rapid response force. Today you’ve trashed the reputation of that elite corps.”
“Not me. You,” Sarah corrected. The serpent tattoo, extending down his arm to his wrist, was now hidden again by the long shirtsleeve.
“Let’s phone the desk to ask for a taxi.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Are we going to catch one somewhere else?”
“No. We’re not going by taxi. I have a car ready.”
A little while later they found themselves on the highway leaving Lisbon, headed north. Very soon Sarah was to see her father, and she could think of nothing else.
43
After a whole night without sleep, the two men remained in the same place, their eyes fixed on the lobby door through which the old man had disappeared many hours before. They maintained the same alert, watchful attitude, especially the one sitting next to the driver.
“I’m beat,” the more alert one complained.
“Cars weren’t designed for sleeping,” the other replied.
They had some coffee and doughnuts that the first one had gone out to buy from a coffee shop no more than a block away. Given his companion’s taciturn nature, he had a lot of extra time to think. He thought about stores that stayed open all night and about more important matters. Payne, for example, the famous Jack. He condemned what the man had done and yet admired him. It took a lot of courage-real balls-to make a move like that. He had to put his ass on the line to play a double role inside the Guard and, even more important, not to be exposed, until he decided the time was right. Good old Jack Payne. A fox. And speaking of old men and foxes…
“The target just came out,” the driver said.
“I saw him, too.”
“Are you going to follow him?”
“No. You are.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to take a look around his place.”
“Now you’re talking,” the driver said, satisfied. Finally, a bit of action.
“Don’t let him out of your sight. When I’m finished, I’ll give you a buzz to find out where you are.”
The driver slid smoothly out of the car and followed the old man’s steps, walking up Seventh Avenue toward Central Park. He turned toward Broadway and headed for Times Square. Taking walks delighted the old man, and it simplified the work of the one trailing him.
Why don’t we just put a bullet between his eyes and be done with this whole business? the driver wondered. What makes him special? Why should we treat him any differently from everybody else?