In the years she’d been on the run, she had changed her name and appearance frequently, paying for the best hair and facial treatments, the best documentation and bureaucratic apparatus necessary to establish false identities. The wallet in her bag contained a New York State driver’s license in the name of Colette Anne Olds, born Utica, 10/3/1971. The photo matched the way she looked: short blond hair, blue eyes (courtesy of contacts) and features that bore little resemblance to how she used to look. Her nose was thicker, her lips fuller and her cheekbones almost as prominent as Joni Mitchell’s. If Matt Wells sat down at the table, she was certain he wouldn’t recognize her, at least not immediately. She had worked on her voice as well, developing a New York accent bought and paid for. And the kicker-if necessary, she could change the way she looked with one visit to a luggage locker in Grand Central Station. The suitcase there contained wigs, a range of colored contact lenses and two changes of very different clothes.
As befitted the neighborhood, Sara/Colette was wearing boho chic-designer jeans, Manolo Blahniks and a vintage sheepskin jacket. The dark red beret she had found on the sidewalk-it was new and couldn’t have been there long. When a ditzy-looking waitress with a bare belly and pierced navel emerged, she ordered another double espresso and looked up and down Montague Street. There was no sign of the man she was waiting for, but he was only a few minutes late. She picked up the newspaper she had been reading and turned to the story about Hitler’s Hitman. There had been a feeding frenzy when the newspaper hacks convinced themselves that the deaths were connected and that, therefore, a serial killer was on the loose. The last murder, the good-looking professor in Philadelphia, was under the microscope. He had written about Mussolini in less than flattering terms. Did that means no academic specializing in extreme-right politics was safe? Dr. Jack had been a ladies’ man, as confirmed by students and faculty members. Did the previous victims have significant sex lives? Research was ongoing. He had been killed ritualistically. According to what rite? No one was clear about that, but there was no shortage of so-called experts with opinions-certain tribes of American Indians had dispatched their victims that way; the Nazis treated traitors in such a fashion, an idea strengthened by the apparent presence of Nazi slogans and symbols, unconfirmed by the various police departments; the killer wasn’t interested in politics, he was a zombie controlled by a powerful Voodoo priestess, proclaimed one supermarket tabloid.
Sara took a sip from the cup that the waitress had laid on the table with a fake smile. There were even a few reporters who had connected the murders to the Occult Killings in Washington at the beginning of the autumn. Much of it was imaginative guesswork. She knew for a fact, a costly fact, that the Justice Department had restricted the flow of information about those deaths. Still, she didn’t know exactly how Matt Wells was involved in the Rothmann conspiracy, but his subsequent disappearance, and that of his partner Karen Oaten, suggested they were working with the FBI, not least because the Bureau had denied all knowledge of their whereabouts. From what she’d been able to discover, Heinz Rothmann was the son of a Nazi and he was committed to reviving the aberrant German ideology. That made him a major suspect for the recent killings.
‘Hey, doll, is this seat taken?’
Sara watched as the thin, dark-skinned Hispanic slid down opposite her. ‘You’re late,’ she said, frowning.
‘My mother told me never to apologize.’ The man smiled, displaying teeth even whiter than her costly crowns.
‘I’ll bet she did. Still, it could have been worse.’
He looked up from the menu. ‘Meaning?’
She returned the smile, but hers was icy. ‘I could have ripped your eyes out, Havi.’
Xavier Marias ran a shaky hand over his shaven head. ‘Calm down, pretty lady.’ He raised a hand to the waitress. ‘Hey, over here. Margarita, no salt.’
‘It’s ten in the morning,’ Sara observed.
‘What do you expect? You scare me shitless.’
‘Good.’
‘What’s this about, anyway?’ He took his cell from a pocket in his tan leather jacket. ‘I prefer to spend my Saturday mornings in bed with Elena.’ He caught her gaze. ‘I also prefer not to meet my clients in person. Even when they fail to carry out instructions.’
‘Relax, Havi. We’re just two friends chilling out.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He leaned forward. ‘So, are you going to tell me?’
The Soul Collector smiled. ‘Tell you what?’
He sighed. ‘Why you didn’t terminate your last commission.’
‘Oh, that. Come on, Havi, it wasn’t fair. The guy deserved a chance to make things right.’
‘Are you out of your fucking mind? Have you any idea how much shit I’ve had to eat over this?’
‘You’re looking very good on it.’
‘Ha. I ought to drop your ass in the river.’
‘But you’re not going to do that.’
The broker saw the change in her-suddenly his client was a wild animal ready to pounce. ‘Eh, no. No, I’m not. But don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again, okay?’
The Soul Collector held his gaze. ‘Don’t give me bullshit contracts again.’
Havi took a hit from the margarita that had been placed in front of him. ‘Hey, are you okay? You look…I dunno…kind of shitty.’
‘Why, thank you, good sir. Modesty prevents me saying how you look.’
There was an uneasy silence.
‘Now what?’ the Soul Collector said, her eyes on the gray water below.
‘Now I go back to Elena and-’ He broke off, his eyes wide. ‘Jesus, woman, don’t…do that.’
Under the table, she dug her fingernails harder into the denim above his knee. ‘Give me another job. Now.’
The broker wiped sweat from his brow. ‘All right,’ he said, in a loud whisper. ‘Let me go.’
The Soul Collector squeezed hard once more and then sat back. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘All fuckin’ fingers, you mean,’ Havi muttered, taking an envelope from his pocket. ‘I don’t know what you’re so fired up about. I got you what you wanted.’
His client opened the envelope and ran her eyes over the sheet of paper inside. ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Not before time.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘Thank you, Havi. As so often, a pleasure to do business with you.’ She got up and left without looking back.
Xavier Marias drained the rest of his margarita and called urgently for another.
I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a tank. I sat up, my mind in a swirl. Then I remembered what I’d seen on the mortuary tables-the inert remains of my family-and realized I was a lot worse off than an accident victim. For a start, I was still alive.
I looked around the room, taking in the hospital fitments and plain decor. There was nothing I could use to self-harm, unless I twisted the sheets and hanged myself. That wasn’t such a bad idea. I got up, my knees almost giving way, and started to pull off the bedding. I had only got as far as the top sheet when the door opened and a big guy came in.
‘Put it down,’ he ordered.
I thought about that, then launched myself at him. I had a flash of doing combat training with a tall soldier, but whatever drugs I was on had seriously compromised my skills. The gorilla grabbed my wrists in one hand, spun me round and pushed me back to the bed.