When Tesla leaped onto the bus, the man turned the ignition key, folded the switchblade he’d been using to clean his fingernails, and eased the car out of the spot.
He was waiting when, 33 minutes later, the woman in black pulled out of the Budget lot at Union Station in a dark blue rental, sunglasses on her nose.
There was nothing else they could do. They had no choice.
The Mercedes had kicked up pebbles as Perez parked it at the side of the house. As Middleton hoisted his weary body from the car, Perez said, “Harry, no lights.”
“She’s sleeping?”
“Harry… ”
No, of course not. Charley sent her husband to “Scotland” to rescue her father. If she wasn’t pregnant, she’d have been there herself.
Perez pulled the Python.
Groping through darkness, they’d stepped inside the house, and as Perez climbed the stairs to the bedrooms, Middleton put down his briefcase and headed through the kitchen to the living room.
Through the picture window, he saw his daughter’s silhouette on the porch. She was slumped in a wicker chair.
“Charley,” he’d whispered. Then he said her name again, louder this time.
When she didn’t respond, Middleton called to his son-in-law and raced outside.
Charley had his Browning A-Bolt across her lap.
Beneath the wicker chair was a tiny puddle of blood that had been dripping from between her legs.
Middleton recoiled.
“Oh Jesus,” Perez said as he skidded to a halt. “Charley. Charley, wake up.” At that moment, Middleton understood that his daughter had lost her baby. He felt a muted sense of relief: For a moment, seeing the blood, he thought they had gotten to her as they had Henryk Jedynak, Sylvia and others-and had tried to kill him at Dulles.
Kneeling, Perez said, “She needs-”
“Yeah, she does.”
And now Charlotte Perez was recovering at Martha Jefferson Hospital. A private room, IV drip in place, and her husband at her side, barely awake in a lounge chair with a.357 Magnum in his jacket side pocket.
Honey sunlight streamed through the windows. Treetops swayed in the gentle breeze.
Felt like hiding in plain sight to Harold Middleton.
To Jack Perez too.
11
Felicia Kaminski collapsed on the vast sofa that sat before the window that filled the wall of a suite atop the Harbor Court Hotel. The fat, silk-covered cushions nearly swallowed her whole. Far below, the lights of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor blinked yellow and white at her, and big boats bobbed like eggs on the black water. Was there something in the blinking lights-some pattern, a signal, a message meant for her? If there was, she was too tired to decipher it.
Beyond tired, really. She was spent-exhausted by fear and flight, and addled by too many time zones and Champagne that flowed freely in the first-class cabin. Faust had all but forced it on her, and he’d kept up with her glass for glass, all the while smiling like the Cheshire Cat. One bottle had led to another-so many bubbles-but the smiling Mr. Faust seemed entirely immune.
Kaminski closed her eyes, but she could still see his white teeth and those dark, stony eyes, could still hear that deep melodious voice speaking in Italian, then in French, in Polish, in German, and now in English as he addressed the hotel man. There was a rueful smile in his words. Without looking, she knew that the hotel man-not a bellman but the immaculate, blue-suited fellow from behind the desk-was smiling back and nodding. It was all smiles and nods and discreet bows for Mr. Faust, all along the way: on the airplane; in the executive lounge in Frankfurt as they waited to fly to the States; and from the man at Dulles who met them, retrieved their luggage and drove them in a shiny black BMW all the way to Baltimore. It was as if they all knew him, their oldest friend, dear Mr. Faust-who smiled and drank Champagne and spoke in many tongues, but answered questions in none of them.
Kaminski sighed and sank deeper into the cushions. Her head swam and the harbor lights blinked at her, even through her closed lids. She had smoked opium once, an oily black bead with that Tunisian boy-what was his name?-who played guitar near the Castel Sant’Angelo, and it had set her drifting like this. Floating, her worries no more than distant lights.
There was a sharp knock and she came to with a bump. She rubbed her eyes and sat up to see Faust opening the suite door. A man came in, squat and muscular, wearing jeans and a black-leather jacket. His hair was gray and cut short, and he greeted Faust in Italian, then glanced at his guest and switched to something else. Whatever it was sounded fast and harsh to Kaminski’s ears-Slavic, she thought, but otherwise no clue. Faust listened and nodded and checked his watch. He said something to the man-an order, a dismissal-and the man nodded and left.
Faust looked at her. “Another trip,” he said.
Felicia could barely find her voice. “What? Now? At this hour?”
Again the smile. “No rest for the wicked, Felicia, but we won’t be gone long. If you wish to wash up first, I will wait.”
She rubbed her hands over her face, rubbing life back into it. “No,” she said. “I’m tired of being dragged around, and now I’m done with it. Sono rifinito. Non sto andando.”
Even to herself she sounded like a child, but she was beyond caring. She looked at Faust, leaning so casually against the doorframe, his suit somehow without a wrinkle and every hair in place, as if he had stepped from a page in a fashion magazine.
He shook his head. “You are not staying here alone, Felicia.”
Anger welled in her. “No? And why not?”
“It is not safe.”
“I take care of myself.”
“Yes, I saw how well back in Rome.”
She said, “Screw you! I don’t need a goddamn babysitter.”
“You are the tough little urchin now, eh?”
“Tough enough,” Kaminski said, grinding her teeth. “I didn’t grow up in places like this, being waited on hand and foot.”
Faust’s smile widened. “You think that I did?”
“Let’s say you don’t look out of place.”
He chuckled. “You haven’t known the real romance of street life until you’ve experienced it in Buenos Aires, caught between the Montoneros and the Battalion 601 boys. Now those were charming fellows, and much more dedicated than your average Roman teppista.”
Kaminski massaged her temples, trying to get her brain to function. Buenos Aires? Montoneros? What the fuck? She’d read something once about the Dirty War, but she couldn’t remember what. “So you had it rough and now you’re up from the gutter-a real success story.”
“Something like that.”
“Good for you. You’ve earned all this! And never mind that you’re a thief or a spy or some kind of terrorist-someone who bullies old men, and kidnaps girls from the streets of Rome.”
“I’ve told you, Felicia, your friend Abe is fine, and I am no spy. I have no taste for politics at all. If I had to describe my profession, I’d say I was a broker. I match buyers with sellers, and take a fee. A modest fee, all things considered.”
“Buyers and sellers of what?”
Faust shrugged. “This and that. Odds and ends.”
“Like stolen music manuscripts?”
“The manuscript is in the closet, Felicia, behind lock and key. My own musical inclinations run more to Sinatra than Mozart.”
“Not music, then what-drugs, guns? Whatever it is, I’m sure it makes your family very proud.”
Kaminski felt the air change, going silent and thick around her. The smiling Mr. Faust was no longer smiling, and those dark eyes seemed to look right through her. Defiance and anger drained from her, replaced by choking fear. This time, the knock on the door was a relief.
It was the squat man again, and he looked nervously at Faust. Faust said something to the man-she didn’t know what-and walked out the door. The squat man turned to her.