crammed her sleep shirt inside her suitcase, an announcement came over the speakers in the corridor: Arriviamo in Torino, stazione Porta Susa. Ripartiremo alle
cinque e quarantacinque.
“They said the train is leaving at five forty-five.” “That’s ten minutes.” Tom put his backpack over his
shoulders, then the bag with his computer. The platform
was empty except for a worker pushing a wide broom
and a man in a trainman’s tunic making sure the doors
were closed. When he came toward their car, Tom said,
“Let’s go.”
They rushed down the corridor, and Tom pushed
through the door. The man on the platform erupted in a
stream of heated Italian, but Tom jumped down and
turned to take Allison’s hand. She swung her suitcase.
Tom caught the handle, and she leaped after it. The man slammed the door just as the air brakes
hissed and the deep thrum of the engine grew louder. The
train began to move.
Allison noticed Tom staring at the train. When she
turned, she saw what he did: a blond-haired man running
along the corridor, hurrying for the door.
“Oh, my God, is that him?”
Tom gave the man the finger, pivoting as the train
pulled out of the station and the man hit the window with
his fist.
“Tom, let’s go!”
They ran. The station walls had been refaced in
squares of white marble, and fluorescent lights shone on
scuffed concrete floors. The wheels on Allison’s bag clattered down a flight of stairs that led to a wide corridor
hung with posters and train schedules. No one else was
about.
Tom looked both ways. “Eddie said he’d be here.
Maybe he’s outside.”
Allison pointed to the door marked USCITA, and they
went through to a sidewalk beneath a wide overhang. A
light snow was falling. Across a wide intersection, they
saw a four-story building, a colonnade of arches, and
wires suspended over the streetcar tracks in the cobblestones.
“Where the hell is he?” Tom’s breath hung in the still
air.
Headlights swerved from the street. A small brown
sedan stopped in front of them, and the driver’s door
opened. A man got out and came around, his boots leaving dark prints in the thin layer of snow.
Eddie Ferraro was a little taller than Tom, wiry, with
short gray hair and a face that was all angles and lines.
The men embraced quickly before Eddie turned his smile
toward Allison.
“Ready? We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
Chapter 20
Astone fireplace, a glass of red wine. The village of Champorcher in the valley, framed in the windows like a postcard. A church tower, roofs
covered with snow. And a cello to accompany the sunset. Leo was playing Prokofiev. Rhonda felt the fire of the music as she felt the wine and the heat of the flames snapping on the hearth. Leo played with his entire body, elbows angled up, his smooth bald head jerking to the movement of the bow, left hand arching over the strings. She had picked out her clothing with care: a white sweater with rhinestones spangling the low neckline, slim white pants, her white fox-fur coat and hat. When she’d arrived, Leo had kissed her cheeks and said she looked like a snow queen.
She expected to be asked to stay the night. Leo wouldn’t want her driving through the mountains after dark. The heavy snows of the past week had left patches of ice on the road, and the weather forecast called for more of the same tonight. Rhonda sipped her wine and examined the pros and cons of spending the night at Leo Zurin’s chalet. Her suitcase was at the hotel in Milan, but she had put a tote bag in the trunk of her rented car. She had thought of calling Stuart and telling him she wasn’t coming back to Miami at all.
The cello moaned as the bow attacked the strings. It was difficult music to follow. Rhonda wished he’d chosen something by Bach, not this wild Slavic sawing. The last rays of the sun reached into the timbered room. A patch of light moved by millimeters across the gold frame that held the photo of the Corelli replica.
Leo had been stunned when she’d told him the original had been stolen. She said she had flown six thousand miles to throw herself on his mercy. It was her fault; she’d been the one to suggest that Tom Fairchild deliver the map. He had disappeared with it in Bimini. Stuart was in absolute anguish. Of course they would replace it with another rare map. The price didn’t matter.
After an excruciating minute of silence, in which Leo seemed to balance between tears and rage, he had smiled at her and picked up his cello.
Problem solved, or nearly. It only remained to tell Stuart, which could wait until she returned to Miami. We’re safe now. I’ve fixed everything.
Rhonda had met Leo Zurin six years ago on a cruise from Barcelona to Istanbul. He had lost thousands at roulette and laughed about it; he had danced like a Cossack in the ballroom while everyone clapped in time; and he had taken her with animal ferocity against the railing while Stuart sat in the bar having another nightcap.
She sipped her wine and relaxed into the corner of the sofa. The disk of the sun had diminished to a slender orange curve between two white peaks. Then it winked out, just as Leo ended the solo with a last, scraping stroke of his bow. Rhonda put down her wineglass and applauded.
“Bravo! Marvelous, Leo. You play with such passion. I would love an encore. Could you?”
Leo gasped. “Stelle! Look, the sun is down. I’ve played too long. You will have trouble driving if you don’t leave right away.”
“But ...I don’t have to return to Milan tonight,” she said.
“Oh, forgive me, carissima, I have plans.” He set his cello in its stand and rushed to the sofa, where she had thrown her coat. “You must go immediately. The roads through the mountains are treacherous after dark.”
She held out her arms for the coat and pulled her hair over the collar, smiling to mask her disappointment. She rested a hand on Leo’s chest. “Shall I tell Stuart that you quite, quite forgive him?”
“Ah, well. If the map has been stolen, what can I do? And you have no information on where this fellow might be? This Tom...”
“Tom Fairchild. I’m so sorry, Leo. Stuart has hired some detectives to track him down, and if we hear anything at all, we’ll let you know.” She put on her hat, checked it in the mirror in the foyer, and collected her clutch purse.
At the door she said, “Do some thinking about what we can get for you. This may be for the best. You’ll have a lovely map, something truly spectacular and rare. I know how much you wanted the Corelli, but there are so many maps of better quality.”
Leo walked with her onto the terrace. She skidded in her high-heeled boots, and he caught her elbow in a grip painfully tight. “Be careful, my lovely.”
The wind ruffled the white fox fur against her cheeks. “Thank you for being so kind, Leo. It’s such a relief not to worry. I’ll tell Stuart to call you in the next few days, and you can discuss business.” She laughed gaily. “I leave that up to you men. But you must let me take you to dinner. I’ll be in Italy at least through the week. I’d love to do some skiing.”
“Yes, let’s do that. I’ll call you. Now you must go. Drive carefully.”
“I will.” She touched her lips to his. “Grazie mille, caro amico.”
He threw kisses from the terrace as she crossed the snowy driveway to her car. “Addio, Rhonda.”
“Ciao! Call me!”
From a window in the kitchen Marek watched this display. He had arrived from London half an hour ago and had come through a side door, not wanting to see him. Signora Barlowe got into her rented Audi, waved, and drove through the gate. Her car vanished into the p
ine woods that surrounded the house. Leo had sent her away just as snow was falling, with a snowstorm moving in. Marek wondered what she had done to make Leo so angry.
He extinguished his cigarette in the sink, earning some curses from Luigi. He walked outside and around to the terrace. Leo saw him. “You’re back. Did you hear my conversation with that woman?”
“No, Leo.”
“You should have. You would have had a good laugh. My map has been stolen, so she says, by the same man you are looking for, Tom Fairchild.” Leo made his hands into fists and screamed in Russian, “Yobtvuyu mat! ” His voice echoed from the mountain, and veins stood out on his temples.
Marek said, “Her husband told you he was taking the map to a restorer in London.”
“Yes!” Leo beamed.
“Doesn’t she know?”
“I think not. Which of them is lying? It will be great fun to hear Barlowe’s explanation. I’ll call him after dinner. Does he have the map, or was it stolen by Tom Fairchild? What about Fairchild? Did you find him?”
“He left London. He was staying with the British girl, Jenny Gray. She’s dead. A knotted scarf, they think. A tidy job.” Marek smoothed his mustache to hide his smile. “No, Leo. Someone else got to her first. I gave her mother some money to talk to me. She said an American, blond, about thirty, by the name of Tom stayed with her daughter two nights ago. Her daughter told her that this Tom was going to take her to Italy. That is all the mother knows. Scotland Yard has no leads.”
“Did Fairchild kill her?”
“Probably yes.”
“So he’s coming to Italy. Ah. Maybe he’s planning to sell me my map. Or shoot me.”
When they had settled next to the fire, Marek told him what he had learned from his contacts in Miami. Tom Fairchild had a record of violent crimes. He lived in the same house with, or rented an apartment from, a man named Fritz Klein, who had been, until the mid-1980s, a civilian pilot flying between Miami and Central America, possibly paid by the CIA. Klein’s wife, or the woman in the house, whose name was Sandra Wiley, was the widow of Pedro Bonifacio Escalona, a Peruvian cocaine trafficker last residing in Miami. Sandra Wiley herself had served ten years. Her late husband’s cousin was a leftist candidate for the presidency of Peru, whose chief of staff was—
“Let me.” Leo held up a hand. “Oscar Contreras.”
“Everything is connected,” Marek said.
Leo pondered for several minutes. “These facts don’t prove anything. Fairchild could be an American agent. Or he’s working for Contreras. Or he’s a map thief.”
“When I find him, we’ll see.”
After more than an hour creeping down the mountain in the snow, Rhonda’s arms ached from clutching the wheel. The moment she turned onto the autostrada to Milan, the tension lifted, and her hands began shaking so badly she had to pull over for ten minutes to recover. She took out her cell phone and entered Larry’s number, as she had done a dozen times since arriving in Italy at noon. She wanted to hear him say it was over; that the map was a pile of ashes, and Tom Fairchild was at the bottom of the Thames.
After a few rings, the service cut off. It was these damned mountains. She checked the rearview for lights, put the Audi back into gear, and continued toward her hotel. The four-star Hotel Colosseo, a kilometer from Malpensa Airport, had been designed to resemble the Colosseum in Rome, but the windows were sound-proof, and the rooms a soothing, minimalist beige. She and Stuart always stayed there when flying in and out of Milan.
A valet took her keys. Rhonda put her Louis Vuitton tote over her shoulder. Her heels clicked across the lobby, then slowed as she saw her husband sitting in a boxy chrome-and-brown chair on the other side. His overcoat lay across his suitcase. He was holding a short glass with ice in it.
He smiled and lifted a hand in greeting. Taking a breath, Rhonda went over to find out how this had happened.
“There she is,” said Stuart, putting a kiss on her cheek. “You weren’t on the cruise, so I asked myself, ‘Where would she go?’ ”
Rhonda maintained her smile. “Did you just fly in from Miami?”
“No, no, from London. I was trying to find Tom Fairchild—just missed him. Allison called me last night en route to Firenze. She and Fairchild are traveling by train. And she informed me that you had skipped out on the cruise to Hawaii.”
“She loves to play tattletale,” Rhonda said.
“Lay off her,” Stuart said. “I’m glad she told me, because I would hate, hate, hate to think that my dear wife had come to Italy behind my back to make my life difficult. I’ve been here for three hours. Waiting for you. Hoping you would return my calls.”
“My cell phone isn’t working.”
“Of course. Shall we go up?”
In the elevator she smelled alcohol on his breath. The mirrored doors flashed their images back to her: blond woman, white fur; a tall, thin bearded man in a black cashmere sweater, dark circles under his eyes.
The doors opened. Rhonda walked ahead and slid her card key into the slot. She tossed her coat and hat onto the bed. The smooth brown duvet matched the plain curtain on a rod at the silent window. Like the lobby, the room was designed for business, all squares and no froufrou.
Stuart set his suitcase against the wall and hung up his coat in the closet. “What are you up to, my sweet? Please don’t tell me you were planning to see Leo Zurin.”
“I’ve just come from seeing him. That’s where I’ve been, Stuart. With Leo, solving our problem.”
Stuart turned slowly, staring at her. He wet his lips and put a hand flat on his stomach. “Oh, Rhonda. What did you say to him?”
“I did what you didn’t have the guts to do. I told him he couldn’t have the map. I created a story, the only story that had a chance of working. You paid Tom Fairchild to deliver the Corelli. He’s an expert with maps. He owns a shop, so you trusted him. You put him on Larry’s boat because of some problems with his passport, and he vanished with the map at the first chance. You were devastated. He betrayed you—”
Laughing, Stuart combed his hair off his forehead.
“I had to! There is no way that Tom Fairchild can forge a Renaissance map. I’ll tell you the kind of artist he is—a con artist, and Leo would see it immediately.”
“Oh... Rhonda.”
“I told Leo you were desperately sorry. I begged him to forgive you. I even said it was my fault. I took the blame. I was the one who’d suggested that you hire Tom Fairchild. I told him we’d buy him any other map he wanted. It doesn’t matter how much it costs. We can sell some of the paintings. My jewelry. Leo didn’t say anything about pulling out of The Metropolis. It’s all right now. We’re fine.”
“We...are not... fine!” Stuart’s palm swept toward her, and a fire exploded behind her eyes. Rhonda sat heavily on the ottoman.
He stood over her. His voice cracked. “Two days ago...I told Leo that I was delivering the Corelli to London myself...to have it restored. I promised Leo...two weeks, maybe less. You see, Rhonda, I was trying to buy enough time for Fairchild to make the duplicate. We didn’t have a problem until you created one!”
Through her dizziness, her thoughts went back to the house in Champorcher, and Leo smiling, showing his small white teeth. She moaned. “Why didn’t you tell me? If you had told me, do you think I would have gone to him?”
“We’re dead. It’s over.” Stuart sank onto the end of the bed.
“Don’t say that! We can fix it. We can think of a way.” Rhonda stood up, steadying herself on the ottoman. “You have to call him. Tell him... Leo, the map was already gone when I spoke to you before. Tell him that. You knew Tom Fairchild had it, and you wanted time to get it back.”
“It’s too late,” Stuart said.
She took his shoulders. “Do you want to see everything we’ve built swept away? That’s what will happen if Leo pulls out of The Metropolis. I won’t let you roll over and give up! I won’t allow it! Stuart, look at me. This will work. Look at me. Yo
u have to call him. Apologize for not being truthful. You’ll find the map. You’re sure of it. Tell him Tom Fairchild is on his way to Italy. He’s run away with your daughter, and you can track him that way—”
“No, I can’t bring Allison into it,” Stuart said.
“How else can you find Tom Fairchild? Tell him Allison doesn’t know. Tell him anything. Fairchild contacted you. He thought you wanted him to deliver the map. He has it, and you’ll get it from him. Tell him I was wrong, the map wasn’t stolen at all. Tell him your wife was mistaken. Stuart, it will work. It will.”
The vaguest of smiles lifted the corners of Stuart’s mouth. “In for a dime, in for a dollar.”
Rhonda wrapped her arms around his head and stroked his hair. “Yes, darling. It’s going to be all right.”
“Fairchild has to finish the map,” he said.
“He will. I’m sure he will.”
Stuart pulled away and rubbed his hands down his face. “You and I will stay in Italy until this thing is resolved. Call your friends and make whatever excuses you like.”
“Yes, Stuart. That’s what we’ll do. Are you hungry? Shall I order some dinner to the room?”
“Please.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
“I don’t know.... Fish. Veal.”
“Osso bucco, then. And some wine.”
“I might take a shower.”
“Why don’t you?”
Stuart went into the bathroom. Rhonda heard the rattle of a pill bottle. The rush of water into a glass. When he did speak to Leo, his voice would not betray him. Stuart had always possessed an ability to show perfect confidence, an odd gift for a man who had been crumbling for thirty years. Rhonda had only recently begun to see this. It was worse than she’d feared. Stuart was very close to a breakdown. Rhonda wasn’t sure what could be done about it.
Flinging back the curtain, she looked past the tarpcovered swimming pool, over the opposite wall of the hotel, to the lights of some low industrial buildings, and the airport. A jet was just taking off. If it were day, the white peaks of the Alps would be visible.
As she went to pick up the room service menu, she noticed her purse in the chair, and her cell phone halfway out of it. She tilted her head to see the screen. It was working. The icon for messages was flashing.
The Perfect Fake Page 21