The Perfect Fake

by Barbara Parker

  “Why?”

  “To celebrate the moment. To toast Gaetano Corelli’s immortal skill as a cartographer.”

  “They’re not going with us.”

  “Tell them that. Fairchild won’t give me the map unless he personally delivers it.”

  “I don’t want him to go. I don’t want to see him.”

  “He’s going. So is Allison.”

  She pulled Stuart around and stared at him. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  “Allison knows,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was asking me questions. She knows, or she soon will.”

  “How could she possibly know?”

  With a shrug, Stuart dropped the lid on the ice bucket. “It’s amazing we’ve gotten away with it for this long. For thirty years I’ve been expecting the ax to drop. Don’t you feel the rush of wind on the back of your neck?”

  “Stop being so goddamned morbid. What do you want to do?”

  “I’m going to have drink. I suggest you do the same.”

  Chapter 32

  The blood and the three bullet holes in the original Universalis Cosmographia vanished as Tom slid the folded map between layers of cardboard. He

  placed this inside a large envelope stiffened with more cardboard and handed the package to Eddie Ferraro. “When you get to the shipping office ask for a box.”

  “Yeah, I know, and plenty of bubble wrap.”

  “I gave you Rose’s address?”

  “You did.” Eddie smiled. “Don’t worry, it’ll get there.”

  Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks.” The map would go to The Compass Rose, special delivery, express mail, or however the Italians handled such things. Keeping the original around wasn’t smart. The computer would also be shipped. Tom had already erased every file relating to the map and thrown away his papers.

  Eddie picked up the messenger bag. “Well, I’ll grab my hat and be back in a few.” He went through the connecting door, which closed behind him. Eddie had said he didn’t mind waiting a few days for his half of the remaining fifty thousand dollars. He had even said it was too much, but a deal was a deal.

  They would be leaving at dawn tomorrow. Eddie would drop them off at the airport and go back home to Manarola. Allison had already bought two tickets on a nine AM flight to Milan.

  Whether Tom could get back to Miami in his lifetime was another question.

  Sliding a hand down his thigh, he felt his pocket for the bag that Suarez had given him. It contained four small black transmitters that together would have fit into a candy bar wrapper. Each had a tiny toggle switch and a sticky back under a peel-off square of paper. Three to plant in Leo Zurin’s house, and one to practice on. Thinking about it made Tom’s hands sweat.

  He put his backpack on the bed and took out his hiking boots, which he thought he might need in the mountains. Snow was predicted. He tossed in his camera, some T-shirts, and his underwear. Allison was traveling with a thirty-inch suitcase, a shoulder purse, and a tote bag. She had thrown away her ten pounds of bar exam outlines back at Eddie’s place.

  Tom heard the click of the locking mechanism on the door and glanced across the room. He saw the red beret and Allison’s face. In the next instant he saw an arm in a dark sleeve around her throat, and her terrified eyes.

  “Allison!”

  Marek Vuksinic came in with her and kicked the door shut. “Hello, Tom. Stay where you are. I can break her neck before you take two steps.”

  “He was in the hall—” The words were cut off when Marek tightened his grip. Allison held on to his arm, and her toes dragged the floor.

  “Marek, let her go!”

  He wore a rough gray jacket and sweater, and the collar of a Hawaiian shirt showed at the neck. His heavy mustache shifted when he spoke. His mouth was hidden under it. “She’s okay. I didn’t do anything to her. We met in the hall, and I introduced myself. Bring that chair. Bring it.”

  “What do you want?” Tom demanded.

  “The chair. Put it here.” He motioned with his chin. Tom brought it over from the small table by the window, and Marek told Allison to sit down. He took off her beret and tossed it to the bed, then stood behind her with a hand on her shoulder. He reached into his jacket and when his hand reappeared, he pressed a button, and a slender blade clicked upward.

  “You shit-eating bastard.”

  “Tom, I’m okay.” Allison’s voice shook.

  Marek patted her cheek. “Sit there and don’t move. Your boyfriend and I have some business. Where is the map?”

  Tom said, “What map?”

  The blade flashed in front of Allison’s face, then delicately lifted the hair at her temple. She stifled a cry, and Tom said, “The Corelli world map.”

  “Do you have it? Did you give it to Stuart Barlowe? Where is it?”

  “It’s here,” Tom said. “I have it.”

  “Show me.”

  Gesturing toward the corner between the wall and the bed, Tom said, “It’s in the map tube.”

  “Get it. I want to see it. Move slow.” His close-set brown eyes followed Tom as he went to the corner of the room and back. Tom took off the end cap and reached in with two fingers. The map, rolled in its Mylar covering, slowly came out.

  “Show me. Come closer.”

  Holding it in both hands Tom moved forward until his knees nearly touched Allison’s where she sat in the chair. He thought of Royce Herron holding the map, bullets going through it, and sweat broke out on his neck. He took a breath to steady his heart, whose rate had shot up so fast he could feel it vibrating in his hands. The edges of the map trembled.

  Marek’s eyes moved over the map. “Is it real?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it real or did you make it?”

  “Make it? I didn’t make it. Why are you asking me that?”

  A smile revealed a quick flash of stained teeth under the graying mustache. “Somebody told me you made it on a computer.”

  “Who said that? Do you see a computer anywhere around here?”

  “Closer. Hold it closer.”

  Allison turned her head and stared up at him as he leaned toward the map.“Larry told you Tom forged this map. He told you that, didn’t he?”

  Marek used the point of the blade to slide Tom’s fingers away from the cartouche. “He told me that Stuart Barlowe paid Tom Fairchild to make a copy. Is this it?”

  “Larry is a liar,” Allison said.

  “Maybe no, maybe yes. This doesn’t look so old.”

  “It’s five hundred years old,” Tom said. “Did Leo Zurin send you to look at it? I’m going to take it to him tomorrow. Mr. Barlowe paid me to restore it. I fixed a rip in the fold. Look.” Tom turned the map over.

  “Where is Larry?” Allison asked.

  “Larry? He left on a boat. He likes boats.” Marek squinted at the map. His big hand lay on Allison’s shoulder. The mutilated left thumb was touching her neck. “The old man fell on a map when he died. Larry said it was this map.”

  Allison’s lips parted. She said softly, “Oh, my God. It was you. You shot him.”

  Tom widened his eyes at her, a mute signal to be quiet.

  Marek leaned over slightly and looked at her. A strand of wavy hair fell over his forehead. He splayed his left hand on her face and put his mouth by her ear. “If I say yes, what will you do about it?”

  “He was a good man! He didn’t deserve to die!”

  “You’re a little skinny for me, but I could show you things.”

  “Fuck you.” She tried to jerk away, but his fingers were clamped onto her face.

  Tom ground his teeth together. “Marek, let her go.”

  Marek laughed. He looked back at Tom. “Larry said the Corelli was destroyed, and you made a forgery.”

  “No! Royce Herron was holding another map,” Allison said. “Larry hates Tom for beating him up. Can’t you see that?”

  “Allison, shut up. Don’t
piss him off. I was cleaning the Corelli, not forging it. Larry got it wrong.”

  Marek’s eyes shifted to the map again. “Okay. Put it back in the tube.”

  “What?”

  “Put it back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t I will cut her throat.”

  Tom rolled the map and slid it into the tube. Marek motioned for it with his left hand. “Give it to me.”

  “I have to deliver it to Leo Zurin tomorrow.”

  “I’ll take it. I’ll save you the trip.”

  “But I have to—” Tom stood frozen. When Marek moved around Allison with his hand out, Tom swung the map tube toward the knife. In the instant before the knife flew out of Marek’s hand, Tom realized how stupid this had been, and in the next instant, he leaped back on one foot and put the other into Marek’s stomach.

  Marek staggered to catch his balance. Allison threw herself off the chair and grabbed Marek’s face with her nails. He lifted his elbow and caught her under the jaw. Her head snapped back, and she slid to the floor.

  He looked around for his knife, then grunted as Tom’s left foot caught him on the outside of his meaty thigh. Tom had his fists up. He shifted and aimed another kick at Marek’s knee, but the bigger man turned quickly, ducked, and came at Tom sideways. Marek pinned Tom’s arms to his sides. His face was so close Tom could smell cigarette smoke.

  A foot went behind Tom’s, and Tom fought to keep his balance. Marek went back, taking Tom with him, and they hit the bed. As they bounced toward the floor, the flimsy wooden headboard clattered against the wall. Marek straddled Tom and went for his throat. Tom braced his foot beside Marek’s, lifted his hips, and tried to throw him off, but Marek knew the moves better.

  He got an arm across Tom’s neck and pressed down. Tom noted the calm intensity on the other man’s face as he went about his work, which was to kill Tom Fairchild. Bright dots of light appeared at the edges of his vision. Marek’s face grew larger and went out of focus. Then in the distance he thought he heard a tremendous crash.

  Marek collapsed on Tom’s chest.

  As Tom’s vision returned he saw Eddie standing over him with the remains of a chair. Eddie threw it aside and pulled Marek off him. “Tom! You okay, buddy? Hey!”

  Coughing, Tom rolled to all fours. Allison knelt and put her arms around him, holding him tightly. “Are you all right? Let me see you. Tom!”

  “Yeah. I’m okay.” He got to his feet. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” Eddie said.

  “Try again.” Tom took a couple of breaths, hands on his knees. He thought he might retch.

  Eddie found the knife by the bathroom door. “Wickedlooking thing.” He pushed the point against the wall, and the blade clicked into the dull black handle.

  “Cosa succede?” There were voices in the hall and shouts in Italian. “Cosa sta capitando là dentro?”

  A fist pounded on the door. The guests, or the management, wanted to know what was going on in there.

  “Chiamate la polizia!”

  “They want to call the police,” said Eddie.

  “No! Tell them to go away,” Tom whispered. “No police!”

  Allison got to the door before Eddie and opened it a crack. “Va tutto bene! Non vi preoccupate. Ho scoperto il mio ragazzo con un’altra donna—”

  Eddie moved back. “Let’s get him out of sight.” He took one of Marek’s arms, and Tom took the other, and they dragged him around to the end of the bed, two hundred pounds of dead weight.

  “What’s she saying?”

  “She said she’s sorry for the ruckus. She just found out her boyfriend was cheating on her and beat the crap out of him.”

  “Jesus.” Tom stared at her. The voices had quieted. Allison closed the door and leaned on it.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  Tom saw the green cardboard map tube protruding from under the bed. He picked it up. It was dented but otherwise unharmed. He walked over to Marek Vuksinic, looked down at him a second, then kicked him in the leg. This produced a low groan.

  “Take it easy.” Eddie crouched beside him and rolled his head to the side. His fingers came away sticky, and he wiped the blood on Marek’s chest. “He’ll live. What are we going to do with him, Tommy?”

  It took fifteen minutes for Manny Suarez and his friends to arrive and another five for them to take Marek Vuksinic down the fire exit and put him into the trunk of their car. He had come to by then, but they had brought a roll of duct tape.

  They had put their car next to a panel van behind the hotel, which at least partially hid them from view. The parking area dead-ended at the back entrances to some shops. Daylight was fading.

  Suarez slammed the trunk lid just as a kitchen helper came out the back door and tossed a box into the trash bin. He gave them a long look and went back inside. Walking past Tom, Suarez said, “This is the second time in a week somebody’s tried to kill you, Fairchild. You should be more careful.”

  Tom stopped him before he reached for the door of the car. “Marek Vuksinic admitted that he shot Royce Herron. The map collector in Miami—”

  “I know who you mean. Judge Herron was a friend of Stuart Barlowe, so I have an interest. Why did he kill the judge?”

  “He didn’t say. We didn’t have much of a chance to talk up there. Do you know anything about Jenny Gray? Did you hear anything from Scotland Yard?”

  “The girl in London.” Suarez shook his head. “Do you think he did it?”

  “I’d like to find out,” Tom said.

  With a slight smile, Suarez said, “I’ll ask him.”

  “I have another question. Jenny had a roommate named Carla Kelly. Carla worked for Larry Gerard, too. She was sort of a part-time call girl, I guess. Jenny told me Larry Gerard used Carla in getting The Metropolis approved. They found her body in the Everglades a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And?”

  “And I thought you might’ve heard something.”

  After a brief debate with himself, Suarez said, “Her neck was snapped. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure it was not because she’d been screwing a few politicians. In Miami? Come on. No, it was Vuksinic. I’d been talking to Carla about Oscar Contreras. I think he found out.”

  “Where are you going to take him?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Ask him about the ship leaving Genoa. He’s my gift to you. That ought to let me off the hook, don’t you think?”

  “If I knew he would talk, it might. I expect he’s going to tell us ‘up yours’ in five different languages. Good luck tomorrow. We’ll be nearby. You have the number.”

  “Hold it. I nearly got killed, and you can’t cut me a break?”

  “When you’ve done your job, then we’ll talk.”

  Tom straight-armed the door to keep Suarez from opening it. “Right. I had a feeling you were going to say that. I’ve got something I want you to listen to.” He spoke quietly. “Just you. Not your friends.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Tom walked a few yards toward the street, a narrow, cobblestone way that ended on the piazza. Suarez leaned down to say something to Ricker, then came over. “All right, what?”

  “I was going to use this in case you tried to screw me over, but now’s as good a time as any.” Tom took his cell phone out of his pants pocket and dialed a number.

  “What is this?”

  “Wait. I’m calling a number in New York. It’s an automated message. A friend of mine set it up.” He pressed the button for the speaker and turned the phone toward Manny Suarez.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Not to me.”

  Suarez’s voice came out of the phone. “Put the devices in as many different rooms as you can, preferably close to a telephone. Hopefully Zurin doesn’t do sweeps every day.”

  Suarez stared at him. Tom held up a hand and heard his own voice.

  “Tell me something, Suarez. You don’t have jurisdiction
out of the U.S. Why’d you come all the way to Italy to get Oscar Contreras? Is it a personal thing between you and him?”

  A long pause. A car going by. A dog yapping. Another car. Then Suarez again: “My brother was a police officer in Lima, a good guy. An honest cop. One of Contreras’s men comes to him and says, ‘¿Plata o plomo?’ That means do you want to take the bribe, or do you want a bullet? My brother wouldn’t play along. They shot him. He had a wife and three kids. Understand?”

  Tom disconnected. “It goes on. I had the telephone in an upper pocket with an open line to my buddy in New York. He recorded the conversation. I had someone shoot some pictures of you leaving that paper cup full of electronics on the bench, and I took some close-ups when I got back to the room. This afternoon I uploaded about thirty photos to a Web site.”

  The glitter in Suarez’s eyes had turned dangerous.

  Tom said, “It’s inaccessible unless you know the URL and the password.” He put the phone away and gave Suarez a piece of paper. “This is what you need to get in. Don’t try shutting it down. You can’t. At any time, the information can be sent to anyone. Your boss. The CIA. The United States Attorney General. CNN. Entertainment Tonight—”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to do what you said. And I want you to make it all right for Eddie too.”

  “You think I’m God? I can’t do that. I don’t have that kind of power.”

  “Eddie saved my life. You think about it. You think what that might be worth to me.”

  When Tom went back upstairs, Allison was packing her suitcase. She looked around, startled, as if she thought that Marek Vuksinic had come back. Tom held out his arms, and she came into them.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “I am now.” Her kiss was soft and sweet and it lasted a long time, but not long enough.

  “I want you to stay with Eddie,” Tom said. “Go to Manarola and wait for me.”

  “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “I don’t want to get rid of you at all, but would you please go with Eddie?”

  “Why? Marek’s not a problem anymore.”

  “What if Zurin asks me what happened to him?”

  “Tom. Do you really think Zurin knew he was coming here? It was Marek who destroyed the map. He wouldn’t have told Zurin about it.”