Harper crashed into him, a roundhouse knee into his ribs, then three quick strikes to his head and throat. His pistol fired three or four times, deafening her, but the rounds sailed into the faraway spaces of the exhibition hall. Another knuckle blow to his throat, and as Mullen coughed and sputtered, she axed his wrist with the blade of her right hand, the pistol breaking loose and skittering down the passageway she’d just crossed. She cocked her right hand, thrust its heel into Mullen’s long, straight nose, and heard the harsh crunch. His back was plastered against one side of the narrow passage, blood streamed into his mouth.
She kneed him in the groin. He growled and slashed a fist at her face, clipped her chin, jarred her backward, struck her again in the jaw, and the daylight flickered and faded, but she caught herself, didn’t go down, but bulled back into him, flattening her body against his, coming well inside his roundhouse blows. She grabbed both his ears, slammed his head into the steel wall, slammed it a second time. Another knee into his crotch, then another.
His eyelids fluttered up and down like the slow wings of a dying butterfly. Adrian Naff was beside her, his eyes woozy, but he took Mullen from her hands and manhandled him against the wall, gut-punched him three times, then spun him around and locked his wrists in handcuffs.
THIRTY-NINE
Mid-May, Clínica IMQ Zorrotzaurre, Bilbao, Spain
Ben had a mild concussion, which he claimed was his seventh, apparently averaging one per decade. Starting with a bicycle crash when he was ten, little Ben versus a drunk’s pickup truck. Since then, most had been on movie sets doing his own stunt work.
“I know the cure,” he said. “Three shots of Gray Goose. I’ll be fine.”
His thirtysomething female doctor was trying with little success to suppress her delight at having the celebrated actor as a patient. “I think is best you drink only wine the first days.”
“Okay, Doc. That’s a reasonable compromise.”
“I will have an excellent bottle of Garnacha sent up, Señor Westfield.”
She smiled at him and decided she needed to feel his pulse again. Her long, delicate fingers encircling his wrist, her eyes going dreamy as she felt the thump of the movie star’s heart.
Adrian Naff appeared in the doorway and asked to speak to Harper.
She joined him in the corridor. He’d abandoned his hospital gown and was back in street clothes, his forehead heavily bandaged.
“Should you be walking around?”
“I wanted to see you, explain why I’m here.” A smile flitted across his lips, coming and going so quickly she couldn’t read its meaning.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“I was tracking Mullen while apparently he was tracking you. I didn’t figure out what he was up to today until Westfield and your brother appeared. If I’d intervened sooner, no one would have been hurt.”
“Everyone’s okay. Nick’ll be out of action for a few days, but he’s all stitched up. Nothing too serious.”
“And Ben?”
“If he can pull himself away from a lovesick doctor, he should be out tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Why track Mullen? Why not just take him into custody?”
“I was hoping he’d lead me to you. I wasn’t sure, but I was hoping.”
The heat in his eyes made her swallow. “Well, here I am.”
“I want to help you.”
“And how could you possibly help me?”
“You’re planning to finish what you started, aren’t you?”
“What would that be?”
“Bring down Albion, Bixel, the whole gang. Me included.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Yes, you do. It’s an admirable goal. But you’ll need help. Someone on the inside. Someone who knows a little of what’s going on.”
Naff looked down the corridor, watched a passing orderly. When the orderly was out of earshot, Naff said, “What’s going on is more than Africa, more than that one massacre. That’s bad, sure, but it’s nothing compared to what else they’re into.”
She drew a breath. She didn’t have to try to read his brown eyes. His drawbridge was open, the castle vulnerable. This wasn’t one of his roles. This was the man she’d glimpsed before, a man who’d fought in foreign lands he’d never truly left. A man with more layers than he’d shown to Harper or, she suspected, to anyone.
“What I’m saying is Albion’s into some major shit all over the world. And I don’t mean Lester Albion, I mean the whole company.”
“What do I care about any of that?”
“You want to take Bixel down. You’re probably thinking get her alone somewhere, dark alley, put a round in her skull, and sure, that would be satisfying. But if you truly want to destroy the woman, there’s a better way.”
“I’m listening.”
“Dismember her.”
“And how would someone do that?”
“She’s a dangerous woman, devious and powerful and a hell of a lot smarter than Lester. But if you rip apart her empire from beneath her, you’ve accomplished something more worthwhile than just removing the woman.”
“And let’s say I buy any of this, what do you get out of the arrangement?”
The smile was there again, his eyes homing in on hers, getting inside her, reading her, turning the tables.
“What do I get? I get to see more of you.”
“Very funny.”
“Not meant to be.”
“How do I know you’re not trying to send me on a fool’s errand? Keep the idiot chasing her tail?”
“Only way you’ll know for sure is to take me out for a test run.”
She considered that for several moments. “I’ll let you know.”
“While you’re thinking it over, let me give you something else to chew on, a place you might start.”
“What place is that?”
“You ever heard of Puglia?”
“Italy. The heel of the boot.”
His smile darkened as a troubling thought seemed to cloud his eyes. “No, forget it,” he said. “Bad idea.”
“Don’t toy with me.”
“I’m sorry. Just too chancy. You could put yourself at serious risk, still not make a difference.”
“You’re one slippery bastard.”
He looked down the gleaming hallway. Hospital gongs and messages in Spanish repeating from the overhead speakers.
He sighed. Harper wasn’t sure, but he looked honestly torn.
“Okay, here’s what I can do,” he said. “You got an in-depth look at the chocolate business. If you’re sure you’re up to it, I can point you in a new direction, something even more corrupt.”
“Is that possible?”
“Oh yes.”
Down the hall the same orderly was marching toward them again, this time talking on a cell phone. Eyeing his approach, Naff reset his feet, his hands rising.
When the man passed, Naff drew a breath, relaxed his shoulders, his gaze returning to Harper.
“You were telling me about something more corrupt than chocolate.”
Naff found a fresh smile and leaned forward as if to whisper in her ear. Or perhaps inhale her scent.
“Olive oil,” he said and turned and walked away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The dashing Dan Gibson was very helpful in teaching me about the goals and operations of the World Bank. And much thanks to Martin Feather, who spent a good deal of effort and time educating me about material that, alas, didn’t wind up in this novel but will certainly show up in future Harper McDaniel episodes. Laura Crovo-Lane suggested a colorful and crucial detail that gave the ending far more pizzazz than it would have had otherwise. Les Standiford, my dear friend and an excellent writer and editor, did his usual thorough job of pointing out scenes and situations that could be improved. For thirty years I’ve depended on Les’s insights, and he never lets me down. His comments are always spot-on, pointing out things I should have seen myself but didn’t. An
n Rittenberg, my literary agent, listened thoughtfully to my earliest clumsy descriptions of this book and encouraged me, giving me confidence to strike out in this new direction. Later on she continued to counsel me wisely, then read multiple drafts and helped in countless ways to improve the finished product. The final polish would not have the same luster without the help of Liz Pearsons and Ed Stackler, two real pros. And without the insights, patience, and close reading of the manuscript at every stage along way—not to mention the loyal emotional support—of my wife, Evelyn, this book would never have seen the light of day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2007 Maggie Evans Silverstein
A winner of the Edgar and Shamus Awards, James W. Hall is the author of twenty novels, including The Big Finish, the latest in the Thorn Mysteries, as well as four books of poetry, two short story collections, and two works of nonfiction. Born in Hopkinsville, Kentucky, Hall holds a BA from Florida Presbyterian College, an MA from Johns Hopkins University, and a PhD in literature from the University of Utah. He divides his time between North Carolina and Florida.
When They Come for You Page 25