by Jeff Abbott
Mila proceeded to her rental. So did Marianne and her fake sons. I jumped back onto the shuttle, which headed back toward the terminal, calling Mila and activating my phone’s earpiece.
“I’m following them,” Mila said. “They’re headed into town. Gray Lexus SUV.” She fed me the license number.
“They have three hours before the meeting, assuming they intend to show up for it. They might be checking into a hotel.”
I jumped off the bus and ran to my car. I paid the parking and bolted into traffic. I drove like a maniac, caught up to the SUV, catching up to Mila, staying close to them and slowing.
“I think she is suspicious,” I said to Mila. “She brought these guys with her. She smells the trap. Why does her own protégé ask to meet in a public spot? The Varelas didn’t realize the relationship between Marianne and Nesterov.”
“So why did she come if it’s a trap?”
“She might think Nesterov is captured and she wants to negotiate for his release. Maybe she is acting on behalf of the clients.” Nesterov’s words to Rey echoed in my brain: We just want to talk to you. Could Marianne just want to talk? Did you send an assassin—a team of assassins—to chat? Ricky and his team didn’t quite look as professional as Marianne and her boys.
And what if there had been some other communication with the Varelas since we left? I only knew what I knew, and it made me uneasy to base decisions on incomplete information.
Mila broke through the whirl of my thoughts. “I have missed you. Daniel misses you too. He says ‘Dada’ to me. I am sure he adds a question mark.”
“I miss him,” I said. I should have told her to not mention my son on this unsecured line, but I also knew this was the kind of stuff she said to me that she didn’t much like to say to my face.
“He misses you,” she said again. “Why are we here?”
“They killed my friend.” I let my car fall back from Marianne’s.
“Revenge is never a good motive.”
“Said the woman who took down the people who hurt her sister.”
“I did that to save her, not to get revenge,” she said quietly. “A world of difference, Sam.”
“So if the Varelas kill me, you’ll do nothing.”
“Oh, Sam, you’re funny. What happened to the person who shot me? You never did say.”
I didn’t answer.
“Well,” Mila said, “I’m a hypocrite. Because anyone who kills you dies. Ah. An eye for luxury and convenience. They are turning into the Gran Fortuna.”
I veered through the traffic, anxious to reach the hotel at the same time Mila and Marianne’s team did. I pulled up to the porte cochere. Marianne and her people were already inside the lobby.
I tapped the phone, putting Mila on hold, calling Cori.
“What?” she said.
“Call one of your friends on staff…a German woman and two men are just checking in right now. I’m pretty sure they’ll have requested adjoining rooms. I need those room numbers ASAP.”
“I’m on it,” she said.
I valeted the Yukon. Mila had already parked and was in the lobby pretending to be on her phone. I walked in and she turned toward me and I saw Marianne and her guys picking up their bags and heading toward the elevator. Rather, Marianne and one guy did. The other guy branched off, headed for the stairs.
Splitting up. You don’t put your whole team in an elevator in a hostile environment. Standard precaution.
“Elevator, you,” Mila said to me as I passed.
I didn’t even glance at her. She headed for the stairs.
The elevator doors slid closed long before I reached them. But the elevator next to it opened.
My phone buzzed. “They’re in room 1212 and 1210; those are adjoining,” Cori said. “What is going on?”
“In a few.”
“Do I call the police if you don’t call back?” Her voice was all steely control. I was glad.
“I’ll call you back.”
“Sam, please…”
I cut her off. I got in the elevator, joined by a couple who’d forgotten something in their room and were blaming the other.
“I asked you to bring the guidebook,” she said.
“You have the backpack. So you’re supposed to carry it,” he said icily.
“You never remember anything,” the wife snapped. They pressed 12. The same floor as Marianne and the boys. Rotten luck. I did not need witnesses.
“Then you can just go back down to the lobby and wait for me,” the husband said.
“No, I need to be sure you remember it,” the wife said. “I mean, sports might be on the TV; you’ll end up slack-jawed sitting on the edge of the bed and I didn’t come to Puerto Rico to explore on my own…”
“That’s so unfair,” he said, and she glowered.
“My wife is in a coma,” I said, into the gap of silence. “Pretty sure she and I wish we’d been kinder to each other.”
It shut them up and, better yet, made them eager to get away from me. No one likes a good shaming.
We reached the twelfth floor. They turned one way and I turned the other and the elevator next to us opened. I didn’t look behind me. I had to assume Marianne and her “son” were off and walking behind me. Right now I couldn’t rely on eyes; I had to go by sound.
Hand went into pocket, like I was grasping for a room key. I uncapped the syringe, careful not to jab myself.
I heard the voices, down the hall, of the couple. Him saying he was sorry, her saying she was sorry too. Well, I’d fixed one problem today.
The sound, behind me, of Marianne muttering in German, annoyed with the hotel. She thought the hall looked like it needed a cleaning. Ahead of me the housekeeping cart. The rooms were still getting readied for the new occupants or being serviced.
We moved past the housekeeping cart.
The sound, behind me, of the door closing behind the now-happy couple. I really should be a marriage therapist.
The door to the stairway opened.
But no one came out.
I was now between the stairway and the targets’ door, and I had to believe Mila had won. But if I was wrong I might get shot in the back.
I spun and jabbed the syringe into Marianne’s throat. But I didn’t depress the plunger. “Might we talk in private?” I started to say in German.
The son reacted. He drew his gun. I could hear the merry chatter of two women from the room being cleaned.
I shook my head. “You don’t want me injecting this into her,” I said.
Behind me I heard Mila say, in English, “Let’s take this into the room please.”
I didn’t risk a glance. “You have him?”
“I do. And his room key.” Mila switched to German. “I’m sure, Marianne, you’d prefer not to dig a bullet out of his brain. In the room, please. We only want to talk.”
I could see indecision play across Marianne’s face. She didn’t want to go in the room with us but she didn’t want her man shot.
“Lower your weapon,” I said in German to the son, and Marianne said, “Do as he says,” in English. And the son did.
The housekeeper came out and smiled at the five of us and wished us good morning. I had my arm around Marianne, my hand hiding the syringe, turning her away from the housekeeper. Marianne stiffened as I nuzzled her affectionately and said hello to the housekeeper. Mila had lowered the gun to her target’s back. His mouth was bleeding on one side, away from the housekeeper, and he kept his face turned in that direction.
The housekeeper gathered supplies and ducked back into the room.
“We are not friends of the Varelas,” I said. “We want a meeting with you. No one gets hurt. It’s just a talk. Because you are about to walk into a trap the Varelas are setting for you.”
“I understand,” Marianne said.
I pulled the syringe free and she winced. A thin dot of blood appeared on her throat.
“All right. Give me the key.”
She was alrea
dy holding the room key and she handed it to me. “Them first, then the two of you.” I opened the door and Mila shoved her charge inside, then the second son, and Marianne followed.
I closed the door on the housekeepers’ chatter.
35
LET’S BE HONEST. You don’t want five trained killers trapped in a room together.
The room was nice for traveling assassins, I figured. Big-screen TV, a generously sized bed. Curtains open over the charm of Old San Juan. The view faced the harbor and the massive cruise ships docked there. I could see families walking along the dock. Normal families. Not like mine, not like the Varelas, not like Marianne’s. Odd how we all live, side by side, in our different worlds.
“Marianne, I have no quarrel with you,” I said, switching to English. “You are headed into a trap by the Varelas. They want you dead or captured.”
“Who are you?” she asked. She had her hand to her throat. I still had the syringe in my grip.
“A friend.”
“I suppose you think we became friends on the rental car bus.” She recognized us. Her gaze went back to Mila. “I don’t know her, either.” She looked at the second son. “She must be good to get the best of him.”
“I let down my guard.” He mopped at his bloodied mouth with the towel his “brother” had tossed him. “I apologize.”
“Actually, I told him I would hurt you if he did not stop fighting, Marianne,” Mila said. “So, commend him for his loyalty.”
“Facedown on the carpet, fingers locked behind your heads,” I ordered the sons, and they obeyed, one of them giving me a murderous look and the bloodied one keeping his expression neutral. “Keep the towel under your mouth, I don’t want blood on the carpet.”
“Will I sound melodramatic,” Marianne said, “if I tell you this is a highly regrettable idea?”
“Yes, you will.” Mila searched the sons.
I searched Marianne. I found it in her pocket. A casino plaque, rectangular, red, with the X symbol.
Just like Steve’s.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Just a casino chip.”
“Why is there no denomination on it?”
“It’s…like a party favor from the hotel. It’s not worth much.”
“I think you’re lying to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“The hotel, when we checked in.”
“They didn’t give me one.” I managed to sound both outraged and disappointed.
“Well, they don’t want trash like you in the casino.”
“Yes, that must be it,” I said. “Maybe I’ll keep it.”
“So you’re not only a kidnapper, you’re a thief,” she said.
I studied the chip. It was identical to the one Steve had. What were Steve’s words to Cori that night at the bar? I got a surprise in the mail…and then he’d said a few words I didn’t hear, and then How did anyone know you hired me? A bribe attempt, perhaps, to stay away from Cori. If he’d taken the bribe, he’d probably still be alive. I slipped it back into my pocket.
“You’re a lousy cheat,” Marianne said.
So, I thought. It’s money. Play this carefully. Get her on my side. “I’ll give you back the chip in a few minutes. Let’s talk about what’s important. Lavrenti. Your ‘son’ from Miami, the Varelas killed him.”
“I suspected that.” Marianne had the air of a schoolteacher with little patience for stupid comments. “That syringe. I knew his plan. You found his gear.”
“I, not the Varelas, found it after the Varelas killed him, in his car. I didn’t kill him.”
“So what’s your interest?”
“I have a grudge against the Varelas.”
“And I care why?”
“I want to know who hired you.”
Marianne gave me a bemused smile. “Can we not pretend to adhere to standards of professional conduct?”
“Who hired you?” I repeated.
“Ask Rey Varela who’s mad at him, get him to tell you.” She apparently didn’t like that I knew she referred to her protégés as her kids.
“If she dodges another question of mine,” I said to Mila, “shoot one of her sons in his gun hand.”
The men were following Marianne’s calm lead, but at this I heard them breathe in sharply, and a flash of panic crossed Marianne’s gaze.
“Before we get to a point of deep regret,” I said, “let’s get this straight. I have zero interest in you or your team. This is professional, not personal. And when we’re done, we’re done and we all walk away healthy. I’ll even suggest you keep your meeting with Mr. Varela today, although it wouldn’t surprise me if he sends his stepdaughter and his adviser in his place.”
“I’m only talking to him,” Marianne said.
“Did your client order the killing of a man named Steve Robles in Miami? If so, did you use two Colombians?”
“I don’t have any Colombians in my employ, so if they were used in a hit, they’re not my guys. I can’t confirm what a client did that doesn’t involve me.”
“Did you ever hear your client mention a man named Steve Robles, or offer you the job of killing him?”
“No.”
“Who is your client?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“What’s the client’s code name?”
She hesitated, and Mila said, “I can see the slightest callus on this one’s right forefinger. That’s his gun hand.” She lowered her weapon toward him.
“Mr. Beethoven,” Marianne said.
“Is Mr. Beethoven one of the Varelas?”
“I cannot be certain.”
“And where might I reach Mr. Beethoven?”
“There’s a throwaway phone in my jacket pocket,” she said. She wore a thin, dark cotton blazer. Carefully, I leaned forward and reached into the pocket and took it. There was one number in the call log.
“Answer a question for me. Who killed Lavrenti?” she asked. “Which one of the Varelas or their men?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.” I wasn’t going to give her Galo; he’d saved me with that shot.
“He was a very promising student,” she said. And I thought I detected a hint of sadness. I suppose you don’t take just anyone off the street and train them to be a hit man. Was she close to her charges? Would she be motivated by revenge? I wasn’t going to tell her, Hey, you trained him well: he nearly killed me. Best left unsaid.
I tapped the number. It was a Miami area code. Marianne kept her gaze locked on mine. It rang twice, then a bright young female voice said, “New Horizons Dental Care, we put your smile first! How may I help you today?”
“Mr. Beethoven, please.”
“For when did you wish to make an appointment, sir?”
“Tomorrow at five p.m. That’s the only time I have available.”
“May I have your name, sir?”
I clicked off the phone. “So when I do an Internet search on New Horizons Dental Care, I’m not going to find an actual office, am I?”
“You know as much about the client as I do,” she said. “Mr. Beethoven, the dentist.” She risked a smile. “It’s frustrating isn’t it? Good enough to take me and my team unawares but not to get the information you need. If I knew it, I’d tell you. I’ve never compromised a client but I’ve never been taken this way either.”
“What are you supposed to offer Rey Varela?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if betrayal of her professional code caused her actual pain. “It concerns…part of his business. He is giving it to his stepdaughter to run. This is unacceptable to his clients.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “They know he is not well. They will not accept Zhanna as his replacement.”
I felt stunned. How had they known about him putting Zhanna in charge of the underside of the business? He had only announced it after Nesterov’s attempt…which meant logically Rey had decided to put Zhanna in charge and disc
ussed it with someone before last night. That could be anyone in the family. Who could have secretly told the clients. “You learned about Zhanna’s new role very quickly.”
“Perhaps my client’s information,” she said, “was better than yours. Lavrenti was only told to detain him. So Varela could be reasoned with. The remote house in Puerto Rico was considered an easier grab than his house or office in Miami.”
“Did your client kidnap Edwin Varela five years ago?”
“I have no knowledge of that. So. Who killed Lavrenti? I read it in your face that you know.”
Professional to professional. I wasn’t going to argue. I couldn’t betray Galo, so I lied. “A guy named Ricky. He works for the Varelas. You will know him by his very retro jacket. They dumped Lavrenti in the ocean, by the way.”
A coldness settled in her eyes. “And where is Mr. Varela? At the house?”
“He was injured in the attempt. The Varela security team will try to take you at Castillo de San Cristóbal. Probably they’ll simply try to force you into their car, or if they don’t take you then they’ll just want to talk.”
“What are you?”
“Right now, I’ll be your backup. You are going to keep your appointment with the Varelas. I’m going to wire you, though, because I want to hear the conversation. Your boys will stay here with my partner. If you tell on me to the Varelas, my partner shoots them.”
She frowned. “The magnitude of the mistake you’re making is quite remarkable,” she said. But Mila had brought a full set of surveillance gear, and she let Mila wire her while I watched her sons.
36
CASTILLO DE SAN Cristóbal was a massive fort on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic, on the northeastern side of Old San Juan—a gigantic redoubt built to protect the island from the British and the Dutch. Everyone back in ye olden days wanted San Juan and Puerto Rico. Spain, for hundreds of years, was determined to not lose the gateway to the Caribbean trade. Hence the stunning forts of the old city. During World War II the fort had added concrete pillboxes in case the German navy attacked Puerto Rico. Tourists wandered, a few alone, most with groups from the cruise ships, walking with tour guides in traditional costume—the women in lovely hoop-skirted dresses of pink and yellow and white, the men dressed in what most Americans would have thought of as Revolutionary War garb: tricorner hats and long jackets and breeches with stockings. One of the hoop-skirted tour guides told the story of the language of the fan, snapping a gorgeous decorated fan open and closed, fanning herself with a variety of flourishes in a hidden language that could be interpreted by a suitor so he’d know what she wanted him to do: flirt more, go away, wait for her husband to leave.