In the far corner, perched on a step stool, was Adrian Naff. He had on faded blue jeans, a khaki shirt, and silver running shoes.
“Want me to punch him again?” Benjamin asked when she stepped into the tiny space. “Just say the word. Guy’s got a smart mouth.”
“You can leave us.”
“You sure?”
“Mr. Naff won’t hurt me. Will you, Mr. Naff?”
“Can’t think of any reason I would.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Benjamin said, “So Marvin’s going to pick up coffee in the cafeteria, then head back upstairs for guard duty, but I’ll be outside the door right here if you need me. Make a squeak, I’ll be in here.”
The Rossi boys stepped back into the hallway and shut the door. Harper edged closer to Naff. His nose was bleeding, a single dribble that he licked from his lips, then knuckled away the rest.
“Sucker punched me. Guy wouldn’t last ten seconds in a fair fight. I assume those are friends of Sal’s.”
Harper didn’t reply. She was looking him over. Trying to get a fix on this man who’d pointed her toward Albion’s olive-oil business. Back then she’d halfway trusted him, though now she wasn’t sure.
His black hair was shaggier than it had been in the spring, when they’d last met in Bilbao. Not the tight, bristly military cut he’d worn before. His face was fuller too, as if perhaps he was growing comfy with the deep, padded office chairs of corporate life. Only his eyes gave him away. They remained as probing and intense as before, dark brown with spirals of golden sparks that seemed almost electrified.
If his face had not been so weathered by the arid winds of Iraqi deserts and harsh Afghani winters, and if his cheekbones were not knuckle scarred and his nose hadn’t been knocked out of line more than once and poorly reset at least one of those times, then perhaps, in his younger days, Adrian Naff might have passed as a lady’s man.
Last winter, when they’d been trying to get a fix on Naff, Sal had hacked into a US Customs database and managed to download a half dozen different passport photos of Adrian Naff—different aliases, different looks, different nationalities. In his years of special-ops work, Naff had acquired the proficiency of a skilled illusionist. He could use wigs and phony mustaches like the finest makeup artists, but his best disguise depended on none of those devices.
Naff could use his facial muscles and bearing to fade from view when necessary, assuming an appearance so ordinary, so utterly bland that only by placing the passport photos side by side and studying them carefully could Sal and Harper be sure all of them were Naff. His command of this form of tradecraft was as artful as it was unteachable.
But now, the man who sat gazing into her eyes seemed fully exposed, a guileless half smile that appeared authentic playing on his lips.
She still wasn’t completely buying his sincerity act. For one thing, Adrian Naff had held on to his job with Lester Albion even after witnessing firsthand the depravity of the man. And second, though she usually trusted her ability to read a person by their eyes, Naff was such a seasoned trickster, a cloak-and-dagger pro, who’d run ops deep behind enemy lines, that his skills of deception put him on a different plane from anyone Harper had tried to decrypt before.
“What do you want, Naff? Why’re you here?”
“To help you.”
“And I’m supposed to trust you? Why would I do that?”
“Because our goals align.”
“Which goals are those?”
He dabbed a finger at his bloody nostril, examined the fingertip, then wiped it on his jeans.
“You’ve got unfinished business with Lester Albion, and so do I.”
“What’s yours?”
“Okay, I’m no Boy Scout,” he said. “I’m not pretending I am. But what Albion did to your husband and child last winter, that sickened me. I should have left that company as soon as I learned about it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I wanted to, but I couldn’t. For reasons I can’t go into. But it’s been eating at me.”
His brown eyes were watchful, waiting, holding solidly to hers.
“Look,” he said. “You trusted me enough to start digging into this olive-oil thing. What happened? What’d I do to lose your confidence?”
“That’s the point. You’ve done nothing. You stayed put.”
“Let me work with you,” he said. “You won’t regret it.”
“Not interested.”
He sighed and reset himself on the step stool.
“Okay, you don’t want to partner up, fine. But like it or not, I’m going to be acting on your behalf anyway.”
“I’ll have Mr. Rossi lock the door to this room and lose the key.”
“Last week I had a face-to-face with Lavonne in DC, and I asked her to get word to you that this olive-oil thing was more dangerous than I originally thought. Did she contact you?”
“I don’t care how dangerous it is. I don’t need your help. I don’t need anybody’s help.”
“Sure you do. You just haven’t realized it yet. For one thing, I have information that could be useful. Maybe even crucial.”
“Oh, really.”
“Somebody I work with at Albion, a woman I trust, she stumbled on some kind of shady deal related to the olive groves in Puglia. Some kind of swindle Albion is running that has to do with dark pools. Do you know what those are?”
Harper drew a slow breath, trying to conceal the spike in her pulse. Dark pools, swindle. Same story Daniela had been telling.
“Who is this person?”
“Her name is Lucia Campos. She’s the compliance officer for Albion. She’s supposed to keep all corporate dealings on the straight and narrow. She came across this olive-oil scheme, which wasn’t straight and it wasn’t narrow. She told me a little about it. She was worried. She has documents, evidence about the whole deal.”
“What whole deal?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t get to the details because we were interrupted. Later that same day, I dropped everything and flew down here to find you. I haven’t talked to Lucia since I left.”
“How do I get in touch with her?”
“Her cell number’s in my phone in my rental outside.”
“You don’t carry your phone.”
“Can’t chance being tracked. I keep the little bastard disassembled until I’m ready to use it.”
“If this is such damaging information, why’d Lucia Campos tell you?”
“She’s a good friend. She didn’t have anybody else she trusted.”
“How’d you find me? Here at the hospital?”
“Wasn’t that hard.”
“How?”
“You want every step?”
“Cut the shit, Adrian. Tell me.”
“Okay. Bixel ordered one of my techs to track down a cell signal. That tech is a friend of mine, and she let me know whose phone Bixel was tracking and where she located it. It was Nick’s phone. In Canena, Spain.
“I figured, shit, they were moving on you. So I walked out of work, caught a flight to Seville, drove to Canena. I get there, hear about the fire at the castle. Lady of the estate was badly burned along with a second guy, an American man, youngish, dark hair. Two other Americans escaped unharmed, an older gentleman and a tall, dark-haired woman. Sounded like you, your brother, and Sal.
“I asked around, heard you got medevacked, but no one seemed to know where you were sent, and the local officials refused to talk to me. So I tried the closest town, Hospital San Agustín. No luck. I drive to Córdoba. Reina Sofía University Hospital. I ask around there, admissions, administration, nobody’s helpful. Very tight-lipped. I kept working regional hospitals, one after the other. Police departments were no help.
“Three days like that, I’ve lost the trail. Then it hits me. Where’s the best burn unit in Spain? Should’ve thought of that first.
“Got here an hour ago, hung around the lobby, cha
tted up a nurse, mentioned your name, and apparently she let your pit bulls know I was sniffing. Bottom line, it wasn’t that hard. Most anybody could’ve done it.”
“Including Gerda.”
“Gerda?”
“Gerda Bixel. Larissa Bixel’s daughter. You know her?”
“Met her, don’t know her.”
“She’s been shadowing me for weeks. She set that fire in Canena and tried to kill me the same night. Last few days, she’s left behind a string of corpses. Four, maybe more.”
Naff waved both hands as if to slow a speeding car. “Wait. Gerda Bixel? She’s a world-class athlete, a minor celebrity. I mean, okay, she’s freaky weird, but a killer? I can’t see it.”
“Then your vision is impaired. Or you’re trying to con me.”
Adrian was about to respond when his eyes broke away from hers. He sat up straight, cocked his head to the side, stared at the closed door, listening for something beyond it. Harper didn’t follow his gaze. It felt like a trick, a bid to distract, give him an opening to jump her.
Then she heard it too, a grunt, a long gasp, the thumping of legs or arms against the door.
Adrian got there first, pushed the door open as far as it would go, only a crack. Then set his shoulder against it and shoved, forcing it farther, an opening of no more than half a foot. Harper joined him and together they thrust it a few inches farther.
Adrian squeezed out, Harper close behind him.
Lying on his back, Benjamin Rossi blocked the door, eyes closed, body limp, a black scarf wrapped tight around his throat. Two steps away, Gerda Bixel was edging backward, eyeing the two of them, deciding between fight and flight.
Harper pushed past Adrian and snapped a front kick at Gerda’s midsection, but Gerda dodged to the side, and the kick glanced off her ribs. She gasped, gave Harper a brief flat stare, spun, and broke into a sprint.
Harper chased her around a corner and into the main hallway, and in a few seconds Adrian was at Harper’s side, a heave of breath passing her, hurtling ahead down the long corridor.
Halfway to the lobby, one of the trauma center’s doors opened, and an orderly rolled a gurney into the middle of the corridor, blocking it. Gerda didn’t break stride. In a graceful arc she hurdled the gurney, sailing over it, landing softly beyond it without a hitch in her gait, then continued to race toward the lobby.
Harper was fast, Adrian was faster, but neither could rival Gerda. She flew past the reception desk, dodging incoming visitors and patients, and exploded through the double doors, disappearing into the night.
Adrian slung aside the empty gurney and continued his pursuit. But Harper halted, swung around, a flash of dread seizing her. How long had it been? Nick and Sal had been alone in the room upstairs, vulnerable. One Rossi brother out of commission, the other getting cafeteria coffee.
She found the closest stairwell and raced up three flights, sidestepped a couple of nurses, and flung open the door to Nick’s private room.
Sal was tilted back in the leather recliner, studying the latest edition of El País. Nick was asleep beneath his sheets, arms pressed firmly against his sides as if about to be fired from a cannon.
Sal glanced up and said, “I keep thinking if I stare at this newsprint long enough, Spanish will start making sense. So far, no luck.” He took a longer look at Harper. “Jesus, what the hell happened?”
Still panting, Harper sat in the desk chair. She recounted the episode in the janitor’s closet, then had to repeat it a second time to Nick, who’d been awakened by their talk.
“I need to go back down and check on Naff and Rossi.”
“Go with her, Sal,” Nick said.
Harper told him to stay put, she’d be fine.
She was headed to the door when Adrian barged in with Benjamin Rossi’s right arm slung over his shoulder. Adrian hauled him into the room with Marvin following.
“A little CPR, the guy’s good as new,” Naff said. “We’re buddies now, right, Benj? Blood brothers.”
Benjamin tried and failed to form words through his injured voice box.
Sal stood and let Adrian lower Benjamin into the recliner. Adrian held out the black silk scarf to Harper.
“Something for your wardrobe,” he said.
From the recliner, Benjamin said, “Bitch was quick, had it coiled around my neck like a bullwhip or some damn thing.”
“You won’t fall for that again,” Marvin said. “See it coming next time, step in and put a fist through her face.”
“That’s her weapon?” Nick said. “A goddamn scarf?”
“As a kid she was good with ribbons,” Adrian said. “Rhythmic gymnastics. You’ve seen them on TV, girls dancing on the mat, making designs in the air while they do flips and somersaults.”
“Ribbons?” Sal said. “Scarves? Jesus, what happened to guns?”
Nick said, “I think you guys probably scared her off. But don’t you think we should report her to the police? The fire, Daniela, this attack. Give the cops her photograph. Let them track her down. They’ve got the resources.”
Sal grumbled and said, “Do that and we’ll be stuck answering a lot of cop questions, some complete strangers going over everything hour after hour, who we are, why we’re here, what Harper is up to, what Albion did to Ross, Leo. Get tangled in all that from a year ago.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Nick said. “The police should know.”
“It’s the right thing,” said Adrian. “But Sal’s got a point.”
An Asian nurse tapped on the door and stepped into the room, cleared her throat, and nodded to Harper.
“Ella dijo que era tu hermana y yo le creí.” She said she was your sister and I believed her. “Lo siento, lo siento. I hope you can forgive me.” The nurse went on to explain that she had been manning the admissions desk and had directed Gerda to the janitor’s closet she’d noticed Harper entering a few minutes earlier.
“Todo está bien,” Harper told her.
The nurse nodded her gratitude and was about to leave when she swung back and held out a telephone handset.
“I have forgotten,” she said. “Tienes una llamada.”
Harper didn’t move. She asked the nurse who was calling.
“Ella dice que su nombre es Lavonne.”
Harper cursed under her breath, took the phone, stepped into the hallway, and said, “How the hell did you—”
Lavonne cut her off, speaking in a quiet, steely tone Harper had never heard from her before. Harper listened until Lavonne reached the end of her explanation and finished by saying, “Of course, it’s your call, Harper. I’m sure you’ll do what’s best.” And clicked off.
Harper stepped back into Nick’s room, thanked the nurse, and returned the phone. The nurse looked around the room at the odd group, gave Harper a confused smile, and departed.
“What was that about?” Sal said.
Harper waved him off and asked Benjamin Rossi if he felt well enough to return to his post in the hallway.
“I’m good,” he croaked and climbed out of the recliner. He gave Adrian a two-finger salute. “Thanks again, hotshot. I owe you.”
When the Rossi brothers were gone, Harper walked to the window and looked out at the hazy glow of Madrid’s city center a few miles to the south.
After debating it for another minute, she turned around and took a longer look at Naff’s steady brown eyes, their depths clouded by distant pain, comrades lost, battlefields still vivid in his memory. They were eyes that didn’t weep easily or often, and only in private. His talk was cocksure, but those brown eyes gave him away. Vulnerable and lonely but too proud to admit either.
“What’d she want?” Adrian said.
“To tell me about a girl named Julie Marie who lives in Phoenix.”
Adrian shook his head and looked away. “She had no right to do that.”
“You going to let us in on this?” Nick said.
“Not right now,” Harper said. “I need to get going.”
<
br /> “Where?” Nick said.
“Mr. Naff and I are going to Puglia. Aren’t we, Mr. Naff?”
PART FOUR
TWENTY-ONE
Weinegg District, Zurich, Switzerland
Bonnie Albion, eight years old, believed her father Lester Albion was trying to kill her. But she needed evidence, so she devoted herself to researching the subject, then devised an experiment to prove her case.
First, she needed to buy supplies, a simple task since Bonnie was unsupervised from the time her limo dropped her back at home after school until her father returned from work, most nights around six o’clock. So, after arriving home one afternoon, she waited till the limo disappeared down the avenue, then left the house straightaway and walked to a nearby pet shop.
She told the shop owner she was performing a science experiment for her biology class at Lakeside School Küsnacht. She needed four white mice. Two young and two old. Could he provide them?
The proprietor told Bonnie he had lots of mice in stock, but he was not sure of their exact ages. She laid a two hundred–franc note on his counter and asked him to please speak to his supplier and provide her with two old mice and two young mice no later than one week from today.
The owner, an elderly man with a fringe of white hair and a bushy mustache, smiled at her. She was used to adults smiling at her, whether being indulgent, patronizing, or amused by her precociousness. It was usually one of those reasons, but she could never be quite sure. Adults had been calling her “precocious” since she’d uttered her first complete sentence at two years old. Now, after a few years of associating with other children her age, she accepted the description, considering it a fair evaluation. She was clearly more intellectually advanced than her classmates, and even some of her teachers.
“Can you do it, or shall I take my business elsewhere?”
The shop owner knew Bonnie’s father, because Bonnie and her father had shopped in this Tierhandlung for many years. She’d bought her first cat, Tinkerbelle, in this shop, as well as her current cat, Miriam, a Siamese.
When You Can't Stop (Harper McDaniel Book 2) Page 15