by Derek Haas
“Not a problem.” She turns to go, then stops. “I’m Ruby, by the way.”
“Columbus.”
“I know who you are.”
I’ve got a laptop in bed with me, and I’m chasing down the name Alexander Coulfret. Nothing on Google except an article from 2003 listing the victims of a Paris bus crash. An Alex Coulfret is among the dead, the tragedy taking place when a train leaving the city sideswiped a stranded bus. Nothing else. One mention of a dead guy and that’s it. Whoever he is, he’s kept his name blank in a world where most names are a keyboard click away. Maybe Archibald misspelled it.
I try typing in just the name “Coulfret” and I’ll be damned. Fourteen articles from various European papers pop up, all focused on one particular incident, the murder of capitalist Anton Noel in the middle of Paris. I swallow, knowing I’ve found the right set of keys. Now, which one fits into the lock?
I click on the first article, the one I read in Le Monde while waiting in the train station in Naples before Ryan died giving me his warning. I scan it quickly, searching, searching . . . nothing leaps out at me and then I see it: Jerome Coulfret. A forty-five-year-old jeweler. One of two unfortunate civilians struck down when Noel’s car flipped in a Paris intersection just as they were crossing it on foot. An innocent guy, cursed with black luck, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The confrontation in the bait-and-tackle store, the shot in the library, the bullet removed from my side, they had very little to do with Anton Noel after all. It was my sloppiness, my improvisation, my botched job that led to Jerome Coulfret’s accidental death. Like I said, trouble grows exponentially when you leave more of a mess than necessary.
I’m guessing Jerome has a brother who might be a bit unhappy with the way my assignment to kill Noel went down.
I’m getting dressed when Archibald comes in and leans against the doorframe.
“Three weeks here. I was just about to ask you to get the fuck out.”
I smile. How the hell this guy grew on me, I have no idea, but he has. I can’t laugh, though, not with my ribs feeling the way they do.
“I gotta get back before the noose gets any tighter. End this thing.”
“You don’t have to tell me. You think I want two top-shelf killers figuring out I’m the one played Florence Nightingale with you? Or get on this Cole-Frett’s shit list? They might start thinking I’d know how to find you and want a word with me. I’ll pass on that, thank you very much.”
I finish and reach for my pair of Glocks. “You cleaned these for me. You thoughtful bastard.”
“Not me,” Archibald says, raising his palms as he backs out the door. “I’d say good-bye, but something tells me I’m going to see you again.” He’s down the hall by the time I emerge from the room.
Well, I have to give him a tip of the cap. I thought he’d try to lord this over me, ask me to pay off my new debt to him by shouldering some other difficult assignment. At the very least I thought he’d ask me to join him, partner with him, the same way William Ryan did after my first fence, Pooley, died. But if he wants something from me, he’s saving it for later. I wonder how long it’ll be before I hear the front doorbell jingling on that one.
When I get to the door, Ruby is there, blowing on a warm cup of coffee.
“Back to the shooting business. . . . ” she offers, her eyes merry.
“I’m just trying to keep the shooting business off me right now.”
“So I heard.”
“Archibald tells you a lot.”
“Who do you think handles most of his contracts?”
I’ll admit, I didn’t see that coming. Family members often work together on the business side of the game. But this is the first time I’ve encountered a brother and sister who are also fence and assassin. The Grants grow more interesting by the minute.
“You’re a bagman?”
“I know a little about a little.”
“Well, now I know who cleaned my guns.”
“You noticed.”
“Yes. And thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, Columbus. If I’m ever shot in the ribs in Europe, I’ll know who to come find.”
“You’ll have to find me first.”
“That’s the idea.”
“See you around.”
“I hope so.”
She takes another sip of coffee and heads back toward the kitchen.
CHAPTER NINE
I HAVE TWO STOPS TO MAKE BEFORE I BEGIN TO HUNT ALEXANDER COULFRET IN FRANCE.
First, I need to visit my home in Positano. I realize this is pregnant with danger—the worst mistake a man with a price on his head can make is to walk through his own front door. But I’m growing weary of looking over my shoulder, and I need to load up on supplies and check to see if my residence has, in fact, been compromised.
The second stop involves Rome and a woman with a meaningless name who I can’t get off my mind.
Positano is built into the side of a cliff, and I fell in love with it the moment I arrived here to kill a man named Cortino many years ago. When I needed a place to live abroad, it called to me just as Risina described Italy calling to her. I too found it difficult not to answer.
I bought a modest house about halfway up the hill and used it sparingly, so the locals would think of it as my second home. The long-time residents of Positano are as insular as the city itself, and I utilize their natural distrust of “summer people” to avoid forging relationships.
The sky and the sea are almost the exact same shade of color as I drive into the city on a motorcycle. I have spent my adult life blending into the background of every environment: dressing myself, carrying myself and expressing myself in ways that are the opposite of eye-catching. The motorcycle I drive is old and rusty and unmemorable, the same as a hundred bikes swarming the Italian countryside at the moment.
I park the bike near the beach, a twenty-minute walk from my front door, and start the climb. From my vantage point below, I can see the outside of my house, a beige two-story manor, perched on the side of the cliff. It looks undisturbed, and I’m not sure if that is a relief or a cause to be nervous. At least if I could pinpoint something unusual—a window shade up, broken glass—I could proceed with a plan. I have no choice but to be acutely cautious.
As a killer, I train myself to map out escape routes, no matter where I am or what I am doing. I do it without thinking, as natural and involuntary as exhaling. When I bought this house—Ryan actually did the buying, through a third party—I immediately set about renovating it, alone. The killing profession teaches you many useful disciplines; a basic knowledge of carpentry can be indispensable in a number of ways. I didn’t upgrade the fixtures in the kitchen or expand the closets in the master bedroom. The upgrades I managed were for one purpose: getting into and out of the house without being seen.
I ascend stone steps laid out for homeowners and adventurous tourists, climb half of the hill, and then break from the main path when I am assuredly alone. The pain from the wound in my side has diminished, but not completely. It throbs now, marking each step with a pinprick to my ribs. I have heard about people’s ability to compartmentalize pain, to suppress it, put it down in a hole below the line of consciousness, but fuck if I’ve ever been able to do it. My ribs hurt, and the only thing that will get me back to feeling a hundred percent normal is time.
Along a smaller trail, I can approach my house from the side, and if I squeeze in next to the wall and a dense row of evergreen hedges, I remain invisible. Near the base of the wall is a crawlspace entry. Its only distinguishing mark is a thin beige rope. I can tell from its position that the rope is undisturbed, just as I left it. I use it to pull the cover free. Before I enter, I reach my hand inside, and from memory, punch a sequence into a small alarm I installed just above the opening. A tiny beep indicates the space has been uncompromised since I last left. I take a breath and push through into the darkness.
From here, I only have to crawl a few feet to an area where
I can stand, and from there, I open a hidden entrance into a laundry room next to my kitchen. The room is silent and musty, like the air has been trapped in here for months, a good sign.
After twenty minutes and a thorough inspection of each room, I am convinced the house is clear and remains undiscovered. If Leary, the Irish assassin I dispatched in Georgia, had beaten the information out of Ryan, he didn’t have a chance to follow up on it. If he has passed the knowledge of my residence to anyone else, they haven’t come calling. Yet.
I own only a few pieces of furniture, a bed, and a closet full of dark T-shirts, dark jeans and shoes. I undress, take a shower with the water turned up just below scalding, redress my wound, and then wedge as many clothes into a duffel bag as I comfortably can. A false front in the closet gives way to my weapons stash, and I load a black backpack with pistols and ammunition and extra clips. Finished, I take a look around the house, and allow myself two minutes at the back window looking down the cliff face at the black sand and the gray sea. In my head, I’m already using the words “the” instead of “my.” It’s “the” house, not “my” house.
Twenty minutes later, I am straddling the motorcycle, my duffel in the storage compartment under the seat, my backpack secure on my back. This will be the last time I see Positano, and I feel a melancholy pang in my chest. It looks as it always has: quiet and proud. I turn my head, kick-start the engine, and motor away.
An assassin’s life is marked by movement. Loiter too long in one place and you won’t be pleased with what catches up to you.
I can guess what happened.
Risina’s co-worker handed her a cryptic message when she arrived at work. “Anonymous man called. Has first edition Lewis and Clark, 1814. Must sell. Meet in St. George lobby. 9:00 P.M.”
Risina must’ve smiled, curious, intrigued. She must’ve asked Alda to describe the man’s voice, but Alda probably shrugged dismissively. The man had requested Risina specifically, that’s all Alda knew. He was just a man on the phone, and he kept everything succinct.
Risina might have called around to see if other contacts in the rare-book world had caught wind of a first edition Lewis and Clark entering the market. The lack of confirmation probably piqued her curiosity.
She must’ve gone home and chosen a black suit to wear. Conservative, but feminine. A suit conveying that her occupation dealt on the intersection where business and creativity collide.
She must have then walked to the hotel, pleased her anonymous caller chose a place just a few blocks from her home. She had her financial ledger tucked in tight at her elbow, a check and a pen ready if the seller needed to make this deal happen immediately.
She had no idea a man was watching her from the moment she left her apartment. She had no idea the man was scouring the area like a hawk, looking for any hint of abnormality, any hint of a pursuer, any threat to himself. She had no idea that the man was heavily armed, that the man was a professional, that the man was dangerous.
She probably sat in the lobby of the St. George Hotel, growing anxious and annoyed with each passing minute. She probably wondered if she was the victim of a hoax or if Alda was losing her mind. At some point, she wandered into the library, just off the lobby.
Her beauty was electric, powerful. It drew eyes to her like a beacon cutting through fog. She was the opposite of the man. It almost hurt him to approach her.
“Hello, Risina.”
She turns and her smile is broad and warm.
“Jack!”
“You’re not going to be too upset if it’s just me instead of Lewis and Clark?”
She crosses to me instantly and embraces me with her whole body. I can’t remember the last time I held someone in my arms like that, without reservation.
“You are a bad man.”
“I’ve told myself that many times.”
“You could have just called me and told me you were in town.”
“What would’ve been the fun in that?”
She hits me playfully and pulls back, smiling. Goddamn, she is beautiful.
“Did you get a room here?”
“Yes, but that’s not what I—”
“Take me to it.”
An hour later, we lie exposed on the sheets, her head on my chest, her fingers intertwined with mine.
“I can honestly say I thought about you each day you were gone.” Her voice is low in her throat, like a cat’s purr.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get back here sooner.”
“How was business?”
“Ongoing.”
Her lips form a moue. “Does that mean you’ll be leaving soon?”
“Yes.”
“This is how it’s going to be, isn’t it?”
“Just for now.”
“Don’t tell lies for my sake.”
“I’m not. I’ve been thinking quite a bit about changing jobs.”
“Oh?”
I stroke her hair, tracing her eyebrows with my thumb.
“Yes, finding something where I wouldn’t have to move around so much.”
“And you would settle in Rome?”
“Would you like that?”
“I like you, Jack. Very much. There is something inside me that tenses every time I see you. I don’t know how to describe it, but it happens. It is something I look forward to . . . this feeling . . . and not knowing when I’m going to experience it again has been . . . difficult for me.”
She takes her hand out of mine and sits up on her elbow so she can look at me. “I’m sorry. I’m not expressing myself well. The way I mean to.”
“You’re very pretty.”
She frowns. If I can change the subject abruptly, so can she. “Tell me about your scars.”
She looks down when she says this, like she’s afraid of my response.
I knew it was coming . . . her fingers had traced my wounds earlier, and I winced once when we shifted places. But I’m not sure, even now, I’m not sure I’m ready to let her in. Once that door swings open, it is impossible to close.
She senses my hesitation and lies back down, resuming her position with her head on my chest. For a minute, I think she isn’t going to speak again, that she may fall asleep right there. But I am wrong.
“A man paid for my education. In America.”
I know she has more to say, so I wait.
“I was seventeen and worked in a small grocery store on the other side of Rome, near Vatican City. I worked there from the time I was thirteen, making a few lira after school so I could help my parents. The man who owned the store . . . his name was Giuseppe Rono. My parents and others in the neighborhood didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. He had moved into the neighborhood from a farming village near Siena. He was unmarried and had an ugly face.
“He would come to the gymnasium at the school and watch the girls play soccer, even though he had no daughter on the team. There were whispers—I heard them from my friend’s parents, from neighbors—of how his eyes would linger too long on the girls running and jumping and playing. It was a time when people didn’t talk about such things, and still, there was talk. My parents wanted me to quit working in his shop, but I refused. I was a strong-willed girl, and I was at an age when I would choose to do whatever my parents forbid. As the weeks progressed, Giuseppe Rono and I became friendly. I would stay after work to talk to him about the latest gossip from school and he would listen to it all, passing on advice and taking an interest in all my activities, always ready to lend his ear.
“One afternoon, he called me into the small office he owned behind the store. He was seated behind a wooden desk, and his hand was down in his lap where I couldn’t see it. His arm was moving slightly, and I could see he was sweating, even though it was cool that day. His face was smiling, but it was . . . I don’t know how you say it in English . . . ?”
“Lopsided?”
“Yes, that’s it. A lopsided smile. I remember thinking I was a fool, I had failed to heed everyone’s warnings and they were
right about Giuseppi Rono. I cursed him, though the words wouldn’t come out. I hated him, though my face couldn’t move. If I’d had a gun in my hand, I would’ve shot him right there. I know it.
“He wanted to show me something, he told me. I was paralyzed . . . I knew I should turn and run away but my legs wouldn’t work, I couldn’t make them work.”
She takes a breath, gathering herself.
“Goddamn him, I thought. Damn him for betraying me like this. He started to stand up and I wanted to tear my eyes away but I couldn’t avert them. I couldn’t move, no matter how much my mind screamed at me to go, just go! Run away from that place screaming. . . .
“I looked down at his lap, and in his hands, he was holding a sheet of paper, folding it and refolding it nervously. ‘Risina,’ he told me, his face expectant, hopeful. ‘Risina, I had a wife and child who died many years ago in an auto crash in Siena. My daughter, her name was Christiana, she would have been your age.’ His voice was shaking, and he continued to turn that paper over and over. ‘I have contacted the University in America, the one you told me you could not afford. I have set up an account for you, Risina. To pay for your schooling. It was money set aside for Christiana, but you have been the daughter she was to me. You must accept this, Risina. You must let me do this for you while I can. It would mean everything to a brokenhearted and lonely man.’
“I don’t remember what happened after that . . . I remember hugging him so hard I thought he might break. I remember my parents coming into the office . . . he had already contacted them and explained his situation. They were ashamed, but proud. Proud of me and my chance for an education. I remember my father’s hand pumping Mr. Rono’s, and I remember the smile on Rono’s face so large I thought it would light up the sun. And all I could think about as I hugged him, all I could think about was that I had rushed to hate him just ten minutes before. That I would have shot him with a gun if I’d had the chance. That I had cursed him.
“He died of cancer the month after I graduated. He was too sick to attend the ceremony, but he wrote me a letter which I carry with me always.”
Her voice stops but the story remains between us like a tangible object.