Part 1 (1/2)

Extreme Denial.

David Morrell.

This book is for Richard Schoegler and Elizabeth Gutierrez, who introduced us to the City Different.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Denial is not a river in Egypt.

-b.u.mper sticker.

EXTREME.

DENIAL.

ONE.

1.

Decker told the Italian immigration official that he had come on business.

”What type?”

”Corporate real estate.”

”The length of your visit?”

”Two weeks.”

The official stamped Decker's pa.s.sport.

”Grazie,” Decker said.

He carried his suitcase from Leonardo da Vinci Airport, and although it would have been simple to make arrangements for someone to meet him, he preferred to travel the twenty-six kilometers into Rome by bus. When the bus became mired in predictably dense midcity traffic, he asked the driver to let him off, then waited for the bus to proceed, satisfying himself that no one had gotten off after him. He went into the underground, chose a train at random, rode to the next stop, returned to the streets, and hailed a taxi. Ten minutes later, he left the taxi and went back to the underground, took a train to the next stop, and hailed another taxi, this time telling the driver to take him to the Pantheon. His actual destination was a hotel five blocks from there. The precautions were possibly needless, but Decker was convinced that he had stayed alive as long as he had by virtue of being indirect.

The trouble was that the effort was wearing him down. Staying alive wasn't the same as living, he had decided. Tomorrow, Sat.u.r.day, would be his fortieth birthday, and of late, he had become uncomfortably aware of the pa.s.sage of time. Wife, children, a home-he had none of these. He traveled a lot, but he always felt apart from wherever he was. He had few friends and seldom saw them. What his life came down to was his profession. That wasn't good enough anymore.

As soon as he checked into his hotel, which had pillars and plush carpets, he fought jet lag by showering and putting on fresh clothes. Sneakers, jeans, a denim s.h.i.+rt, and a blue blazer were appropriate for a mild June day in Rome. They were also what a lot of other American male tourists his age were wearing and would keep him from attracting attention. He left the hotel, blended with pedestrians, and walked along busy streets for half an hour, doing his best to make certain that he wasn't being followed. He reached the most congested area of Rome, the Piazza Venezia, where the main streets of the city came together. The din of a traffic jam provided background noise as he used a public telephone.

”h.e.l.lo,” a male voice answered.

”Is this Anatole?” Decker asked in Italian.

”Never heard of him.”

”But he told me he'd be at this number.” Decker gave a number that was different from the one he had used.

”The last two digits are wrong. This is five seven.” The connection was broken.

Decker replaced the phone, checked that no one was watching him, and melded with the crowd. So far no problem. By mentioning specific numbers, the voice was telling Decker to come ahead. But if the voice had told him, ”You're wrong,” the message would have been to stay away because everything was wrong.

2.

The apartment, near Via Salaria, was three flights up, not too fancy, not too plain.

”How was the flight?” the occupant asked. His voice, with a slight New England accent, sounded the same as the one on the phone.

Decker shrugged and glanced around at the modest furniture. ”You know the old joke, The best kind is the kind you walk away from.” He completed the recognition code. ”I slept through most of it.”

”So you don't feel jet lag.”

Decker shook his head.

”You don't need a nap.”

Decker inwardly came to attention. Why is this guy making an issue of jet lag? A nap? Is there a reason he doesn't want me with him for the rest of the day?

The man he was speaking to was someone with whom he had not worked before: Brian McKittrick, thirty years old, six foot one, heavyset. He had short blond hair, beefy shoulders, and the kind of square jaw that Decker a.s.sociated with college football players. Indeed, there was a lot about McKittrick that reminded Decker of college football players-the sense of pent-up energy, of eagerness to get into action.

”No nap,” Decker said. ”What I want is to catch up on a few things.” He glanced at the lamps and the wall plugs, deciding not to take anything for granted. ”How do you like staying here? Some of these old apartments have trouble with roaches.”

”Not here. I check every day for bugs. I checked just before you came over.”

”Good.” Satisfied that the room was free of electronic surveillance, Decker continued. ”Your reports indicate that you've made progress.”

”Oh, I found the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, all right.”

”You mean your contacts did.”

”That's right. That's what I meant.”

”How?” Decker asked. ”The rest of our people have been searching everywhere.”

”It's in my reports.”

”Remind me.”