Part 20 (2/2)

”Katia? Darling?”

She stood shakily. ”Give me a moment.”

Her legs were weak. She walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and leaned back against it. She took several deep breaths then went to the sink and ran cold water. Leaning over the basin, she splashed her face until it numbed. She grabbed a towel and held it to her skin. It smelled of Pyotr. She m.u.f.fled a sob.

Staring into the mirror, she wondered how her mother had handled learning about her husband's clean-up work for the KGB. Had she felt as if she had just received a gut punch? Or had she accepted it as filling an honorable need for the country. But Pyotr no longer had the excuse of patriotic duty.

She stared longer, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to remember what else Pyotr had said. Her memory seemed to have stopped once he told her he had shot the woman. That was when it came to her-the woman was dangerous. She had been armed. Pyotr had simply done what he needed to save not only him but her.

As if it had been a sudden summer thunderstorm, the horror pa.s.sed. She was surprised at how calm she felt. She could handle this.

Opening the door, she saw Pyotr pacing across the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned, questions in his eyes.

”Thank you for telling me, Pyotr,” she said. ”Is there any way you'll be connected to Billingsley's death?”

”I don't think so. I left her body in the souk. The police have few friends there.” Gazing worriedly at her, he walked to her, his hands helpless at his sides. ”You're all right with me then? You forgive me?”

”Of course, darling. It's good you knew what you were doing. You survived, and you cleaned up the mess. Now we can get on with our lives.”

”Not quite yet.” He took a small backpack from the bottom drawer of the bureau. ”This was Billingsley's. Want to help me go through it?”

”Of course.”

He unloaded it on the table where they'd had breakfast. They sat together.

First was a Luger. ”This was what Billingsley pulled on me.” He inspected the weapon. ”There's a round in the chamber. She was prepared.” He picked up a tube of lip gloss, opened it, and pressed all of the gloss out onto a napkin. ”Nothing hidden inside.” He handed her the map of Marrakech. ”See if she wrote anything on it, will you? Notes, a highlighted route, anything.”

As he opened the wallet, she spread out the map. She studied the street grid then the list of street names. ”No handwriting or marks of any kind,” she announced.

The wallet was black microfiber and appeared to be brand-new. He counted the cash. ”She was carrying six hundred euros and five hundred dirhams plus a credit card and driver's license in the name Laura Billingsley.” He looked at his watch and grimaced. ”It's two o'clock. Time for the news.”

He turned on the TV and rotated it so they could watch from the table. National news was beginning, discussing politics and crime from Tangier to Casablanca and Tarfaya. The report was in Arabic mixed with French and occasionally English. Pyotr translated some of it for her. Finally a local newsreader appeared. The first item was a fatal skiing accident in the mountains.

When a colored drawing of a young European woman with a narrow face and long brown hair appeared on the screen, Pyotr said, ”That's her. The police think she died in a robbery.”

”Why was she following you?”

”She was hired by a former colleague of mine who operates under a variety of aliases. Generally he's called the Carnivore. He's an independent a.s.sa.s.sin. I think he's planning to neutralize me.”

She gasped.

He held up the Droid from Billingsley's backpack. ”I read through the e-mail reports she made to him. I didn't want him to know she was dead, so I reported in as if I were her. I've stayed in touch with him as myself, too. If Billingsley were reporting to the Carnivore about me, then she must've told him about you, too. He might come looking for you to find out where I am.”

She frowned worriedly. ”What are he and you involved in?”

He jumped to his feet and paced, for the moment anxious and out of place, a Cossack without a horse. He turned. ”Let's get out of the hotel. The walls are closing in. Then we'll talk.”

They gathered their things. He slid his pistol into a shoulder holster and put on a jacket. She stared at the gun then at him, at his almost nonchalant expression. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled uncomfortably. They rode the elevator down to the lobby and were soon out in the shadows of late afternoon.

He hailed a taxi. ”We've got some time, so let's be sightseers again. It's fun with you.” As they climbed inside, he told the driver, ”Maison Tiskiwin.”

He seemed to know just what to do, what to say. She had needed to get out of the hotel, too. The traffic was thick and noisy, as boisterous as Marrakech itself.

”Tell me what's going on.” She studied Pyotr's dusky face.

He nodded. ”A few years ago six of us partic.i.p.ated in a series of hits for Saddam Hussein.” He described Saddam's billion-dollar horde and the financiers who had hidden it for him. ”The man Saddam brought in to manage the wet jobs was Burleigh Morgan. His target was a Swiss financier. Mine was an investment banker from Moscow. Eli Eichel had a Saudi. The Carnivore did a banker from Liechtenstein. The Padre wiped a financier from Rome. And Seymour got the financial mastermind himself-Rostam Rahim. I'm going into all of this detail so you'll know I'm not holding back anything.” He reached inside his jacket, removed an aluminum box, and put it into her hand. ”Tell me what you think this is.”

She unhooked the latch and opened it. Inside were four padded mounds. She peeled back the Velcro enclosing each. Puzzled, she said, ”They look like chunks of limestone with some kind of funny carving on them.”

”Yes, they're pieces of an ancient cuneiform tablet, a very valuable one.” He had been glancing out the rear window. Now he stared.

She peered back, too. Twilight was spreading across the city, purple in the waning light.

”Did you see that black Mercedes?” His voice was tight. ”It was an E350 with Algerian plates.” When she shook her head, he continued: ”I thought it was following us, but it turned the corner.”

Now she understood: ”The real reason you wanted to leave the hotel was to find out whether we were still being followed.”

”I'm sorry, darling. I didn't do you any favor by falling in love with you.”

51.

Maison Tiskiwin was a large Moroccan house of graceful arches and old tiles, stuffed with art and artifacts ill.u.s.trating the legendary Gold Road, the caravan route from the Atlas Mountains to Timbuktu. Pretending to study the exhibits, Katia found herself nervously watching the guards and other visitors. Pyotr was covertly scanning, too.

”Besides avoiding the Carnivore, what are you trying to accomplish?” she whispered.

”I've got to find Seymour,” Pyotr told her quietly. ”During the Cold War, he was Islamic Jihad. Your father, Grigori, met him in Athens when they cooperated on a job. It turned out to be the beginning of a relations.h.i.+p good for both organizations and eventually a friends.h.i.+p between the two men. Then when your father went independent, Seymour did, too....”

She did not hear what he said next. She struggled to find an explanation for why he had just told her about a close relations.h.i.+p between her father and Seymour.

He peered down at her, questions in his eyes. ”I need your help, Katia.”

Fury exploded through her. ”Bulls.h.i.+t.” With effort, she kept her voice low. ”You son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. The only reason you came to Marrakech was because you thought you could use me to find my father, and then you could use him to get to Seymour.”

”That's partly true. But what I told you earlier is true, too-I wanted to reconnect with Roza's daughter.” His expression was somber. ”I wanted to meet you. We share a history few others know even exists. What I didn't count on was falling in love with you.”

She looked around. Two couples were gazing at displays of belts and scarves, but they were also shooting glances that told her they knew there was a problem. Her voice rose: ”You brought me here so I wouldn't make a scene.” She spun on her heel and marched back toward the museum's entrance. How could she have been so stupid. So naive.

Pyotr was at her side, a shadow she did not want.

”Please believe me, Katia,” he whispered. ”I love you. I really love you. I want to marry you.”

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