Part 21 (1/2)

”Liar.”

”You know I'm telling the truth. There's more....” He leaned down, talking in a hushed, almost mesmerizing tone: ”Grigori and Seymour dropped out of sight in 2003.” He took her hand and pulled her to a stop, facing him. He pressed her hands between his. ”I know Grigori was in touch with you. He said so. He loved your mother, and he loves you. There's no way he'd cut you off. Where is he, Katia? Where is Grigori? I really need to know. I'm sure he can tell me how to find Seymour.”

She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. ”First you pretend we've never met. Then you tell me you're retired. You saw my loneliness and used it to get close to me. You were so nice, so handsome, so compa.s.sionate. But all of it was for one reason ... because I'm Grigori's daughter-not because I'm Roza's daughter. Because you wanted to find Seymour-not because you loved me. Now I know why you're called Mole. You're underhanded, a master manipulator. No one ever sees your true motive-until it's too late.” She yanked her hands from between his. ”But it's not too late for me.” She stepped back.

”Oh, G.o.d, Katia. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry.”

There was so much despair in his face she almost flinched.

He gestured at the exhibit beside them. On display were magnificent necklaces, bracelets, and rings. ”You sparkle more than any jewelry, Katia. Whoever would've thought I'd find someone as wonderful as you to love. You're right that I came here because I hoped to convince you to help me. But once I met you, everything changed for me. You're beautiful and sweet and we fit together. I really was retired until this mess about the tablet came up. Can you ever forgive me for asking you to help me find your father?”

She gave her head an angry shake. ”Let's go.”

Silently, they walked through two more rooms and out the museum's front door. Night had arrived, glistening black punctuated by vehicle lights, streetlights, and the occasional flash of a cigarette lighter.

Pyotr surveyed the traffic and clumps of tourists and locals.

He stiffened. ”Did you see a black Mercedes? It slowed as it pa.s.sed.”

Her throat tightened. ”The car that was following our taxi?”

He grabbed her arm. ”Yes, run!”

They tore down the sidewalk, weaving around pedestrians, jumping out of the way of a bicyclist. He craned, watching the cars rus.h.i.+ng in both directions. Abruptly he pulled her behind a fruit cart. The donkey looked back and brayed. They crouched and watched the street. Then it appeared, the black Mercedes E350 with license plates from Algeria, driving toward them, illuminated by streetlamps. It was almost on them.

”I can't see the driver's face,” she said worriedly.

The brim of the driver's cap was pulled so low, just his mouth and chin showed. He kept glancing across at the sidewalk. Pyotr said nothing, focused on the luxury car. Again the vehicle slowed, then it glided past.

As soon as it was out of sight, they ran again. Hugging buildings, they ducked under awnings, and, when the Mercedes appeared a third time, they dashed into a recessed doorway. The car vanished. He grabbed her hand. They ran another thirty feet into a store selling French goods and out a rear door into a dirt alley. It was like a tunnel, lined with buildings and overhung with balconies. Slowing, they checked around.

Katia was shaken. She had never had to run for her life. She hugged her purse close. She found herself admitting, ”I'm afraid for you. Will the Carnivore stop if he can't find you tonight?”

”Probably not, but I'll be fine. I've been at this a long time, remember.”

She nodded, but she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

At the alley's opening, they moved into a dark shadow against the wall where they could watch for the Mercedes. He wrapped his arms around her, and for a moment she resisted. She felt the beat of his heart, solid, rea.s.suring.

”We can't stay here forever, and we can't go back to our hotel because the Carnivore knows about it.” He took out his iPhone. ”I know a place that'll be safe for us.” He tapped in a phone number and spoke to someone named Liza, asking for a room. ”Yes, we're registered at Hotel Fas.h.i.+on.” After a pause, he gave Katia a nod, indicating they were all set. When he said good-bye, he dialed again, this time alerting the hotel to be prepared for Liza's man to pick up their luggage.

Leaving the alley, they walked at a fast clip around the block. With every car that approached, Katia had a few seconds of fear that it was the Mercedes. Staying on back streets, she was soon lost. Her anxiety grew as Pyotr hurried her along a stretch of old buildings with deeply cut windows.

”Where are we?” she asked.

”The back of the souk.”

”I've always entered from the marketplace.”

He was looking around alertly. ”This part is older, more residential, if you can call it that. You won't find an array of goods for sale, or the friendly smiles. We'll be at Liza's place soon.”

52.

They were a nice-looking couple in their thirties, approachable. Mr. and Mrs. Roman. She was a pretty redhead, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail; he had light brown hair and a weathered face. They smiled at each other when they talked. Looking around the lobby of the Hotel Fas.h.i.+on, she commented on the intricate tile work, and he was impressed by the comfortable furniture. They left the registration desk and sat on a sofa near the hotel's gla.s.s entry doors to wait for their friend-Pyotr Azarov.

”b.l.o.o.d.y inconsiderate of Pyotr,” the husband, Greg, grumbled loudly. His English accent was thick. ”Leaving us high and dry as a martini without a clue when he'll be back, the w.a.n.ker. I need a martini.”

”Now, now, dear.” The wife, Courtney, patted his arm. She was obviously American. ”He's just out having a good time. What are vacations for, if not to have a wonderful time?”

They sat down on the sofa, and she put her large straw shoulder bag on her lap. It was heavy-inside was her Glock. She was wearing a dark blue blouse in some sort of light summery fabric tucked into matching trousers. With the sleeves of a yellow sweater tied around her neck, she looked sporty. He wore an eye-bruising Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt decorated with huge green palm fronds and orange hibiscus flowers. His jeans looked designer, but it was hard to tell-the Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt fell sloppily over them, concealing the 9-mm Beretta holstered at the small of his back.

As would be expected, the comings and goings and registrations of more guests soon attracted attention, and Judd and Eva-”Mr. and Mrs. Roman”-became part of the background.

From the sofa, they watched the lobby doors. Eva's chest was tight. Every time the doors opened, she grew more tense.

After two hours, she was ready to jump out of her skin.

Judd had been glancing at her. ”Waiting is always the worst. Let's find out how Tucker is. I'll call.”

”Yes.” They had phoned twice and heard he needed surgery.

”h.e.l.lo, Gloria,” Judd said into his burner cell. ”No, don't worry. I'm not going to tell you where we are. Hold on. I'm putting you on speakerphone so Eva can hear. How's Tucker?”

Judd and Eva hunched over the phone, their heads bent, their shoulders touching. As they watched hotel guests come and go, they listened to Gloria's low voice: ”He hemorrhaged, so the doctors operated to reduce the pressure on his brain. They removed part of his skull. It's apparently standard procedure when the brain swells a lot. They froze the piece of skull and hope to put it back in his head once he's better.”

Eva took a deep breath. ”That sounds ominous.”

”He came through the operation fine, and they're watching him closely,” Gloria said noncommittally. ”I know you want to keep in touch to find out how he is, but Bridgeman has declared war. He ordered me to notify Interpol to look for you. I haven't done it yet, but I'll have to pretty soon. He didn't think to ask whether I'd heard from you, but it's only a matter of time.”

”What will you say?” Judd asked. Will you lie for us?

”I don't know. I've got to go. Stay safe.” And the line went dead.

Someone new had arrived at the registration desk. A short man with skin the color of dry mud, he wore a black baseball cap and a long white linen djellaba embroidered with black thread. He was speaking Arabic with the clerk. Judd was fluent, and Eva had been studying it. She heard the names Pyotr Azarov and Francesca Fabiano and something about suitcases. The desk clerk made a call. The man in the baseball cap turned to survey the room.

Judd stood up and reached his hand back to her. ”Let's go outside, honey, and get some fresh air. My a.r.s.e is going b.l.o.o.d.y numb from waiting.”

”Hasn't affected its fine shape, though,” she said brightly. Standing, she slid the straps of her straw bag up onto her left shoulder so her gun hand would be free.

They pushed through the doors into the cool air of evening. Taxis and pickups cruised past. They walked to the curb.

”What were they saying?” Eva whispered.

”His name is Hata, and he's here to pick up Krot's and his girlfriend's luggage. They're staying somewhere in the souk tonight.”