Beloved Enemy (30 page)

Jonatha cocked her head. “I didn’t see you on the trail. Did you finish your run already?”

“I passed on the exercise this morning.” Alix gestured with her head. “Get in.”

“Uh-uh. I’ve got to shower, change, and get to work.”

“You can shower at my place.” Alix fired the ignition. “I’ll soap you down.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Alix reached out, stroked Jonatha’s flat belly. “You know you want to.”

Jonatha stepped back, and Alix gave her a quizzical look.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

Jonatha shook her head.

Alix’s mouth turned down. “Damnit, Jonatha, are you telling me I was wrong about what happened at the St. Giles’s Club?
You
seduced
me
.”

“At first,” Jonatha said.

“What, now this is my fault?” Alix switched off the ignition, got out of the car. “I know what I felt, Jonatha. More important, I know what
you
felt.” Her voice was by turns forceful and pleading. She took a step toward Jonatha, ringed her with her arms. “The body doesn’t lie.”

As her pelvis began to grind against Jonatha’s, Jonatha unwound her arms and again stepped back.

“You’re not the same woman I made love to,” Alix said with a hint of confusion in her voice. “What’s happened to you?”

“What happened at St. Giles’s was a mistake.”

“How can you say that?”

When Jonatha made no reply, Alix said softly, almost desperately, “How can you treat me this way?”

“Listen to me, Alix, whatever you thought happened, whatever’s in your head, doesn’t exist.”

“So what happened, then? Was it a dream?”

“Two bodies meeting, that’s all.”

“That’s
not
all,” Alix wailed. “It
wasn’t
a dream. Jonatha, please.” And then, in a different voice altogether. “You’re so cold.”

“Alix, I meant you no harm, but I’m late. I have to get going.”

“Wait!” The note of desperation in Alix’s voice had broadened, deepened, until that was all that was left. “I can help you.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re working on. The POTUS has been briefed and so have I. There’s information that could be of use to you. I can provide it.”

“You have nothing of use to me.”

“Then I’ll get it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Alix, don’t demean yourself.” Jonatha shook her head. “I know what you want, and I can’t give it to you. I love someone else.”

“You loved me,” Alix said, “if only for that moment.”

But there was no one to hear her; Jonatha had already vanished down the twisty path.

*   *   *

Romy squeezed off three shots, wounding one man, forcing three others to retreat. The wounded man returned fire, and Jack put a bullet in his chest.

He held tight to Legere and, with Romy following closely, kept up his descent. They could not afford to give ground. They had to reach the underground garage in order to escape what had turned into a death trap.

They were on the second floor—two levels to go, but three armed men stood in their way. Jack knew he needed to change the odds.

“Romy,” he whispered, “keep a hold on Legere and whatever happens don’t let him go.”

“What are you going to do?”

Without another word, Jack turned and vaulted over the railing. The instant he saw Legere’s men, he opened fire. He had a quick flash of one man spinning backward, blood spurting, before he landed, knees flexed to absorb the bulk of the impact, on the floor at the bottom of the stairwell. He was on the basement level; the two gunmen still functioning were now above him.

One of them appeared and squeezed off several shots that, though missing him, sent chips of plaster at him, then ricocheted off the steel beams beneath. Crouched down, Jack got off a shot, the gunman ducking away. He was wondering why they did not continue to fire when he heard gunshots coming from the second floor, and he thought,
Romy! Goddamn her!

Racing up toward the ground floor, he saw the gunmen with their backs to him, firing up the stairwell. Setting himself, he squeezed off a shot, catching one of the gunmen in the back. His arms flew up and he staggered back, off the tread, plummeting down, directly at Jack.

Jack tried to sidestep the hurtling body, was only partially successful, and threw up his free arm to protect his face. The gunman struck him shoulder-first, slamming him into the stairwell wall. He bounced off and, hearing more shots fired, shoved the body off him just in time to see the remaining gunman racing up the stairs toward Pyotr Legere. Where was Romy? Mounting the stairs three at a time, his angle of view changed, and he saw her sprawled facedown across two steps.

His next shot caught the remaining gunman in the shoulder just as he reached Legere. Ignoring the wound, the gunman took hold of his boss and, spinning around, fired off two shots at Jack. Jack ducked down as the metal railings sparked around him.

Then he saw Romy moving. He shouted for her to lie still but either she didn’t hear him or she didn’t care. She lifted her gun hand, squeezed off a shot that struck the gunman in the stomach. He went down onto his knees, forcing Legere down with him. Jack aimed and fired, but he was out of ammo. The gunman leaned to one side, panting, trying to stem the gush of blood even as he brought his weapon to bear and pumped three bullets into Romy.

She was still spasming when Jack, running full tilt, vaulted over her and kicked the man in the head. His torso arched back, his head struck the edge of the tread two steps above him, staving in his skull.

Legere took advantage of the chaos to scramble upward, but Jack lunged out, caught him from behind, and hauled him back down the stairs. He glanced sadly at Romy. There was no point in checking; she was clearly dead.

Stooping, he closed her eyes, then rooted in her handbag for the keys to her car. He snatched up one of the gunmen’s Glocks, then, as quickly as he could, he dragged Legere back down to the basement, entering the underground garage with a great deal of caution.

No one was about.

Pressing the unlock button on Romy’s remote caused headlights to flash on a dove-gray Audi sedan eight ranks away. They crossed the concrete floor, Jack sometimes having to half carry the recalcitrant Legere.

They reached the car without incident. Jack hauled open the driver’s side door, shoved Legere across the center console into the passenger’s seat, then got in himself, slammed the door shut. The Audi’s powerful engine sprang to life immediately, and Jack backed out of the parking spot, following the signs for the exit.

The car gained speed as he drove up the ramp, past the manned toll booth, and roared toward rain-gray daylight. He was halfway out onto the street when men on both sides of the door opened fire with SIG-Sauers affixed with noise suppressors; Switzerland was not a place to be firing off guns in public.

Jack stepped down hard on the accelerator. The bullets slammed into both sides of the Audi. Safety glass spiderwebbed, then cracked through. Jack, the car’s tires squealing in protest, made a hard right onto the street, accelerating so fast he went through a light beginning to turn red.

Rain pummeled the windshield, streamed in through the shattered windows. Jack made an immediate left, hurtled down two blocks, then pulled a hard right. Glancing up to see if more of Legere’s men had mounted a pursuit, he noticed droplets of blood spattered over the right side of the rearview mirror.

“Legere,” he said, reaching out to his passenger. “Legere!”

But there was no hope of Pyotr Legere mumbling through his gag. A bullethole in the side of his head assured that he wouldn’t be answering anyone’s questions. Jack’s one hope of exoneration had just gone up in a puff of smoke.

P
ART
F
OUR

B
LOWBACK

E
IGHTEEN

“J
UST BEFORE
dawn is the best time.” Annika stood beside a stall selling antique lamps, along with knockoffs for the tourists that looked like the classic illustrations of Aladdin’s lamp. “Iraj barely sleeps, and never before four.”

“What keeps him occupied?” Rolan asked.

“A restless mind.”

“Someone once said that those who can’t sleep walk on the bones of their victims.”

“In Iraj’s case that very well might be true,” Annika said. “He’d enjoy walking on the bones of those he’s slaughtered.”

“In that case,” Rolan said in his curious inflectionless voice, “I’ll bring him something to enjoy.”

Annika left him standing there, staring past the copper and brass pots, past the colorful awnings, the bearded men, the covered women, looking at something invisible, possibly even to himself.

She made her way back to the Syrian’s house. Well-guarded, as fortified as a castle keep, the home was nevertheless vulnerable to someone like her, who had sniffed out every nook and cranny, for all castles could be breached by knowledgeable people given proper tools.

But when she arrived it was to a whirlwind of preparation.

“Where have you been?” Iraj said. “Never mind, pack your things.”

“What, why?”

“I’ve arranged a midnight flight to Zurich.”

“Zurich?” Annika’s heart beat a little faster. Romy had texted her that Jack was in Zurich. “What for?”

The Syrian looked up at her, his eyes alight with fury. “Pyotr Legere is dead.”

Fuck me,
she thought.

“And once we get to Zurich?” she said. “What then?”

“I discovered a certain art gallery in Zurich had become the middleman in our highly lucrative business of trading secrets hidden in Pyotr’s book shipments,” Iraj said, “as his father had done using the paintings he sold. I tried to find out more about this gallery, but your grandfather stopped me.”

Iraj watched her carefully, his paranoia clearly spread across his face. “You did not know this?”

“No.”

“Your grandfather didn’t tell you?”

Annika tossed her head. “What did I just say?”

He held out one hand, palm up. “There are things you say.” Then held out the other hand, making a scale, weighing the meaning of his words. “And things you mean.”

“Who are you, all of a sudden? The Dalai Lama?”

Iraj gave a barking laugh, much like a deranged seal, then shrugged. “Why did Dyadya insert the gallery into the pipeline? I think I know.”

She looked at him with a fair amount of curiosity.

“The gallery,” Iraj said, “is where I think Legere stashed the key to Gourdjiev’s legacy.”

*   *   *

Jack ditched the Audi—and its dead passenger—as soon as he was far enough away from ground zero. The moment he had run the red light, he had put the car on the police CCTV. The Swiss police were überstrict as well as überefficient, and the last thing he needed was to come to their attention.

He had no blood on him, which was a blessing of sorts, but the filthy weather made roaming the streets a difficult and thoroughly unpleasant proposition. Ducking under the awning of a shoe store, he drew out the Samsung Nona had given him and went through the short list of numbers of people who would help him that she had programmed in. Not surprisingly, there was no one anywhere near Zurich, so he punched in her speed dial number. She didn’t answer. Instead, he got her voice mail, but he was reluctant to leave a message.

He thought a moment while the rain came down and people hurried by, hunchbacked as beetles, beneath a bobbing sea of black umbrellas. At last, he made up his mind and, punching in a number from memory, waited while the line connected.

“Who the hell is this?” the voice said after the fourth ring.

“Caro,” he said softly, “it’s Jack.”

“Jesus, Jack!” There was an audible inhalation of breath. “Where the hell are you?”

“I need your help.”

“You’re damn right you do. You’re in the center of a cluster-fuck of monumental proportions, man.” Then she laughed, not unkindly. “Whatever you need, okay?”

“Thanks, Caro.” The relief he felt carried over to his voice. “I’m in Zurich.”

“And up to your ass in alligators, I’m guessing.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Okay, sit tight. I’ll be back in two or three.”

“Caro—”

But she had already disconnected. Jack shook his head, but at the same time he smiled to himself. After what they had been through, he trusted Caro with his life. Good thing, because his life was exactly what she had in her hands now.

An approaching police siren caused him to turn his back to the street. Ostensibly checking out the footware on display, he watched the reflection of the police car zoom by, blue lights flashing. Without realizing it, he had been holding his breath; he let it out now in a deep sigh. He had to be extra careful now. Everywhere he went the local authorities were after him; the situation was only going to get worse now that Pyotr Legere was dead.

His mobile buzzed and he answered it immediately.

“Got someone,” Caro said. She gave him a name and an address that, as he could tell from his mental picture of the city, was only a few blocks away.

“Thanks, Caro. I owe you.”

“Don’t be an idiot, and, listen, call if you need anything else. I’m more than happy to help. I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

He shivered a little, wet despite the awning. Pocketing his mobile, he moved off at a brisk pace, matching his stride to the people around him. Once, he passed a cop. The cop was talking to a man whose face Jack couldn’t see. Jack sensed something false about their stances, the very brief snatch of conversation he overheard, but who could really tell? He hurried on, eager to get space between him and the two men.

The address Caro had given him was an art gallery. Shaking the rain droplets out of his hair, he entered the space, which was bright, neat, and coolly ultramodern, with spotlit artwork on the whitewashed walls: paintings of colored splatters, attenuated figures with grotesque faces, and an incredibly large canvas by Kehinde Wiley of a woman luxuriating in a bed of flowers that curled around her like a family of Arabian serpents. An elegant matchstick-thin woman and her elegant gray-haired escort were moving somnolently from painting to painting, occasionally whispering to each other.